“The Silent Letter”
Last week we left the unfinished story about a June wedding attended by our old friend, Orville Smedley. The tale was paused just as the Pastor, Sister Phrederica Pfunderbund, invited the wedding guests to “now speak their peace or hold their say-so,” when all Hell broke loose. The story continues….
From the rear of the sanctuary roared a raspy voice, shouting, “Hold on there, Sister! Phred Pfunderberg, is a phoney! He can no more be a bride or a groom than he can be the Phantom of the Opera! Phred is a philander and he is also psychologically unfit for either motherhood or fatherhood!”
“Who are you, sir, that allows you to make such contemptible accusations?” demanded Pastor Pfunderbund.
“I am Phern Pherenson, a philantropic pharmacist from Philadelphia working over at St. Pheromone Hospital and I have been dispensing phenobarbital for Phred Pfunderberg for the past month to treat his psychosis complicated with its philistinic phenomena. My phlebotomist has confirmed my diagnosis through various phlegm samplings.”
“Pshaw!” cried Pastor Phrederica. “Philospophically, this puts a photic phase to this proceding. Do you have any photographic or phonographic evidence for your phrasemongering? Did you do any phrenologic studies on Phred’s head? Did you apply a physic or did you contact any physicists, physicians, psychologists, or philatists for help?”
“Yes, all the above” replied Pharmacist Phern. “The best that anyone could come up with was to isolate him like a pheasant under glass and put him a a strict diet of nothing but psyllium . Most of the attending physicians think his disorder arose from an untreated case of pneumonia in his late childhood. The psychiatrists believe that his psychogenic symptoms arose from his years using a pneumatic jack hammer, rattling his brain. The philatists are convinced it all stems from his heavy use of psychotropic drugs such as LSD.”
“Phew!” said Pastor Pfunderbund, “It appears that we must put this wedding on hold until it is decided whether all this is a harmless phantasmagoric event or it is actually a lethal ptomainic phenomena. I suggest we all adjourn to St. Pheromone Hospital, so if the wedding party participants would form a phalanx on their bikes and follow the bride/bride and/or the groom/groom as they ride in the phaeton that is parked in front of St. Phrancis.”
With a great amount of muttering and murmuring, the disappointed throng evacuated the sanctuary and all headed over to St.Pheromone on their Harleys and GoldWings with Smedley following in his “83 Ford 150 with the boxed wedding cake riding shotgun on the passenger seat. Upon arrival at St. Pheromone, the crowd re-assembled in the hospital cafeteria which was very fortuitous as it turned out, being adjacent to the hospital pharmacy.
Hastily, Phred, Phil, Sister Phrederica, and Phred’s father Pfieifer, huddled with the hospital’s medical staff, and it was agreed to proceed with the wedding ceremony right there as it made no sense to now return to St. Phrancis. With the usual phrases from a few psalms sung, and the standard. “Til death we part” phase completed, Pastor Pfunderbund presented “Mr. And Mr. Phred-Phil -I don’t know what they have decided for their last name” – to the happy flock of friends.
Smedley brought forth the wedding cake that he had hauled all he way from Pharoah Oaks and the now very hungry crowd made short work of it. Happy ending? No, not quite. Because of the delay created by Pharmacist Phern Pherenson’s objection, the cake as it sat in the sun in Smedley’s truck became rancid and many folks soon became sick. Fortunately, there was a large supply of medical marijuana conveniently on hand in the adjacent pharmacy, and the sick were soon made well – actually feeling quite groovy!
Smedley over-indulged with the supplied medication and was held overnight for observation.