"My Dear Watley", says I, "time for a spot o' the vacation. Where shall it be this year? The pub? The hallway? This nice comfy chair? Not that there's room for the both of us. You'll have to wait in the hallway."
Watley, though dim as a light bulb, knows his way around the Crimean, Caribbean, Caspian, and other seas starting with the letter "C". It was in one of those places that he suffered his legendary war wound. Now on which leg was that war wound suffered? I poked him vigorously in both legs with my cane until a sharp cry of pain identified the gamey leg: the left. And yet ... a good detective double-checks all the evidence. Suppose I had inadvertently struck the left leg more forcefully, due to the increased leverage afforded by the angle it presented to my cane-wielding right hand? The cry of pain may have been due more to the impact of the iron-tipped cane end than the gangrenous wound. To be sure, I poked the right leg with renewed force. A cry of pain now threw all my previous hypotheses into confusion. Sensing the need for additional data, I gave Watley a forceful poke in the left forearm, then another in the right foot. Damned if the man didn't seem to be gangrenous from head to toe.
"I say", says Watley, abruptly changing the subject, "I've got the ideal spot: a cabin on Lake Crappian, in Inner Mongolistan."
"Agreed," I cry enthusiastically. "Be a good chap, and secure us a pair of aeroplane tickets." Watley, who is dumb as a hitching post and nearly as tall, attempted to ring up an agent on the teleophone.
"My good man," says I, poking him insistently in his left buttock, "it's all done on the Intereonet these days. Observe."
At this juncture I pulled out my trusty laptop compeoter, and connected forthwith to Orbeotz.
[editor's note: this post was never completed, presumably because the protoganists were too busy preparing for their trip to Inner Mongolistan.]