Karen Conlin will enjoy this recent exchange in my workplace.

New Zealander 1 (me, as it happens): That whole thing is huckery. I would even go so far as to say munted.

British colleague: So, to un-munt it…

NZer 2: Once a thing is munted, that’s it. You can’t undo it.

NZer 1: Yeah, munted is a final state.

Originally shared by Sheldon Nylander

Have an irony.

“I’m sorry to have organized such a… conventional convention,” Tom Swift said contritely.

“This letter means nothing!” Tom Swift said dismissively.

You might be in a Mike Reeves-McMillan story if:

1. You’re a competent mid-twenties woman; a gnome; or both.

2. Your romance has a good chance of not working out.

3. The world is against you being who you are. The world is going to have to change.

4. You have that one friend who’s more like a sibling.

5. There’s casual sensawunda.

So this is the story of Monty’s hauls.

Back in a rural part of the southern US somewheres, there was a feller name of Andrew Montgomery, but everyone just called him Monty. His hobby was hauling things.

See, Monty had built himself what he called, for reasons mysterious, his “Yuma hauler”. What Yuma had to do with it, nobody could figure, but Monty’s boast was that this contraption could haul anything that had two ends. And if it only had one end, why, that Yuma hauler could make it have two ends.

It was basically an oversized motor, a reinforced chassis, some caterpillar treads, and a set of low gears. And any time anyone in the county wanted something hauled, whether it was a car out of a ditch or a stump out of a bog, they called Monty. He’d bring the Yuma hauler and get the job done, and he never even charged for it; did it for the sheer love of the haul. But usually folks would talk him into accepting some food or beer or like that.

Now, there were two fellers round about that weren’t so happy about Monty and his Yuma hauler: Alexander and Richard Shaw, or Sandy and Rocky, to their friends. See, the Shaw brothers had the towing contract with the American Automobile Association for that county, and thanks to Monty, the only business they got in that way was folks passing through what didn’t know about Monty’s hauler. And not a lot of folks passed through. The Shaws had a garage as well, but they always resented that they had to keep a tow truck running and barely made enough to cover its upkeep, year to year.

Well, one day, seems that Bob Veritt’s big old eighteen-wheeler broke down just off of the highway, and needed a tow. Bob and his wife Maureen ran a small independent trucking company, or, to be more accurate, Maureen ran the trucking company, and also Bob. It was a standing joke in the county that if you asked Bob for his opinion, he’d have to call up Maureen to find out what it was. People round and about, out of their hearing, used to refer to the Veritts as “the Maureens”.

Be that as it may, on this occasion when the truck broke down, Bob couldn’t get a hold of Maureen to ask her what he should do – her phone was out of charge, or some such – so he did what everyone in the county did when something needed hauling. He called up Monty.

So soon enough, here comes Monty on top of his Yuma hauler, grinning all over his face in anticipation of a good haul. He fairly loved to haul things.

He and Bob hitch up the tow cable, only the tow point on the old truck has broken off, so Bob crawls under and attaches it to whatever he can find. He’s got a full load of bagged cement in the tractor and trailer, and he says to Monty, “You reckon that thing of your’n can haul all of this? Should I maybe unhook the trailer?” His hand creeps to his phone, like he wants to call Maureen and ask her.

Well, that was like a challenge to Monty. “‘Course she can!” he says. “My Yuma hauler can haul anything that’s got two ends.”

He starts it up, and puts it into gear.

The cable comes up taut, twang, and commences to vibrate.

The truck ain’t moving.

Monty narrows his eyes and changes to a lower gear, then feeds the Yuma more diesel.

The cable creaks.

Then, all at once, with a terrible tearing sound, the whole front of Bob’s truck, where the engine is, parts company with the cab and flies into the air, narrowly missing Bob. It bounces off the road, and Monty only saves himself by leaping off the Yuma’s seat into the ditch. It comes down on the seat, thud, and the Yuma’s engine coughs into silence.

Bob and Monty stand there looking at the smoking ruins of their respective vehicles for a few stunned seconds. Then Bob says in a small voice, “I guess I better call Maureen.”

And that is the story of how the Maureens went from the hauls of Monty’s Yuma to the Shaws of Triple A.

“That martinet made me get off the toilet!” said Tom Swift, severely discommoded.

Tofugu: a vegetarian dish that, unless prepared very carefully by a highly trained expert, risks boring you to death.