When P.H. Quebbs Invented the noodle

By Jack Wilan

It was a marvelous day in the life of P.H Quebbs for he had invented the noodle. Everything that day had begun rather normally; P.H had swam in the ocean, he had taken a quick nap in his soft cotton bed, and he had tickled his funny bone over and over and over until he snickered a marvelous snick. He had drunk beer and rum and spent a wonderful afternoon throwing his body into soft bushes he found along the road. Everything was just perfectly pleasant! In the late afternoon, P.H stumbled into his pub of choice, “The Groggy Guzzler” and handed the bartender his shirt, his shoes, and his service. He sat on his stool of choice, a rusty iron seat he liked to call Harry and, sucked on a few olives he found in his pants pocket. Ordering a rum with salt, he took to thinking about life. He thought about marvelous things: about his wife Bertrude and the lovely plum pudding that he knew was waiting at home with her, about his favorite mule Jim whom he loved with all his heart, and about whether or not Harry would be offended with him if he happened to move to a different, less rusty stool closer to the warm fire. These thoughts all were running through his mind at the same time like a platoon of racehorses on snuff when something shiny and slippery caught his eye in the corner of the bar. The item was large and flat and long, hunched over its drink looking down and depressed. It had a creamy golden color and to P.H smelled strangely of wheat and butter. He picked up Harry, and the two of them moved even farther away from the fire and closer to this curious oddity to strike up a conversation.

“So what brings you to the Groggy Guzzler today, good gentleman?” P.H queried. The stranger gave him a blank buttery stare and sharply looked back at his drink without saying a word. P.H repeated his offer of communication once more and again was met with the same lost look. Being the gentleman that he was, P.H decided to not press the issue. And so the two sturdy strangers had sat next to one another for quite some time, no conversation initiated for the golden fellow appeared to have no mouth or gums and P.H was much too polite. Deciding after about four hours he was getting nowhere with this starchy-looking gent, P.H reverted back to his normal routine and ordered gins from the bartender until he threw up all over poor Harry and passed out. He woke up (as he always did) drenched in sweat and tomato sauce (as he always was) on top of the cold cobblestone street in front of “The Groggy Guzzler'' and beside him lay his compatriot he had tried so hard to talk to earlier, likewise passed out and smelling of butter. P.H stood up (as he always did) and of course, being the gentle gentleman that he was, decided he had to help this seemingly deaf and dumb (and unconscious) stranger. Catching sight of his mule Jim snacking on peaches in the center of town, P.H called him over and slung the limp and floury stranger over Jim’s back to make his way home. They had a marvelous ride!!! P.H whistled a merry tune in sync with the clopping of Jim’s hooves upon the ground and petted the smooth skin of the stranger so wonderfully flopped over Jim’s hairy (but still very attractive) backside. Arriving home to his vast manse on the outskirts of town, P.H joyously called out to his beautiful wife Bertrude:

“set me a bath honeybird, I’m dank and dusty” and in his excitement forgot about his strange starchy friend still perched atop Jim’s hirsute keister. He had a marvelous bath. The lavender bubbles floated lazily through the air as he splished and splashed; breathing in the scents, he felt at peace. P.H left the tub many hours later covered in wrinkles of many shapes and sizes. One of his nipples was shaped like Edinburgh on a slightly sooty day and he could have sworn that he saw a portrait of his grumpy old primary school headmaster, Mr. Arschkeis, on a wrinkle on his left pinky toe. While he was inspecting his many wrinkles and divots, Mrs. Quebbs called out to him: “Din-din love chunks!” P.H was ecstatic! His stomach rumbled a great noise and he slid down the banister *slip *slip *slide. His lovely plump wife stood next to his chair holding a steaming bowl of something that smelled absolutely delicious. It smelled of freshness, of cranberry bogs in summer, and of fields of wheat in winter; it smelled of happiness, of a mother’s wet kiss and the trips P.H used to take to the balmy English countryside. P.H sat down, wiped the corners of his mouth with his handkerchief, and lifted up the silver tray. He was faced with a gruesome sight. His gentleman friend lay limp and deceased in a puddle of stewed plum tomatoes. The taste was heavenly. Burying the rest of the body out back where the police would never find it, P.H was surprised days later to find little sprouts of the gentleman popping up in the back. He dubbed them “noodles' ' due to their rather nood shape and brought them to market to the delight of the commoners. Thus we sum up the story of the day when P.H Quebbs, innovator extraordinaire, invented the slippery, yummy, oh-so-good noodle we all know and love today.

Utter Discrepancies Jacket

Jack Wilan is a Berkeley-based writer known for his very serious humor pieces and his charoset making skills. He's worked as a satirical columnist and writer at The Berkeley High Jacket and is currently working on a Berkeley literary magazine to be published later this year.