ASK DR. BOLI.

Dear Esteemed Dr. Boli: When, if ever, is it considered acceptable to devour someone else’s socks? I was recently in a dire situation where socks were the only sustenance I could easily allocate; upon my return to civilization I was reprimanded for not adhering to strict rules of etiquette set in stone by Lady Alphariss of the Sarantopolis Hedgerow. —Sincerely, Scuba Joe.

Dear sir. The rules of etiquette, like other scientific laws, change and develop over time, as researchers in the discipline make new discoveries and refine their knowledge. For that reason, you may wish to avail yourself of a more modern book of etiquette. In addition to the obvious advantages of the most up-to-date research in the science, modern books of etiquette are usually printed on paper, which has many advantages over stone and appears to be displacing it in all the more respectable publishing houses.

In the case of eating socks, the modern rule is that necessity trumps decorum nine times out of ten. Your use of the word “allocate,” however, suggests that there was more than one mouth to feed, and that somehow you had ended up in charge of the distribution of sustenance. Might you not have come to some sort of agreement by which you would eat each other’s socks? In that way, by mutual consent, you would have defused the meddlesome question of etiquette altogether.

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NERGAL-SHAREZER THE RABMAG INTERPRETS YOUR DREAMS.

Dear Mr. the Rabmag: Last night I dreamt that I was in a green square in the city, where I saw a man with a dancing monkey. The monkey seemed almost mechanical, as if it could do nothing but dance in a tight circle, which it did to the accompaniment of music provided by a hidden orchestra. The man with it, however, was impeccably dressed, looking more like a senator or a judge than a street performer. Almost immediately he accosted me and began to insist that I take the dancing monkey as a gift. It would give me great satisfaction, he explained, and it would improve my standing in society. I told him I had no need of a dancing monkey, and indeed I began to see something vaguely sinister about the thing. But the more I protested, the more he insisted that I must have the dancing monkey, and moreover passers-by began to reinforce his insistence with their own, telling me that my life would be incomplete until I had the dancing monkey. By this time I felt certain, though I cannot tell why, that the people around me intended to gain some form of control over me by means of the dancing monkey; but though I refused to take it, they were not deterred, and forming an impenetrable ring around me, they began to dance in imitation of the monkey’s simple steps, all the while singing a song to the melody provided by the invisible orchestra:

You shall have fun
with the dancing monkey.
You’ll be the one
with the dancing monkey.
Second to none
with the dancing monkey.

Can’t you just see
What a hit you will be?

You shall be strong
with the dancing monkey.
You can’t go wrong
with the dancing monkey.
Please sing along
with the dancing-monkey song.

There were verses as well as this chorus, but this is all I can remember of it. After a bit of this I awoke, feeling greatly disturbed, as if I had learned something terribly important about my position in the world, although I could not specify exactly what. What do you think my dream means? —Sincerely, Albert J. Tamarin, Perry Hilltop.

Dear Sir: Monkeys are often a symbol in dreams, but, as you have not specified what species of monkey you dreamed of, it may be difficult to narrow down the symbolism. South American spider monkeys usually stand for riboflavin; the message, then, would be that the processed-food industry is attempting to poison you with toxic quantities of riboflavin in the guise of promoting your health. Capuchin monkeys, on the other hand, usually represent flood insurance, and you can see how this changes the interpretation. Dancing is often a dream metaphor for singing, and (contrariwise) singing for dancing; but since your dream includes both, we go around in a circle and come back where we started. It may be, however, that you were not dreaming at all, but merely experienced an event unusual enough to make you believe that you had dreamt it. Something very similar happened to Nergal-Sharezer the Rabmag, and he assures you that his dancing monkey has provided him with much amusement, and what is more has given him a comforting feeling of perfect satisfaction with the governing powers, which, though he cannot explain the reason for it, has contributed greatly to his peace of mind.

MIDAS WELBY, D.O.

Narrator. Blithitor neodymium bicyclate, the safe and effective prescription medication for people who feel reasonably healthy most of the time, presents…

(Music: Theme, in and under for…)

Narrator. Midas Welby, D.O.—the story of a brilliant osteopath trying to make a difference in a big-city hospital.

(Music: In full, then out.)

(Sound: Siren.)

Narrator. Our story begins as an ambulance arrives at the emergency room of St. Pancreas Hospital.

