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My friend Brad came over last night to help me move. He brought his wife, Denise, and their two kids, Faith, 4, and Luke, 2.
Faith calls me “Davefarquhar.” One word. She pronounces it right. It’s funny. I’ll see them at church, and Faith will say, “Davefarquhar, watch this!”

I guess that means I’m famous, like Raphael or Michelangelo. Or Prince.

[So what does that say about Jacques Pierre Cousteau Vermouth Bouillabaisse “Ham’n’Cheese” Croissant Rendezvous Nouveau Riche Au Jus Clousseau le Raunche de la Stenche? –R. Collins Farquhar IV] [On second thought, not everyone who uses just one name is rich and famous. Raunche’s Bentley goes out to the first caller who knows who Christophe was. –RCIV]

As they drove up to my apartment complex, Faith said, “Boy, mom, Davefarquhar has a lot of porches!”

Denise told me the story. I laughed. Then I told Faith that means I’m really rich. The more porches you have, the richer you are.

“You know she’ll run around church telling everyone that Davefarquhar is really rich,” Denise said.

But everyone else knows the truth. It’s my evil twin brother that’s really rich.

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8 thoughts on “Porches”

  1. I’ll have a stab at the Bentley. No search engine, of course – that wouldn’t be sporting in a contest of wit and knowledge. Christophe was a parcel wrapper. He wrapped parcels. Big parcels, containing landmarks. Built ones, like buildings; or natural ones, like geographic features. He called it art: I disagree.

  2. Actually, the artist you’re thinking of Don is Christo. I had to write a paper on him in one of my art history classes and although I respect he and his wife/collaborator Jeanne-Claude’s work, I don’t pretend to understand it.

    And as far as Christophe goes, Raunche’s Bentley isn’t going home with me. The only Christophe I know of is St. Christopher, the sometime patron saint of travelers.

  3. What it *means*, David, is that even a child can pronounce your plebian name. You can see this feat repeated in such pop culture children’s pap as Monsters, Inc. and Shrek, a movie which contains a diminutive “prince” named Farquuad. Maybe your name IS known to many. As is leprosy.

    An aristocratic name is descriptive by design. One needs to be verbose to relate one’s extensive land holdings. Even without R. Collins’ peurile extensions to my name, it is obvious who is the greater gentleman. R. Collins’ name says “a parcel of land and a lawn tractor”.

    And of course, R. Collins is being facetious. I do not own a Bentley. My ground transportation is custom manufactured in France. I use each vehicle for two months at most, so that they always smell fresh. I then lease them out to lower-tier, cash-poor aristocrats such as R. Collins. I even have the branding changed to Rolls Royce to make R. Collins feel “upper-crust”, even though the automobile itself far outshines the pedestrian Rolls name.

    But I will give a hint as to who Christophe was. While addicted to back-alley distilled liquor, R. Collins believed he had a French servant named Christophe. As should be obvious, this is not the true order of things.

  4. Three wrong answers so far.

    I shall ignore Jacques Pierre Cousteau Vermouth Bouillabaisse “Ham’n’Cheese” Croissant Rendezvous Nouveau Riche Au Jus Clousseau le Raunche de la Stenche’s rant and point out that Christophe has no relation to me and never did. Christophe is far too nouveau riche for my tastes.

    Christophe’s fame was quite ephemeral, although David remembers him, so he must not be terribly obscure. The event occurred in Los Angeles, not quite 10 years ago, and it involved an aeroplane.

    I am certain I have given it away now, but I am a generous man.

  5. Ah, R. Collins, ’tis no wonder they named a small, yippish dog after your homeland (answer for the rabble: the Scottish Terrier). Of course, Christophe is not *really* related to you; I was merely describing your hallucination. The real Christophe is indeed not to your tastes, for he has some. Very little, but some.

    It does not surprise me that David remembers Christophe. He can remember so many statistics about a silly little game played with a stick and a ball, but yet he cannot name a single excellent vintage from Bordeaux. And he thinks an opera is a web browser. Pah! The only real web browser comes from Microsoft, of course.

    I don’t believe it reveals the answer to say that whatever Christophe does for a living would be better done to your legs than your head. If you people insist on wearing women’s skirts, can you not make them full length?

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