Perpetual motion

It's that time of the year again—when it's still so hot that even the dust is burnt up, and the cicadas or tettiges, who were once men, are humming volubly overhead like electrical cables; and even hatbrimmed, with the collar up to prevent redneckedness, one feels faint just looking outside—and when all the tyros, fresh from high school, start milling about the campus, scoping out the Parisian foxes and ex-jailbait, sauntering in packs but still a little nervous under the loom of the tall palms, and when the Christians of all demoninations come out on the campus avenues to recruit, clutching bottles of iced water, which in this heat can only symbolise salvation, if not salivation—Every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters. . .

So I have a beer with my brother-in-law to celebrate my return to the country. Not the urinous lager quaffed by the frat-boys in the next apartment, mind—we went down to the deluxe grocery and chose some unusual varieties. Best was the Trappist Rochefort, of course; but most amusing was undoubtedly the He'Brew ('The Chosen Beer') Genesis 10:10, all pomegranaty, not bad-tasting, but not as delicious as the irony. I couldn't help thinking that Genesis 10:10 was a poor choice of verse:

And the beginning of his kingdom was Babel, and Erech, and Accad, and Calneh, in the land of Shinar.

More relevant would have been Genesis 9:21:

And he [Noah] drank of the wine, and was drunken, and he was uncovered within his tent.

*

Mrs. Roth, like every other woman on the planet, has been trying to shed a few pounds. But despite her starvation diet, her body just won't comply. She walks, she talks—and all she needs is a glass of water and a slap on the bum! I suggested she leave her body to medical science: perhaps they could take steps in the direction of a perpetual motion machine?