Sheep Dip and Armpits

“They’re playing some music I can dance to,” Rich said. He sat his glass of wine down. “I spoke with an attractive young lady a few minutes ago; Fifi, Dee Dee, or Wee Wee. I think I will regale her with my exploits at sea while I impress her with my mesmerizing dancing.”

Rich danced one song with Fifi, though attractive and pleasant, had a terrible underarm odor. He thanked her and grabbed an olive from the snack table.

Claude stood away from the crowd and watched the conversation and dancing.

Rich walked up next to him. “Hello, Claude, we haven’t had much of a chance to get acquainted.”

“That is right,” Claude said.

“I’m curious,” Rich said, “how many sheep do you have?”

“Why do you want to know?” Claude said.

Annoyed, Rich puckered his lips and wondered how to reply.

“Honestly,” Rich said, “I don’t care if you have sheep or jackasses, I’m just trying to be friendly and make conversation.”

“You have not succeeded,” Claude said.

“How so?” Rich said.

“I have not told you how many sheep I have,” Claude said.

“But I have succeeded in getting you to talk to me a little bit,” Rich said.

Claude walked away and asked Fifi to dance. He was a clumsy dancer, stiff with no rhythm.

“The odor of sheep dip and armpits," Rich thought, "how romantic to a French sheepherder.”