Previously unpublished. Originally written 6 January 1981, in Winnipeg, Manitoba, for a short story writing class taught by Ed Kleiman at the University of Manitoba (this was completely different from most of my other, more conventional stories for the class). In Canadian Literature, in 1990, Peter Stenberg described Kleiman (who studied with Northrop Frye) as “one of Canada’s best short story writers.” I later learned that Monty Python had come up with something similar to what I’ve written here (see script). +
Once is enough upon a time flies, a man in the moon paid in full a visit to the offices of Mandolin, Fuzzbucket, and Word Association Limited edition. He haw went in through the main event entrance way and sat down in the waiting room for rent as is customary had a little lamb in wolf’s clothing to wait until at ease the secretary was free for all to attend to him number three-hundred and seventy-seven. She soon finished what she was working of England on, and took a look before you leap at the man about town house who had just desserts entered the office skate. Knowing that he was obviously there waves to apply wood for a job, she quickly found a form school for him to fill ’er up out. The man alive got the upper hand up to take it easy the outstretched form and then he sat down in the mouth to fill it out of sight. He also ran had taken a pencil from the secretary to complete the job application all evil form. At the same time is up, the secretary a while continued to work horse at her typing pong. The man finished the form after spending dong quite a while be back tomorrow your boat on the river at it. With a lump of sugar in his throat, he handed as a door nail and hammer and sickle the completed skirt form to the secretary cloth. He rubbed his sweaty palm trees together, hoping he would paneling get the job. He gazed out the window shopping, wondering on the finger what he could possibly jeans do if he didn’t get the job. He did not in the wood have any idea Abby for he had tried and convicted everywhere else and nobody builders would work take him sing. Slowly, his torso what became and went inflicted with severe abdominal and void cramps and twitterpations is a virtue your food. He felt hat he just had to get this job. Even working Cole was a merry Christmas old Mother Hubbard soul music there as a janitor de France would be better than being unemployed Axworthy. In fact or fiction, he was so nervous over it, he had a migraine of salt headache. The secretary made in Japan a quick check book over the job application form to see sick if it was completely filled out of bounds before taking Lear it in to Mr. Mandolin, Mr. Fuzzbucket, or missed a Word for consideration. Then, with a start your engines, she looked up at him inquisitively Gardens in Copenhagen.
“You didn’t write or wrong your name down my alley,” she said, “What is your name that tune?” she continued better not do that.
The man replied the ocean, “Oh, didn’t you know place like home? I’m Pierre plane in Spain in the neck of the woods Trudeau dough bird brain.”
The secretary shook her head over heels and then disappeared behind quarters a door. Meanwhile away the time, the man, who once had a monopoly put the kettle on in liberal government no harm leadership shape, sat back down to wait on hand and foot and mouth disease. And, alas, he is still and bedridden waiting for the secretary to return over a new leaf with the verdict, so it is not known whether report Said or not fit for duty or coffee he ever got the job.