By SLIM RANDLES
“Lived on through another May Day!”
The guys at the philosophy counter turned to see who it was. Windy Wilson, of course. He meandered into their midst and sat and flipped over a cup to the upright and fillable position.
“We sure did, Windy,” said Doc, smiling, “but I hadn’t thought we were in much danger.”
“That there’s what they want you to think, Doc,” Windy said. “I’m sure you know about how that May Day stuff got started. Oh, they used to say it was a fertilizer rite and all that …”
“You mean fertility?” asked Steve.
“That too … but you boys know better’n that. It was a communism plot ‘way back in them Dark Ages. Jest ‘bout the time them Crusader guys’d get horseback, here come them radicality guys to try to turn Constipationopolis into downtown Moscow, and they’d have to whip them guys first. Used up most of their Crusadin’ energy doin’ that instead of goin’ over and takin’ the Holy Land away from the folks who lived there, like they teach in church.
“So when a plane is gonna crash land today, you kin still hear that pilot yellin’ “May Day! May Day!” into his microphone. That ain’t accidentally, neither. He’s lettin’ all them passengers know that they’re gonna die, and tellin’ ‘em whoever’s to blame for it so’s they can write letters to the editorials when they get home.”
“Good to see you again, Windy,” Loretta said, filling his cup.
“Why thank you, Hon,” he said. “You’re lookin’ right perty there. Right perty.”
Windy doesn’t even charge for these history lessons you know.