Ambulance driver. You’ll be okay. We’re at the emergency room now, and here comes Dr. Welby. He’s the best osteopathic clinical diagnostician in the tri-state area.

Welby. What’s wrong with this one?

Ambulance driver. Stubbed his toe.

Welby. Nurse, get me a stub cart in here, stat! What’s the patient’s name?

Ambulance driver. Wendell Foote.

Welby. Foote? You mean Mr. Foote stubbed his toe?

Ambulance driver. They don’t pay me enough for this job.

Foote. It hurts like blazes.

Nurse. Stub cart, Dr. Welby.

Welby. Unwrap the comfy socks, nurse. Mr. Foote, how many fingers am I holding up?

Foote. Eighteen.

Welby. Good ballpark estimate. Does it hurt when I do this?

Foote. Yes, but that’s not the toe I stubbed.

Welby. I needed to check your pain receptors to make sure you hadn’t gone into osmosis. Nothing broken, but your toe’s a bit red. We can fix that with a bit of surgical whitewash like this. Now I want you to put on these comfy socks, and wear them till your toe feels better, which might be as long as forty-five minutes. You think you can do that for me?

Foote. Thank you, Dr. Welby!

Welby. Just doing my job.

Administrator. Well, Dr. Welby, I see you’ve been tending to the sick again.

Welby. That’s what I do, Amanda, as you should well know, since we had a romantic relationship several years ago that neither one of us ever got over.

Administrator. Our backstory has nothing to do with your performance at this hospital. It merely serves to inject a measure of romantic tension into what would otherwise be a string of humdrum procedural plots.

Welby. Is that why you always seem to be checking up on me when I’ve been with a patient?

Administrator. No, I do that because I’m a hard-nosed hospital administrator with a tendency toward micromanagement, using my authority here to compensate for my lack of a fulfilling family life at home.

(Sound: Alarm.)

Nurse. We need a gurney over here! Doctor Welby, we need you!

Welby. What’s going on?

Nurse. Mr. Foote just collapsed!

Welby. This man’s in shock. I don’t get it. His toe looked fine. What happened?

Nurse. He just took one look at his bill and fell on the floor like this.

Welby. How many times do I have to tell them to hold off on the billing for a few minutes?

Nurse. What a night! It must be a full moon.

Welby. Actually, the story about more accidents, crimes, and illnesses happening in the full moon is just an urban myth. Scientific studies have shown that a far greater number of accidents happen during the waning gibbous phase.

Nurse. Shouldn’t we be reviving the patient or something?

Welby. I suppose you’re right. But it’s an interesting subject, lunar influence on human behavior. We’ll have to take it up again when the patient starts breathing. Meanwhile, give him 5 cc of antinomine, and if that doesn’t work try about a gallon and a half of embalming fluid.

Nurse. Ha ha ha!

Welby. Ha ha ha! A little humor goes a long way in defusing a tense situation like this.

Nurse. I’ve injected the antinomine, and he’s coming around.

Foote. You saved my life! How can I ever repay you?

Welby. Don’t even bother thinking about that. And for heaven’s sake don’t look at the bill again. Just let your insurance take care of it.

Foote. But I don’t have insurance, Doctor Welby. —Doctor Welby? Doctor Welby? Nurse, is he going to be okay?

Nurse. We need a gurney over here! And get me 5 cc of antinomine, stat!

(Music: Theme, in and under for…)

Narrator. Many serious diseases present no symptoms at all in their early stages. So ask yourself: Am I feeling pretty good right now? If you are, you may have a serious disease. Ask your doctor about new Blithitor, the safe and effective prescription medication for people who feel reasonably healthy most of the time. In clinical studies, four out of five healthy people who took Blithitor continued to feel reasonably healthy for up to six months. See if your doctor cares enough about you to prescribe Blithitor, now available in new cappuccino vanilla swirl flavor.

(Music: In full, then out.)

Opening Prayer:

Come Holy Spirit…

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ASK DR. BOLI.

Dear Dr. Boli: Where are all my socks? I keep buying socks, and I am absolutely certain that they come from the store in matched pairs. I have taken the trouble to verify this fact by noting each purchase in my diary (for I believe that a well-rounded gentleman ought always to keep a diary, so that his descendants may read the improving and edifying record of his accomplishments, or, in my case, of my purchases of socks). Yet my socks drawer, in which I allow no other species of clothing, contained, at last census, one hundred twenty-three individual socks, no two of them alike. Where are the rest of my socks? ——Sincerely, The Gentleman on the Corner with One Checked Sock and One Mauve Sock.

