|
 Steve, our owlish-appearing cowboy, scratched his
head as he studied the card.
“Okay, Dewey, I’ll bite … what’s a verm-a- ….?
“Vermiculturist, Steve,” Dewey said, proudly. “It means I raise
worms.”
Dewey, the beloved accident-prone member of the think tank, began
his new career with just a shovel and his pickup, spreading manure
in people’s yards. Now, thanks in great part to the genius of his
girlfriend, Emily, (she of the magnificent cheekbones) he was
earning a decent living. Back when they fell (literally … he
tripped) in love, she took this crash-and-burn disaster and molded
him into a multi-dimensional businessman, while still keeping him
away from sharp objects or things that crush.
Dewey has branched out now into compost, worms (excuse me …
vermiculture) and fertilizer tea. The tea goes on the lawn, not in
the tea cups.
“Dewey,” said Doc, “this vermiculture stuff now … how much work is
it, really?”
“That’s the good part about it, Doc. You see, I don’t have to do
anything at all, really, except keep them in … product, you know.
They reproduce without any outside help, and turn manure into the
best compost in the world. Then you can sell them to other people to
work their compost piles, or to fishermen.” [to top of second
column] |
“Well, Dewey,” said Herb, “it
looks to me like simply being a vermiculturist doesn’t really cover
the subject. Wouldn’t those red wigglers also make you a
compostocologist?”
“Hadn’t really thought about …” Dewey said.
“And when it comes to selling them to fishermen,” Doc said,
“wouldn’t you be an ichthymasticatiousdietician?”
“I … I …”
“Yes, Dewey?”
“I refuse to be anything I can’t spell.”
[Text from file received from
Slim Randles]
|
