Thursday, August 10, 2006


By Anonymous

Relaxing in the paleontology lounge with an afternoon cup of tea, Professor Reinhold Carlson saw a mail-order bride catalog draped over the armrest of his chair. Curious, he began flipping through the well-thumbed publication, no doubt the property of the department chair, F. Worthington Smythe, a repugnant and depraved man whose appetite for exotic young women was legendary. Carlson noticed one of the pages was dog-eared and flecked with dried spittle; on it, a single photograph had been enthusiastically circled in green highlighter and surrounded by a forest of exclamation points. He gasped.

Little Dimitra!

Incredibly, it was her. Yes, Carlson was sure this was the darling girl he remembered from his fossil-hunting expedition in Siberia so many years ago. The same laughing, smiling youngster who had brought him fresh bread and honey from her family’s farm, who had watched wide-eyed as Carlson and his team hauled up wondrous dinosaur bones from the earth and brushed them clean of dirt in the cool summer breeze. Oh, how she had clapped and sung with joy!

Now the little girl had grown into a beautiful young woman, a woman who was in terrible danger. Carlson knew he had to do something, and quickly. Soon he was on the phone with his bank, instructing that the entire contents of his savings account be wired to the offices of Far East Beauties, Inc. Sweet Dimitra would not be falling into Smythe’s lecherous clutches if Reinhold Carlson had anything to say about it!

A week later, the professor found himself standing nervously in the airport, waiting for Dimitra to emerge from customs. Would she recognize him after all these years? Could he, an aging widower, bring her comfort and happiness? Suddenly, she appeared, and all his doubts were forgotten. Carlson broke into a wide grin and began walking toward her, arms outstretched. But then he stopped. His arms went limp. Dimitra’s face and hair were covered in gravy. She was screaming obscenities in broken English and trying to caress a panic-stricken grandmother. On her head was a partially torn customs inspector’s hat.

Oh no! Carlson thought, terrified. It was not Dimitra, but her insane twin brother, Dimitri, last seen by the professor bounding away mirthfully from an excavation pit with a stegosaurus vertebra in his pants. The demented imp now had long hair and small, perky breasts. (The professor would later learn about his short and troubled stint in a Vladivostok cabaret.) Yes, he looked remarkably like his sister. But unlike polite Dimitra, he thought it perfectly reasonable to apply a flying karate kick to Carlson’s stomach, then leap onto the rental-car counter and wet his pants.

Two policemen quickly pulled the screaming, urinating Russian to the floor and pinned him with their knees as they slipped handcuffs around his dainty wrists. Dimitri pounded the floor with his head and began to moo. Carlson, meanwhile, grabbed his cellphone and dialed Smythe, who was delighted to hear that his colleague had a very special someone for him to meet.

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