Hysteron Proteron (his’-ter-on pro’-ter-on): Disorder of time. (What should be first, isn’t.)
I was #3 of “The Three Blind Mice” . Our hit song “Three Blind Mice” had earned billions in royalties. My name is Curly and I faked being blind. Moe and Larry were actually blind. I helped them get around and did their banking. We had had our tails bobbed after the song made number one on the Black Forest Charts—it was all about authenticity. Being blind wasn’t enough.
After we made our first billion, we bout 2acres on the Hudson River from a Dutch ancestor of New Holland’s first settlers. We built a fromagerie—a cheese factory specializing in gourmet cheese. We specialized in Brillat Savarin Fresh French Cheese and Perlagrigia Italian Truffle Cheese. We would invite our hundreds of friends to our cheese orgies on the banks of the Hudson. It was like the Pied Piper played his tune and everybody ran wild. We had Roman Styled vomitoria set up all over the property for the convenience of our overstuffed guests. We had music—the laboratory mice band “Little White Lies” would play for us and we would dance “The Cordless Mouse,” we mimicked a cordless mouse to the music: pointing, clicking, and highlighting. To point, you bend over and wiggle you whiskers. To click, you’d bob up and down, sort of like a chicken pecking. To highlight, you’d drag your front paws across the floor. It was bliss. But then, tragedy struck.
“The Nashville Cats” breached the estate’s defenses. The “cats” were a blight on an otherwise perfect world. They were homeless and lived off the land. Their leader “Fluffy” had been abandoned as a kitten down by the river. We pitied them and hated them. We threw globs of “Fancy Feast” and “Purina Kitty chow” off the ramparts thinking it would help us make friends. But it didn’t, as the massacre showed,
I put the 2 blind mice in our golf cart and took off full speed to our panic room. We barely made it. Fluffy’s lieutenant Caligula almost got me with a swipe as I shut the door. Finally, the cats left, and left a field of carnage in their wake. It took weeks to clean up the mess, and we established a memorial cemetery down by the river. We repaired the walls, electrified everything, and installed razor wire, but we knew that was not enough.
There was a gaze of raccoons called “The Dumpsters” living in the woods adjacent to the estate. I met with their leader “Wrappers.” I explained our plight and asked him to field a standby force of raccoons to fight off cats when they invaded. He took the cigar out of his mouth and said “Yeah. Sure.” We agreed on remuneration, and he signed the contract I had prepared. Raccoons are notoriously dishonest and easily distracted, but I didn’t have much of a choice. We considered dogs, but when they get together they go wild and run amok.
So far, so good with the raccoons. We hear the cats meowing outside the walls, but we are not fooled by their pity-seeking noise. We still throw them food, but it does not seem to be working. Wrappers assures me the raccoons are ready for the next invasion. I’m not optimistic. Next week, I’m meeting with Fluffy to talk peace. I probably should’ve done this in the first place but I’ve been afraid he will eat me.
Definition courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu)
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