Twists and Turns of Fate
It has been said (or, at least, it is being said here, by this writer) that the randomness of fate, with its endless supply of twists and turns, frequently governs the hapless patterns of human behavior.
When Edgar Froophummer received a hippopotamus in the mail, he instantly suspected that something was amiss. As far as he knew, there was absolutely no reason why a hippopotamus should be delivered to his address. After much thought, he finally concluded that someone (perhaps a mischievous neighbor, or maybe his cousin, Buster, who was known for displays of odd humor) was playing a trick on him. He also concluded that, if such was the case, the trick in question was not particularly funny.
When Edgar Froophummer received a hippopotamus in the mail, he instantly suspected that something was amiss. As far as he knew, there was absolutely no reason why a hippopotamus should be delivered to his address. After much thought, he finally concluded that someone (perhaps a mischievous neighbor, or maybe his cousin, Buster, who was known for displays of odd humor) was playing a trick on him. He also concluded that, if such was the case, the trick in question was not particularly funny.
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It was only many years later that Mr. Filchington Snodberry, who considered himself to be extremely clever where money was concerned, fully understood how seriously he had erred when he chose to put the entirety of his life savings into marshmallows, rather than into stocks or bonds. By then, of course, it was too late to undo the extensive harm that had been done to his finances.
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Anastasia Boshforth was determined to marry a wealthy man. Instead, after having spurned the advances of many suitors, she somehow ended up being married to a poet. Her husband was exceedingly poor (as is usual with poets), rather than wealthy, and, to make matters even worse, he regularly avoided the use of rhyme and was opposed ("on principle") to proper spelling.
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The answer that Jedidiah Smeld usually gave whenever someone asked him why he did not wear shoes was, "My feet decline to be enslaved by the tyranny of footwear," but after his bare toes had been trampled upon by a passing dolt for the thousandth time, he changed his view. He thereafter took to wearing a pair of heavy boots, explaining that, as a matter of daily necessity, feet should be enslaved for their own good.
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At first, people were inclined to be doubtful when Harvey Guzmo announced, in a casual manner, that he had been chosen as an apprentice to God. No one believed him, not even his own mother. The general doubt in regard to his highly unusual declaration continued until the day that he began to ascend, bodily, into heaven. As Harvey calmly entered the heavenly realm, with a host of angels surrounding him, joyfully extolling his virtues for all to hear, he promised to return home before dinner was served that evening.
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Carlton Blickersnap had always regarded the process of getting older as an illusion, and therefore made no concessions to old age. However, when he turned a hundred and seventy, he was compelled to acknowledge the early signs of elderliness, and willingly agreed to a slight reduction in the range of his physical activities, cutting down from twelve games of tennis a day to a mere eleven games.
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As soon as Millicent Gromm heard one of her prize roses loudly singing "Puttin' on the Ritz," she knew that things were somehow different in her garden. Until that startling moment, she had never heard any of her roses (not even the floribundas, who were possessed of a slight disposition to irreverence) sing anything other than religious tunes, such as "Nearer, My God, to Thee," "When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder," and "How Great Thou Art."
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On the morning that Wilberforce Dweekins decided to write his autobiography, he soon encountered a distinct problem. He found that, because he had not left his house (or, indeed, shifted from the chair in front of his television) in more than twenty-nine years, he had little of interest to convey to his potential readers. Accordingly, he abandoned his autobiography and continued to stare at the television, even though its screen had been blank for a number of months.
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Mr. Bosley Crudfall and his wife, Brunhilda, who were firmly united in their unyielding belief that a quiet marriage was a happy marriage, had not spoken a single word to each other since the day of their wedding. After a mutual quietness of fifty years, Bosley was suddenly moved to speak his mind, telling Brunhilda that he objected to the careless manner in which she washed his socks, whereupon she quickly elected to seek a divorce.
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During the decades in which Leonard Felding had been dreaming of making a flight to Venus (intending to use his arms as wings), he had not known that we would need to obtain a special permit for the trip. When Leonard (who was quite closefisted) learned that the necessary permit came at a cost of four dollars and ninety-five cents, he gave up his long-standing dream of flying to Venus and stayed home.
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Ursula Rumbler was a perpetually fickle girl, never going out with any boy more than once. Living in a small town, she soon used up the supply of young men, which forced her to broaden her outlook. After she had also used up the supply of middle-aged men, and the supply of elderly men, she began to fear that she would spend the rest of her life as a spinster, alone and unloved. Fortunately, things changed for the better when Ursula started to go out with trees. She finally settled down with a handsome birch.
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Although, on several other occasions, Quentin Blatherly had imagined that an unruly gathering of vengeful fairies was filling his head with oatmeal, this time the effect seemed much stronger, and much more unpleasant, than it had seemed in the past. The unaccountable thing was that Quentin had never even liked oatmeal, preferring to have only a piece of toast with marmalade at breakfast.
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Toward the end of an unusually rousing performance of the Symphony No. 17 in C minor by Adolph Schlumpenbopple, the audience was thoroughly amazed to see Hobart Blinger, the estimable leader of the East Squatville Philharmonic, floating above the orchestra. The musicians themselves, having become accustomed to Mr. Blinger's fondness for childish displays of overt foolery, took no notice and kept playing, even as he floated away, brazenly drifting off to a remote part of the hall.
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The day after Hildegarde Tuddle gave birth to her thirty-eighth child, she purposefully informed her husband, Virgil, that although she held the institution of motherhood in the greatest esteem, and always would, she had reached the end of the line with regard to the actual practice of childbearing. She further informed him that if he wanted any more children, he would have to give birth to them himself.