© Adam Granger
GUY NOIR: THE CASE OF THE MUDDLED MEASUREMENTS
ANN: I was doing some accounting in my office late one night, trying to figure out how to keep the IRS from confiscating everything but my gout, when there was a knock on the door.
[KNOCK]
GN: It’s not open, but it’s about to be. . .
ANN: . . . I shouted. The knob turned, the door swung open and in walked a platinum blonde whose hair should have been in Fort Knox. Around her porcelain neck was draped a chinchilla that had died and gone to heaven. She wore a silk sheath dress that defied both gravity and common sense.
GN: What can I do for you, doll face?
MW: You’re the third person that’s called me that this week. I’ve got to stop getting those botox injections.
ANN: By this time, I had regained my composure.
GN: Uh, look, whoever you are, let’s get down to business. I’m busy trying to make one end meet here and I--
MW: I understand. Allow me to introduce myself: My name is Miss Whoopee. Megan Whoopee.
GN: I’ll bet you have trouble with that name.
MW: Not as much trouble as everyone else does.
GN: Well, Miss Whoopee, if it’s a name change you’re after, you need an attorney, not a private eye.
MW: I don’t want to change my name, Mr Noir. Here’s my problem: My father was Ludwig Whoopee--
GN: Well, that works a little bit better than Megan Whoopee--
MW: Ludwig Whoopee? Founder and, until recently, president of the Whoopee Novelty Company?
ANN: That’s where I knew that name!
GN: Of course! Creators of the Whoopee Cushion--
MW: And fake plastic vomit--
GN: (enthusiastically)--and the exploding cigar! Let me shake your hand!
[BUZZING SOUND]
MW: (apologetically)–and the joy buzzer.
GN: Yes, well, I suppose it’s in your blood. Please have a seat in that chair right there, Miss Whoopee.
[FART SOUND]
MW: Touche, Mr Noir.
GN: I’m a big fan of your company’s products. What can I do for you, Miss Whoopee?
MW: Mr Noir, my father recently passed away.
GN: I’m sorry.
MW: Yes. He drowned in a vat of fake dog poop. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it; it was on all the papers.
GN: My condolences, Miss Whoopee, but it sounds like you need an estate planner, not a private eye--
MW: (mildly irritated) I don’t need an estate planner. Our company is having problems with some of its most popular products.
GN: Tell me more.
MW: Our sneezing powder is sending people to the hospital. Our fake scars are causing real scars. Oh, and those joke birthday candles that you can’t blow out? They’ve been burning people’s houses down.
GN: Yes, but your squirting toilet seat cured my hemorrhoids. . .
MW: Well, that’s the only good thing that’s come of this.
GN: Miss Whoopee, it sounds like you need an insurance adjuster, not a private eye--
MW: (irritated now) I don’t need an insurance adjuster. Someone is sabotaging our company!
GN: Of course. What was I thinking?
MW: My father emigrated here from Germany in 1950, Mr Noir. He brought with him the original German formulas for all of the classic old jokes: itching powder, stink bombs, disappearing ink. Germans led the world in novelty gag technology in the twentieth century.
GN: Well, they certainly kept us in stitches through much of it.
MW: Since he died, there’s been something wrong with the formulas. We try to follow the recipes and they come out all wrong.
GN: Was your company responsible for the dribble glass which drowned that poor child in New York?
MW: (Breaks down) Yes! And if you say “What you need is a medical examiner, not a private eye”--
GN: Farthest thing from my mind, Miss Whoopee. Tell me, do you have these formulas with you?
MW: (sniffling) Yes. They’re right here. . .
[SHUFFLING PAPER]
GN: Hmmm. . .Yesss. . .You say your father was from Germany. . .
MW: Yes, these are his original recipes.
GN: So. . .let’s see. . the formula for fake vomit calls for “2 of latex”. . .hmm. Two what of latex?
MW: Why, two gallons, I assume.
GN: These recipes and formulas are written in the original liters and millimeters and grams that would have been used in Germany. Since your father died, you’ve unwittingly been using gallons and inches and ounces like we use here in America. But your father never converted them; he continued to use the original measures after he moved here! I’ve got to say this: Miss Whoopee, what you need is a table of equivalencies, not a private eye.
MW: Oh, Mr Noir! How can I ever thank you!
GN: Think nothing of it, sugar. This was a piece of cake. If I could solve every case without leaving my office I wouldn’t ever have to buy shoes.
MW: I appreciate that, but I insist on compensating you, Mr Noir.
GN: Well, I wouldn’t mind standing in for that chinchilla for a little while. . .
ANN: And so ended the Mystery of the Muddled Measurements. I never did get my tax situation worked out, but some things—like the happiness of one Megan Whoopee and the insured survival of some of humankind’s best novelty gags—are more important than the IRS and all its petty rules and regulations. I just hope I can convince them of that. . .
