Dear Dr. Babooner,

Recently I accepted a co-worker’s invitation to go to a lunch buffet that she had raved about, but when I went down the line of offerings I didn’t see anything even remotely appetizing.

The restaurant featured the cuisine of a foreign country, so I didn’t want to appear disrespectful. I took a few of the less threatening items, but other delicacies looked absolutely prehistoric, like a paleontologist’s research project rather than a main dish.

My friend is enthusiastic about sharing her passions and seems unable to comprehend the possibility that others don’t feel the same way about it, so when she saw that I wasn’t selecting very much, she began spooning random servings onto my plate over my polite, but (to me) intense objections.

In “Weirdfoodistan”, she said brightly, “this is their custom! A good and generous hostess makes sure her guest gets the best and most of everything!”

Sitting at the table in front of this mountain of horrifying food that I was expected to eat, I committed an act of desperation – I faked an illness and pretended to pass out.

An ambulance was called and I was taken to the hospital and examined. They couldn’t find anything wrong with me, which complicated the matter and forced the hospital to keep me overnight. I missed work for two days, sympathy cards appeared on my desk the following week and I was charged $500 through my health insurance for the emergency services and some x-rays. I know that more bills are on the way.

Now this co-worker jokes about the incident and has asked me to go back there again to “finish the lunch we started”. But at these prices, I know I can’t afford it. Ever. How can I say ‘no’ in a way that is respectful and permanent?

Sincerely,
Mystery Meat Mortifies Me

I told MMMM one should never pretend to have a specific illness. Why? Real illness is always too close for comfort, and “The Boy Who Cried Wolf” is a famous story for a good reason. While good-hearted people have an infinite supply of sympathy for those who are suffering, it is possible to use up your personal portion if you appear to be greedy.

Also, actually having an illness is the thing that makes you an expert on all its symptoms and treatments. If you are pretending, it will only take a few questions to expose your deceit. That’s why, when faced with frighteningly exotic food, I claim I am on a “special diet”. Here’s the key – say as little as possible about it.

“I can only eat tortilla chips and cashew nuts. Sorry. I’d rather not talk about it. It’s between me and my doctor.”

The lack of specifics will immunize you against the accusation that you are a liar, and you’ll earn bonus points for discretion.

But that’s just one person’s advice. What do YOU think, Dr.Babooner?

Amid all our talk about missiles and sinking ships, Bathtub Safety Officer Rafferty came by the house yesterday for a seasonal check-up and was alarmed to discover that I had the ladder out. We had a brief, but intense discussion.

BSOR: I hope you’re not planning to use this.

Me: I AM planning to use it. I’m going to wash the second floor windows.

BSOR: Ladders are dangerous. A terrible hazard.

Me: I think you’re confused. Gravity is dangerous. Carelessness is a hazard. But ladders can be useful.

BSOR: Ladders should be outlawed, or at least fixed with graphic warnings.

Me: Graphic like the proposed new cigarette labels?

BSOR: Yes, with big, gruesome images of broken bones and severe head wounds – anything to make you think twice. Especially at this time of year when a lot of amateur aerialists go high off the ground to scoop wet, slippery leaves out of gutters. That combination of excessive altitude and loss of friction – it’s horrifying. Like watching a clown walk a tightrope made from banana peels.

Me: I don’t have gutters. I’m just doing windows. I’ll be careful.

BSOR: Everyone who goes up on a ladder thinks they’re being careful. But they’re forgetting one thing. The universe is perverse, and it has a twisted sense of humor. Remember the Tarzan movies?

Me: Of course. With Johnny Weismuller!

BSOR: And in those films he had a son.

Me: Named “Boy”!

BSOR: I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, the actor who played “Boy” just passed away. He fell off a ladder. Imagine it! You’re famous for being a Jungle Boy, swinging through the trees, and this is how it ends? The universe goes out of its way to mock us!

Me: That’s very sad.

BSOR: And that’s why I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning. Until I realize the bed could catch on fire or a spring inside the mattress could break its moorings and suddenly, violently extend, piercing my heart. So I get up.

Me: I appreciate your concern. But I’m going to use the ladder.

BSOR: I’ll need to see your LOL.

Me: Beg your pardon?

BSOR: Your Ladder Operator’s License.

Me: There’s no such thing. Is there?

BSOR: In my perfect world, there would be. And you’d have to go through training to get one. They’d teach you about basic stability, extension dynamics, power line awareness, footwear security, tool belt management and the habits of bees.

Me: I think the political environment just shifted away from favoring more regulation. I’m going to go up there.

BSOR: Sudden shifts of any kind are also very, very dangerous. People don’t recognize the value of balance. Balance in all things!

And then he issued me a Safety Police Officer’s Ticket (SPOT) for planning an Above Grade Gravity Rule Altitude Violation And Totally Ignoring Offical No! (AGGRAVATION).

I protested, saying I hadn’t done anything wrong. He agreed, and said that’s the best time to “catch” me, before the fact and not when I’m actually tumbling off the ladder.
But then BSOR has always loved acronyms and pre-enforcement of rules that don’t exist.

What is your policy towards ladders?

I was invited to Inspector Goatlock’s house the other day and was surprised to find dozens of wadded up sheets of paper scattered around the study. Some of them were soggy and appeared to have been chewed. The great detective made no reference to this messy scene, but it was obvious he had decided to re-open some old files. I quietly tucked a damp wad of paper into my pocket and unraveled it at home. Here’s what it said:

A breathless TV news anchor burst into my office and said “There’s a mysterious missile in the sky just off the coastline! Something is going on and I want YOU to figure it out. We go on the air with a live report in 7 minutes!”

I walked to the window for a look. A glowing, jagged line pierced the sky. It looked like the edge of an extremely vertical, quite rugged mountain. I suppressed a deep-seated urge to scale it and calmly returned to my desk.

“What do the authorities say?” I asked.

“They can’t tell me what it is!” he replied in even, measured tones tinged with a hint of pants wetting panic. “They say they didn’t launch a missile and they shrug, thinking somehow that will calm me down. But that makes the story even scarier, because it means someone else launched a missile! Someone whose identity is a mystery!”

I returned to the window and watched the telltale line of high altitude vapor as it slowly dissipated into nothingness.

“Go get ready for your live report,” I told him, “while I make some calls.”

I phoned two friends of mine – one dining in a pasture 40 miles north of the scene, and another pal climbing a mountain 40 miles to the south.

When I got off the phone I strolled out to the TV station’s remote truck just as the anchor went live with his hysterical report.

“We’re at the office of the famed solver of mysteries, Inspector Goatlock. Inspector, clearly we are under attack. Is it domestic enemies, North Korea or space aliens?”

“Ignorance is the real enemy,” I told him. “That was no missile. What you saw was the contrail of an ordinary jet flying toward you at a level, but very high altitude.”

“Nonsense,” he shot back. “This is a vast cover up and you’re part of the conspiracy!”

“That’s an easy and exciting explanation,” I said, calmly. “ But I insist this is an unremarkable jet trail, dramatized by the setting sun, warped by unusual elements of perspective and magnified by the relentless demands of the 24 hour news cycle.”

When he accused me of being a foreign spy, I admit, I bit the microphone.

How did Inspector Goatlock know the truth?