The encyclopaedia salesman wasn�t having much luck. No one in central New South Wales seemed all that interested in the 24-volume Britannica with year books and the little �assemble-it-yourself� bookstand. Not when it cost a couple of thousand bucks. One Friday night saw him sitting sadly in a country pub, nursing a beer. He realised he was down to his last $50. That was that. After spending that, he�d be flat broke. Then, glancing around at the other blokes in the bar, who looked inbred and stupid, inspiration struck. �My set of encyclopaedias is worth a couple of grand retail,� he said. �But if any of you blokes can answer three questions that I select from the information therein, I�ll give the whole bloody set to you for a hundred bucks. And if you can�t answer all three questions, it�s a hundred bucks to me. What do you reckon?� There was movement amongst the gathering and a few mumbled exchanges. Finally a big, slow-moving bloke moved toward the salesman. �I�ll have a go,� he said. There were any number of approving �Goodonyas.� And he slapped a $100 bill down on the bar. This will be money for jam, thought the salesman. �First question: What is the capital of Liberia?� The farmer put a finger in his ear, studied the ceiling, frowned for a few moments and, finally, said, �Monrovia�. The salesman winced. Reassuring himself it was a lucky shot � perhaps the bloke had been watching Sale of the Century � he asked the second question. �Who was Malaysia�s third Prime Minister?� The young farmer frowned, looked at the barmaid, looked at his mates and, finally said, �Jeez, I think it was Tun Hussein Onn.� The salesman was astonished and leafed desperately through the pages of his encyclopaedia. �All right, here�s question three. How many people attended the closing ceremony of the 1956 Olympic Games in Melbourne and what were their names and addresses?� The farmer hitched up his trousers, drank a beer, took a deep breath and said, �Sixty-eight thousand, nine hundred and twenty-two, not including the sheila who had to leave early to have a baby.� Whereupon he began to chant a list of names and addresses. It took him nearly four days to get to the end of his answer. By then the salesman was devastated. �How the hell do you know all this stuff?� �Well,� said the farmer, �I take smart pills.� The salesman realised that these must be miraculous preparations. He�d be better off flogging them than encyclopaedias. �Where can I get some of these smart pills?� he asked. The farmer scratched his crotch and said, �Me dad makes them, but he reckons I�m not allowed to tell anyone the recipe. The ingredients are a family secret.� �But he didn�t say you couldn�t sell them, did he?� asked the salesman. The farmer thought for a moment and finally said, �I suppose it would be okay if I charged you $50 and you swallowed a couple here and now.� The salesman eagerly handed over his last $50 bill and watched as the farmer produced a matchbox from his back pocket. �Take them all now with a nidi of beer,� he instructed. The salesman looked apprehensively at the pills but then, one by one, swallowed them. A look of disgust appeared on his face. �Christ, these pills taste like sheep shit.� �See,� said the farmer. �You are getting smarter already.� |
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