ANN: I was doing some accounting in my office late one night, trying to figure out how to keep the IRS from confiscating everything but my gout, when there was a knock on the door.
[KNOCK]
GN: It’s not open, but it’s about to be. . .
ANN: . . . I shouted. The knob turned, the door swung open and in walked a platinum blonde whose hair should have been in Fort Knox. Around her porcelain neck was draped a chinchilla that had died and gone to heaven. She wore a silk sheath dress that defied both gravity and common sense.
GN: What can I do for you, doll face?
MW: You’re the third person that’s called me that this week. I’ve got to stop getting those botox injections.
ANN: By this time, I had regained my composure.
GN: Uh, look, whoever you are, let’s get down to business. I’m busy trying to make one end meet here and I--
MW: I understand. Allow me to introduce myself: My name is Miss Whoopee. Megan Whoopee.
GN: I’ll bet you have trouble with that name.
MW: Not as much trouble as everyone else does.
GN: Well, Miss Whoopee, if it’s a name change you’re after, you need an attorney, not a private eye.
MW: I don’t want to change my name, Mr Noir. Here’s my problem: My father was Ludwig Whoopee--
GN: Well, that works a little bit better than Megan Whoopee--
MW: Ludwig Whoopee? Founder and, until recently, president of the Whoopee Novelty Company?
ANN: That’s where I knew that name!
GN: Of course! Creators of the Whoopee Cushion--
MW: And fake plastic vomit--
GN: (enthusiastically)--and the exploding cigar! Let me shake your hand!
[BUZZING SOUND]
MW: (apologetically)–and the joy buzzer.
GN: Yes, well, I suppose it’s in your blood. Please have a seat in that chair right there, Miss Whoopee.
[FART SOUND]
MW: Touche, Mr Noir.
GN: I’m a big fan of your company’s products. What can I do for you, Miss Whoopee?
MW: Mr Noir, my father recently passed away.
GN: I’m sorry.
MW: Yes. He drowned in a vat of fake dog poop. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it; it was on all the papers.
GN: My condolences, Miss Whoopee, but it sounds like you need an estate planner, not a private eye--
MW: (mildly irritated) I don’t need an estate planner. Our company is having problems with some of its most popular products.
GN: Tell me more.
MW: Our sneezing powder is sending people to the hospital. Our fake scars are causing real scars. Oh, and those joke birthday candles that you can’t blow out? They’ve been burning people’s houses down.
GN: Yes, but your squirting toilet seat cured my hemorrhoids. . .
MW: Well, that’s the only good thing that’s come of this.
GN: Miss Whoopee, it sounds like you need an insurance adjuster, not a private eye--
MW: (irritated now) I don’t need an insurance adjuster. Someone is sabotaging our company!
GN: Of course. What was I thinking?
MW: My father emigrated here from Germany in 1950, Mr Noir. He brought with him the original German formulas for all of the classic old jokes: itching powder, stink bombs, disappearing ink. Germans led the world in novelty gag technology in the twentieth century.
GN: Well, they certainly kept us in stitches through much of it.
MW: Since he died, there’s been something wrong with the formulas. We try to follow the recipes and they come out all wrong.
GN: Was your company responsible for the dribble glass which drowned that poor child in New York?
MW: (Breaks down) Yes! And if you say “What you need is a medical examiner, not a private eye”--
GN: Farthest thing from my mind, Miss Whoopee. Tell me, do you have these formulas with you?
MW: (sniffling) Yes. They’re right here. . .
[SHUFFLING PAPER]
GN: Hmmm. . .Yesss. . .You say your father was from Germany. . .
MW: Yes, these are his original recipes.
GN: So. . .let’s see. . the formula for fake vomit calls for “2 of latex”. . .hmm. Two what of latex?
MW: Why, two gallons, I assume.
GN: These recipes and formulas are written in the original liters and millimeters and grams that would have been used in Germany. Since your father died, you’ve unwittingly been using gallons and inches and ounces like we use here in America. But your father never converted them; he continued to use the original measures after he moved here! I’ve got to say this: Miss Whoopee, what you need is a table of equivalencies, not a private eye.
MW: Oh, Mr Noir! How can I ever thank you!
GN: Think nothing of it, sugar. This was a piece of cake. If I could solve every case without leaving my office I wouldn’t ever have to buy shoes.
MW: I appreciate that, but I insist on compensating you, Mr Noir.
GN: Well, I wouldn’t mind standing in for that chinchilla for a little while. . .
ANN: And so ended the Mystery of the Muddled Measurements. I never did get my tax situation worked out, but some things—like the happiness of one Megan Whoopee and the insured survival of some of humankind’s best novelty gags—are more important than the IRS and all its petty rules and regulations. I just hope I can convince them of that. . .