I went to the hospital to see Cavfancier. Tragic results.

I walked into the hospital admittance room and casually strode to the desk where a rather attractive woman was working. She looked a bit like Dagmaraka except she didn't have that fire thing going on behind her head.

She glanced up at me and her face contorted into a mask of horror and revulsion, followed by a feeble attempt at a smile. I've grown accustomed to such reactions and take delight in watching the facial contortions. It's kind of like when a kid gets his first taste of beer around some adults. The beer enters his mouth and the bitterness and shock of the vile fluid hitting his tongue is almost unbearable and he desperately wants to spit it out and run screaming from the room but the presence of the adults causes him to control his face in a determined fashion and try and look normal. That was the look this lady had on her face.

She said, "Can I help you."

"Yes, I'm here to see Cavfancier"

"One minute" she said, as she began typing. "I'm sorry, but I don't see that name here. Might he be listed under a different name?"

I thought about it for a second, leaned on my pitchfork, and spat a gob of chewing tobacco on the back of her monitor.

"Nope" I said, "Cavfancier is his name. He's here."

She stared at the tobacco pooling up on her desk, tried to compose herself, and asked, "What does he look like? Maybe I could remember him being admitted from his description."

"He looks like that clown that sells cheeseburgers and he always carries a sign with him that says 'Eat ****' .

"I see" she said, as she looked over my shoulder and made a beckoning gesture with her eyes.

I turned around and saw three burly policemen approaching. Perhaps not burly.... maybe rotund would be more descriptive. The one in the middle looked like an older Jack Black, and he must've been the boss, because he did all the talking.

"Is there a problem, Marge?" he asked the woman.

"Yes, Bert, this gentleman is looking for a ****-eating clown."

"Wait a minute" I interjected, "Not a ****-eating clown, but rather a clown who carries an 'Eat ****' sign."

"Whatever" said Marge, as she began to examine her fingernails, conveying the message that her job in this little hospital drama had come to a close and that the rotund policemen were now center stage.

The cops says to me, "Do you have any identification?"

I reached into my wallet and handed him my drivers license.

After a cursory glance at the license he looked at me and said, "Mr. Ratzenhofer, are you aware of the fact that this license expired in September of 1948?"

"Oh, yeah" I replied, "I was going to take care of that tomorrow" (I was bluffing and hoped to hell that he would buy my hastily made explanation)

The cop then sniffed the air and asked, "Have you been drinking, Mr. Ratzenhofer."

"Why, yes, I have."

"Did you drive your car here?"

"Nope."

"How'd you get here?"

"Tractor."

I pointed out the front window where my tractor was clearly visible on the sidewalk. There were several crushed bicycles under the tires and a couple of very agitated guys wearing those stupid-looking helmets were cursing and trying in vain to extract their bicycles from beneath the massive tires.

I started chuckling, not so much at the exasperation of the cyclists, but more at the helmets.

The cop looked at me and said in a very forcecful tone, "Please turn around, Mr. Ratzenhofer, and place your hands on the counter. I am placing you under arrest." (A quick thought flashed through my mind that this wasn't a cop after all, but actually Gautam, aka Prince, in disguise, trying to trick me and if I complied the results would be rather startling. But then I remembered the Prince being thinner and having darker hair, so I acquiesced to the demands of the fat cop)

I was led to a back room, a small room with a table, a couple of chairs, and single bulb dangling overhead.

There's a lot more to the story. I was arrested and hauled off to jail and I managed to escape by fashioning a bar of soap into a reasonable facsimile of a tomahawk missle.

I'm just glad to be back home, but I'm a little miffed that I didn't get to see Cav.

I wanted to know what my odds were at getting those mixing bowls.

I covet them.