Who Is Willie P. Davidson?

The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), and his wife, Claire, (Likewise), took their grandchildren, Betsy and Johnny, to see the Reds and Brewers play.

Randall noticed that the middle-aged, ponytailed beer vendor looked closely at him each time he came around. Randall assumed the beer guy was trying to “eye” him into buying a beer. No way, though, that he was paying eight bucks for a beer that he could get for free by preaching the funeral of one of members of the Hell’s Angles Motorcycle Gang and Geometry Club. Besides, he doesn’t like beer.

Along about the fifth inning, though, the beer vendor stopped and said, “Are you Willie P. Davidson?”

“OMG,” thought Randall. “How could a beer vendor in Milwaukee have found out my secret identity?”

He ran through all the possibilities.

Was this someone he had worked undercover with in Mexico? No. Margarita Esmerelda Juanita Conchita Garcia-Gomez had been responsible for cleaning up after that fiasco, and she never left a stone unturned, nor a tern unstoned, either, when they had been on the beach.

Perhaps it was a musician, from his stint as the violin soloist with the Dubai Symphony. He’d had full Ringo hair then, though. No chance of recognition now.

Had somebody actually broken the Vadinci Code he had labored on so long to hide the secrets of the persimmon bomb so it could not be used to destroy the world?

Hamas? KGB? The Dixie Chicks? The boys from Brazil? The girl with the white Anglo-Saxon Protestant tattoo?

What the… Oh, Claire was shaking his arm. He looked up. The beer guy was holding a bottle out to him.

“Randall, the man asked ‘Are you willing to please pass this on?’”

Randall reluctantly took the beer and passed it down the row. “Well, it sounded like ‘Are you Willie P. Davidson?’ to me,” he muttered.


[Author’s note: While watching the Reds beat the Brewers on July 28, a beer vendor, as described above, actually did say to me, “Are you Willie P. Davidson?” We still have not figured out why.]