Parts of Speech With Which Not To End Sentences

Hugh Jorgen, long time Left Coast Bureau Chief for The Journal, was standing on the wide-stance commode, just slipping a noose around his neck--beautiful job on the traditional hangman's knot which he'd carefully selected in preference to the simpler but far less elegant slipping bowline. Further, he'd done a beautiful job lobbing the coiled rope over the rafter in the Mens' Shitter at the Bumfuck Holiday Inn. Most of all, he'd done an incredible job with his stock portfolio: Lehman, AIG, GM, RBS, all the usual suspects, plus his own personal favorite, Acme Rope PLC: Acme had been skyrocketing to the extent it made up for a total of 1.4% capital gains as a contrarian bet to offset his huge punt in blue-chips paying steady dividends with customary huge yearly bottom line surprises on the up-side. Just before kicking the barstool away to rest against the familiar graffitti-covered shithouse door, Hugh dropped the following final report onto the shitter floor, for which the Editorial Waterboard will be eternally grateful:

On my 70th birthday, I received a gift certificate from my wife. The certificate paid for a visit to a shaman living on a nearby Indian reservation who was rumored to have a miraculous cure for erectile dysfunction, far superior to mundane, workaday sildenafil citrate.

After being persuaded, I drove to the reservation, handed my ticket to the shaman, and wondered what I was in for.

The old man slowly, methodically prepared a potion with mortar and pestle, consisting of at least 30 herbal ingredients.

He emptied the mortar into a bottle and solemnly handed it to me. With a grip on my shoulder, he stared deep into my eyes and warned: "This is powerful medicine and it must be respected. You take only a teaspoonful and then say '1-2-3.' When you do that, you will be the best you have ever been in your life. And you can perform as long as you want."

I was encouraged. As he walked away, I turned and asked, "How do I stop the medicine from working?"

"Your partner must say '1-2-3-4,' the shaman responded. "But when she does, the medicine will not work again until the next full moon."

I was eager to see if it worked.

I went home, showered, shaved, took a spoonful of the medicine, and then, standing nude next to the bed, yelled out to Ethyl who was in the kitchen: "Ethyl! Get your ass in here, I think I'm onto something you ain't gonna believe!"

Ethyl entered the bedroom at which time I immediately shouted "1-2-3!"

Instantaneously, I was the manliest of men.

Ethyl's eyes popped open, first in disbelief followed by frenzied concupiscence.

She threw her clothes onto the floor in a flash, whilst breathlessly inquiring: "What was the 1-2-3 for?"


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