“Fatson, come here.”
“What is it, Holmes,” answered the chubby assistant, sporting a tweed suit and meaty porkchop sideburns.
“I believe it’s a clue,” rejoined Sh*tlock Holmes, who was dressed in a Sherlock Holmes outfit, complete with magnifying glass.
“It appears to be a rice cake with peanut butter smeared on it,” observed Fatson.
“Almond butter,” corrected Sh*tlock.
“How can you know that?” asked Fatson, perplexed.
“Smellamentary, my dear Fatson. And did you take a look in the pantry?”
“It seems perfectly ordinary to me…” bemused Fatson
“Take a closer look,” said Sh*tlock.
right,” continued the detective. “No corn chips, toritilla chips,
potato chips, pretzel chips, pita chips, Sun chips, cheese nibs,
Cheez-Its, Cheese Whiz, Chex mix, cheese-and-crackers,
crackers-and-cheese, peanut butter-and-crackers, peanut butter cookies,
pretzels, Pringles, Pop-Tarts, pork rinds, Fritos, Cheetos, Doritos…
“Unbelievable! Perhaps they refrigerate their snacks,” suggested Fatson. “For freshness.”
Sh*tlock swung open the refrigerator door, and his assistant peered over his shoulder.
don’t understand it,” blubbered Fatson. “There’s nothing in here but
fresh fruits and vegetables. No one eats like this. It’s impossible.”
shook his head as he held a red plum to his face to examine it more
closely. “How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the
impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”
Sh*tlock sniffed at the air, then moved toward the laundry room.
“Fatson,” said Sh*tlock. “Take a big whiff in that laundry hamper.”
Fatson obliged, but reeled backwards after sticking his face down to smell.
“Good God, Sh*tlock,” exclaimed Fatson. “That’s utterly horrible.
“Just as I suspected,” hmmmmmm’ed Sh*tlock. “Exercise.”
Fatson shook his head, “Have you figured the mystery out yet, Sh*tlock?”
believe I have, Fatson,” he said, pacing back and forth in the hallway.
“The lack of junk food, the abundance of healthy nutritional items and
the sweat-soaked workout clothes indicate a successful weight loss
journey is underway.”
“That’s it, Sh*tlock,” exclaimed Fatson. “But you haven’t solved the mystery of where the missing pounds went. Do you have the answer to that, Holmes?”
“I believe I have, my good man,” said Sh*tlock. “Look over your shoulder.”
“What?” asked Fatson.
“Lower,” suggested Sh*tlock.
“There?” croaked Fatson.
“Yes, my good fellow,” said Sh*tlock. “Right there on your ass.”
“Ahh, yes,” frowned Watson, sucking his gut in a bit. “Mystery solved.”