Farbisnot the very name of the place sent chills down the spines of the tender inhabitants of warmer latitudes. Farbisnot where Jack Frost reined supreme eight out of ever y twelve months. Farbisnot a thriving city on the North Dakota prairie whose hardy residents had grown used to the deep-freeze, yet still dreamt of warmer days. It was late in the fall for the citizens of Farbisnot; there had only been thirtee n blizzards so far, and once in a while at noon on the sunniest of days the thermometers kept in every kitchen window would reach all the way up to 40 below. It was on one of these sunny yet still chilly days that a bright red horse-drawn wagon-- wi th leaping orange flames painted on the sides!-- pulled into Town Square. The arrival of such an unusual vehicle was of course a far from regular event in the icily isolated metropolis, so needless to say a whole crowd of Farbisnoters had soon gathe red around the warmly-red wagon.
Out of it stepped a peculiar looking man, with a thin mustache that curled around into spiraling loopty-loops on both sides of his nose. He wore a tattered purple to p hat with the top sticking straight up in the air and connected where it still was connected by only the scantiest of threads. A stylish peacock-- yes, an entire peacock, alive and rustling its plumage from time to time-- adorned the brim.&n bsp; His coat was made of baboon fur, his shoes of 97.9% pure francium; “Excellent remedy for corns,” he explained to the mystified Farbisnoters. But this was not all he said! With supercilious airs he made his way to the statue of the F arbisnot’s founder, Willard Scott, who had created the town in 1932 so that people would always know that there was someplace experiencing worse weather than they were. The man climbed to the very tip-top of Willard’s shiny head, intending from this perch to address the crowd. And that he did.
“My good citizens of...er...” The man had apparently forgotten to check the “Welcome to Farbisnot!” sign at the edge of town. “Farbisnot!” volunteered a gentleman fr om the crowd. He was the public relations manager responsible for attracting more tourists to the city, and was the originator of the slogan “War fizz glot Farbisnot?” which is Norwegian for “If you’re going to freeze to death, why not freeze to dea th in the beautiful city of Farbisnot?” He would have been fired, but no one else would take the job.
Back on top of the statue, the outsider was much relieved to begin again. His voice rang richly with trust and persuasion. “My good citizens of Farbisnot! My n ame is Ezekiel Jebadiah St. Vincent Du Bois, but you can call me Sneaky Jake the Devil Snake--I’m an honest man, you see? I’ve seen the pain that you poor, pitiful Farbisnoters are going through: the icicles that form prison bars around every house by the end of September; the drifts of snow 10 meters tall that keep little Billy from getting to school on time; the bone-chilling winds that are responsible for it hailing frozen prairie dogs every June. And I am here to tell you that I have the answer! Caloric! The magical ether that is heat personified! The wondrous caloric theory states that this invisible, weightless fluid is constantly flowing from hot objects to cold ones. And guess what? In these be autiful little bottles” At this Sneaky Jake the Devil Snake withdrew a tiny, emerald-green vial from the pocket of his baboon fur coat, and waved it before the mesmerized throng. “especially extracted from the blazing hot sands of the Sahara Desert and shipped by camel all the way from Timbuktu, I have enough caloric to give this city an eternal summer!” And in a much lower voice, he added, “And they’re just $45 each, plus tax.”
In a mad rush, the crowd went tearing toward the wagon, eager to be the first to buy a wonderful bottle of caloric. Endless summer seemed like quite a bargain at just $45 a bottle. “And it sure beats burning buffalo dung,” commented one astute Farbisnoter.
Then, suddenly, a voice pierced through the clamor of the queuing crowd. “Wait!” it said. The lungs and vocal chords behind that voice were none other than those of Betty the Mountain Goat. Long ago, she had decided she was sick and tired of prancing up and down mountains all day and had moved to the flattest place she could think of, which happened to be Farbisnot, North Dakota. She had then worked her way up the ch ain of command to become mayor of Farbisnot in last year’s elections.
“Sneaky Jake the Devil Snake,” she bleated,...
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