Dear Sir: Identical socks, like identical magnetic poles, have a strong mutually repulsive force. Nature does not easily tolerate two identical socks in close proximity. With our strong human preference for categorization and organization, we attempt to keep matched pairs together, but nature rebels and separates the pairs at the earliest opportunity.

As to where your particular socks have gone, that depends on many variables, the most important of which is how long you have been missing them. The natural force of repulsion continues to operate as long as the socks exist. If you lost a sock yesterday, it may be in your neighbor’s house. If you lost it last week, it has probably already crossed the state line and may be beyond the jurisdiction of any local authorities. Eventually your missing socks will end up as far away from their mates as they can get, which in your case is a point in the Indian Ocean several hundred miles west-southwest of Kudarup, Western Australia. If you intend to search for your missing socks, that is the place Dr. Boli would advise looking first.

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DISPATCH POLICE BLOTTER.

POLICE DETECTIVES ARRESTED Miss Roberta Plink on a charge of murder, but she was released when Sergeant William Henry “Snag” Harrison pointed out that there were still twenty-five minutes until the closing credits, proving conclusively that Miss Plink was not the murderer.

Three juveniles were arrested and charged with vandalizing the Wenzell Avenue streetcar overpass. The juveniles claimed that they had permission to paint the overpass as part of a neighborhood mural project, but responding officers reported that the mural was ugly.

A member of city council called 911 to report that his feelings had been hurt by an insensitive editorial in the Dispatch. The Dispatch does not identify victims of bullying.

Miss Elzevira Pockett locked herself out of her 1984 Plymouth Reliant again. She is being held in lieu of $100,000.00 bail.

Police responded to a complaint of disturbing the peace in the 1100 block of Wapping Street. Responding officers found a loud party in progress and were invited in for a few drinks. They had a marvelous time.

Eight members of the Dravosburg Interplanetary Society were arrested on a charge of arson after their attempted manned mission to Mars set fire to the borough building. No one was injured, but the custodian was awfully mad.

The weekly Hilltop District police officers’ pool was won by Officer Elisabetta Frobisher, who correctly guessed that the largest number of arrests in the district this week would be for illegal gambling.

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THE TORTOISE AND THE HAIR.

From Dr. Boli’s Fables for Children Who Are Too Old to Believe in Fables.

ONCE IN THE Catskill Mountains of upstate New York there was a tortoise, and he was really rather speedy as tortoises go. And at the same time there was a hair, growing on the chin of one of those lazy Dutch settlers so abundant in those parts, champion nappers who could snore for decades at a stretch.

“You know,” said the hair, “I’m just about the fastest thing there is. In a year, I’ll grow down to this old Knickerbocker’s kneecap.”

The tortoise was quite surprised to hear an individual hair speaking in reasonably good English, and was even more surprised to discover that he could speak English in reply. Apparently he had never tried it before, and the ability had sat latent in him all the years of his long reptilian life.

“You’re not as fast as all that,” the tortoise answered. “For a hair, you may be speedy, but a zippy tortoise like me could run rings around you and then dash off so fast all you’d see would be smoking tracks.”

“Oh, really?” asked the hair with a sarcastic twirl. “Well, then, let’s just see who’s the fastest. You see that ankle way down yonder, the one you get to if you head straight past the kneecap and keep going on down the shin? I challenge you to a race. The first one to get to old Van der Donck’s left ankle wins.”

“You’re on,” said the tortoise; and at a prearranged signal they both started out, the tortoise stomping along with all his might and the hair growing like a summer weed. For some time the tortoise clearly had the better of it, and indeed he had nearly reached the kneecap while the hair was still struggling to get past the collarbone.

But then, after having slept only a few weeks, the lazy Dutch colonist awoke from his abbreviated nap, picked himself up, and started walking, and never stopped walking until he got to Albany, where he had some business to attend to. The tortoise followed at a mad pace (by tortoise standards), and for all I know he may still be trudging down the road to Albany, racing at top tortoise speed toward the long-vanished ankle. Meanwhile, the Dutch settler, taking to town life, decided to shave his beard, the clean-shaven look having come into fashion. Every morning the hair must begin its own journey afresh, and after many years is still not any closer to the ankle.

Thus there is no way of telling which party will win the race, and the moral of this fable must remain in limbo until the outcome of the race is finally decided.