If this is Wednesday it must be Nostrum

You might recall that, last week in the Epistles of St. Jules to the Forensicians, we had learned that the Nostrumite had a problem with his job at the meat-packing plant. The following is extracted from a subsequent exchange with a fan:

Things at Nostrum World Headquarters have not been going well lately. The Nostrumite came home today from a long day at the meat-packing plant, threw his briefcase at the cat, collapsed onto the couch and uttered vulgarities which I won’t repeat, as a prelude to his announcement, “Lips that touch meat will never touch mine again.”

Turning assorted mammals (and the occasional marsupial, not to mention a 5% allowance for insects and other items that sort of fit in with those vulgarities I didn’t wish to mention) into hot dogs has made the poor fellow an unwell man.  

Jules and the Mite certainly did have a busy existence. As is made clear in this later epistle:

We almost didn’t make it this week. The Nostrumite is in a state of permanent depression because he bet Vestavia to win in LD at the NYC and when I told him going into the sixth round to cover himself with Manchester or Valley, he just laughed at me. Fortunately he has the lucre to cover his losses because, well, those debate bookies in the Bronx are tough, and they were there collecting even before all the plaques were given out. According to the Mite, the reason he lost was that he misread the Racing Form stats because he was so upset over Mason And Dixon not getting nominated for the National Book Award. What’s wrong with these people, he keeps asking me. How do I know? I keep answering him. Do I look like Michael Korda or something?

Anyhow, you’ll be happy to hear that the M is still employed at the hot dog factory, but the mystery of the overages continues. If you don’t remember it, for every ton of meat that walks in on the hoof, an average of one point two tons rolls out as wieners. The M is working with his MIS department to come to terms with this, and he tells me they print report after report, filled with facts and figures and analyses, and each report weighs about twenty pounds and stands half as high as the Mite himself (which of course isn’t all that high, unless you actually happen to be the Mite), but nowhere do they seem to be able to figure out this modern-day loaves and fishes, or as the M calls it, the Miracle of the Frankfurters.

At one point I was going to work a parimutuel theme into Nostrum, and even came close near the end of Series One, where Griot is discovered as a handicapper by the mafia lawyer, but that was right around when I hung up the pen. The first time I hung up the pen, that is.

In any case, shouldn't you be reading the ultimate version of Nostrum right this minute? After all, TOC is coming up this weekend. You know you want a distraction from that particular heartache. You can read it during the protest marches.