P.S. Wall is a syndicated writer in Tennessee. Write her c/o Universal Press Syndicate, 4520 Main St., Kansas City, Mo. 64111.

Beefcake is appealing, but not too nutritious

Web posted May 11, 1999

By P.S. Wall
Special Columnist

During spring break from Mississippi State, Rosie's daughter fell in love with the knife thrower at the traveling Renaissance Festival. The good news is, she isn't looking for a father figure. Rosie's ex-husband couldn't hit the toilet, much less an apple at 20 feet.

"She's just like her father," Rosie says as the ticket-taker stamps our hands with a red ink dragon. "If I don't keep an eye on her, she's going to ruin her life having fun."

Following the cobble path that leads to the castle, we step back in time. Jesters juggle, singing minstrels stroll, and knights in shining armor clop along on horseback.

Suddenly, Kat, Rosie and I stop in our tracks. Across the courtyard -- and looking like he just stepped off the cover of an historic romance novel -- is the knife thrower.

"Me thinks the boy is a bit of beefcake on a couple of hot crossed buns," Kat says.

Sculpted body, long silky black hair, and eyes that could melt a chastity belt, this boy is trouble from start to finish. I have no doubt that if I were 19 years old, I'd be wrapped around him like a ribbon on a maypole.

Rosie, on the other hand, is in shock. The daughter to whom she devoted 18 years of molding was supposed to marry a doctor in shining armor with a good family crest. She's not even sure knife throwers can get health insurance.

Apparently, the knife thrower is accustomed to being gawked at by three women old enough to be his, uh, big sisters. He just keeps firing knives into the bull's eye.

"Nice tattoo," Kat finally says.

"Yeah," he says, looking down at the five bats tattooed around his bronzed bulging biceps, "it's the Chinese symbol for happiness."

"You're a student of Chinese culture?" Rosie asks.

"I wear Fruit of the Loom underwear," he smiles. "Does that mean I'm a vegetarian?"

Picking up a razor-sharp knife, he points to a bat.

"It represents the five blessings. I forget the first four, but this last one represents the achievement of one's goal."

"And what might that goal be?" Rosie asks.

"First and foremost," he says as he sails the knife into a Granny Smith, "to save enough money for my own Airstream trailer." Rosie's mouth drops like a drawbridge. All he'd have to do now is run her over with the Airstream to finish her off.

"But you seem to be very talented with knives," Rosie finally manages to say. "Have you considered becoming a surgeon?"

"You sound just like my mother."

"And do you and your mother have a good relationship?" Rosie asks, grasping at her final straw.

"Why don't you ask her," he shrugs. "She's reading palms over by the shell game."

While Kat flits off to do a little jousting with a dark knight, Rosie sits on a bench staring at her hands. Fairies and wood nymphs dance around us with wildflowers in their hair, and a poet dressed in velvet strolls the wooded path quoting love sonnets.

"Was I a good mother?" Rosie asks, looking up at me.

Rosie's only goal in life was to be the perfect mother. But a perfect mother doesn't guarantee a perfect child. Of course, judging by the look on Rosie's face, now is probably not the time to point this out.

"It's just a fling," I assure her. "Me thinks woman cannot live on beefcake alone."

"Well, if anyone would know, you would," Rosie sighs. "And that's no reflection on your mother."

P.S. Wall is a syndicated writer in Tennessee. Write her c/o Universal Press Syndicate, 4520 Main St., Kansas City, Mo. 64111.