Fejijar
04-07-2009, 07:49 PM
WATSON: How do you do it, House? What told you that Reverend Septimus Crispankle was guilty of Jack the Ripper's crimes?
HOUSE: Elementary, my dear Watson. By his gait, I instinctively knew that he was a taxidermist. Taxidermists, by necessity of their trade, must often visit Swansea. The Welsh are a fiery breed, and thence I deduced that our Reverend Taxidermist had a tumor on his right kidney, his right kidney MISSING, Watson, having been surgically removed by Jesuits while on holiday in Portugal. The Portugese love to drink wine with a slice of ham covering the glass to keep the flies away, as their wine is notoriously sweet. A man who eats a large quantity of ham and drinks much sweet wine must inevitably develop gout, a disease that results from iron deposits in the joints, joints being swollen to result in his taxidermists's gait, do you not see, Watson?
WATSON: Not really, House. That seems rather convoluted. He had a gun and a signed confession saying he did it. Didn't that, you know, solve the crime?
HOUSE: Not at all, Watson! It was merely a ruse, a simple huntsman's ploy, to throw me off track. I knew at once that the scarlet threads entwining his hackney carriage could only have been a secret signal, but to whom? The Freemasons, that's who! The Reverend Taxidermist being an unwitting pawn in the vast Novus Ordo Seclorum was merely window dressing. The whores disemboweled themselves and sending pieces of their own sweetmeats added to the verisimilitude!
WATSON: So, basically, you're saying that Reverend Crispankle isn't Jack the Ripper?
HOUSE: Watson, you clearly are a thickie. The markings on the wall of the first murder implicated the Jews, yes? But we all know that Freemasons hate Jews, Freemasons hate Jews like Klingons hate Tribbles! Did you know they're flouridating the water?
WATSON: Er... no. Listen, House, I think...
HOUSE: No, that's just it, Watson! You think. You've seen. You've heard.
HOUSE produces a pistol, shoots WATSON dead.
HOUSE: I knew from the first instant that the only person in the world who could pull off such a glorious crime such as Jack the Ripper's was me! Myself! However, I don't recall actually doing it, and therefore, I must have been under some sort of insidious mind control, Watson. Mind control as used in the Continental Army against those damnable Boers. I asked myself who better than a retired army doctor with ambiguously homosexual tendencies to implant the urges to go on a kill-crazy rampage? Yes, Dr. Watson, I have deduced that I am Jack the Ripper. However, you are not Dr. Watson! You are my archnemesis, Dr. Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime, merely fattened up by so many seasons in Portugal sipping ham-covered sherry! THEREFORE, DR. MORIARTY, I HAVE SHOT YOU DEAD.
The door opens, and DR. MORIARTY enters.
DR. MORIARTY: Well done, House. You saw through my plan, except for one tiny detail: not a damn word of what you just said made any sense. Seriously, House, you just shot the one idiot just slow enough to think you are a genius.
MORIARTY produces a pistol, and shoots HOUSE dead.
DR. MORIARTY: Oh. It seems I have killed my archnemesis. Oh me oh my.
HOUSE: Elementary, my dear Watson. By his gait, I instinctively knew that he was a taxidermist. Taxidermists, by necessity of their trade, must often visit Swansea. The Welsh are a fiery breed, and thence I deduced that our Reverend Taxidermist had a tumor on his right kidney, his right kidney MISSING, Watson, having been surgically removed by Jesuits while on holiday in Portugal. The Portugese love to drink wine with a slice of ham covering the glass to keep the flies away, as their wine is notoriously sweet. A man who eats a large quantity of ham and drinks much sweet wine must inevitably develop gout, a disease that results from iron deposits in the joints, joints being swollen to result in his taxidermists's gait, do you not see, Watson?
WATSON: Not really, House. That seems rather convoluted. He had a gun and a signed confession saying he did it. Didn't that, you know, solve the crime?
HOUSE: Not at all, Watson! It was merely a ruse, a simple huntsman's ploy, to throw me off track. I knew at once that the scarlet threads entwining his hackney carriage could only have been a secret signal, but to whom? The Freemasons, that's who! The Reverend Taxidermist being an unwitting pawn in the vast Novus Ordo Seclorum was merely window dressing. The whores disemboweled themselves and sending pieces of their own sweetmeats added to the verisimilitude!
WATSON: So, basically, you're saying that Reverend Crispankle isn't Jack the Ripper?
HOUSE: Watson, you clearly are a thickie. The markings on the wall of the first murder implicated the Jews, yes? But we all know that Freemasons hate Jews, Freemasons hate Jews like Klingons hate Tribbles! Did you know they're flouridating the water?
WATSON: Er... no. Listen, House, I think...
HOUSE: No, that's just it, Watson! You think. You've seen. You've heard.
HOUSE produces a pistol, shoots WATSON dead.
HOUSE: I knew from the first instant that the only person in the world who could pull off such a glorious crime such as Jack the Ripper's was me! Myself! However, I don't recall actually doing it, and therefore, I must have been under some sort of insidious mind control, Watson. Mind control as used in the Continental Army against those damnable Boers. I asked myself who better than a retired army doctor with ambiguously homosexual tendencies to implant the urges to go on a kill-crazy rampage? Yes, Dr. Watson, I have deduced that I am Jack the Ripper. However, you are not Dr. Watson! You are my archnemesis, Dr. Moriarty, the Napoleon of Crime, merely fattened up by so many seasons in Portugal sipping ham-covered sherry! THEREFORE, DR. MORIARTY, I HAVE SHOT YOU DEAD.
The door opens, and DR. MORIARTY enters.
DR. MORIARTY: Well done, House. You saw through my plan, except for one tiny detail: not a damn word of what you just said made any sense. Seriously, House, you just shot the one idiot just slow enough to think you are a genius.
MORIARTY produces a pistol, and shoots HOUSE dead.
DR. MORIARTY: Oh. It seems I have killed my archnemesis. Oh me oh my.