Malcolm James Thornwhistle (of the Downhampton Thornwhistles) was a world renowned adventurer and former Chippendales dance instructor.

He was best known for his early explorations of the upper St. Joseph River, and the discovery of political correctness — previously well-hidden under a rock near Mottville. If it had not been for Malcolm’s discovery, people would still be able to say questionably funny things, and other people would still be allowed to laugh — but that is another story for another day.

Malcolm made several up-river expeditions by means of the “Bon Jovi”, a small, flat-bottom, Jon boat, powered by an 1980s era Yamaha outboard that was slippery when wet. On one of his earliest expeditions, Malcolm encountered a hermit, living on an island upstream from someplace unimportant.

“Ahoy,” Malcolm called out to the hermit (because the Jon boat owner’s manual was very specific about proper nautical greetings).

“Go scuttle yourself,” the friendly island occupant replied. “This is my island and I’m not receiving visitors.”

“Ah,” Malcolm called out, because he lacked a better response. “I see you are a hermit. I will leave you to do whatever hermits do.”

He figured a quick exit was better than listening to a grouch, squatting all alone on an island, in the middle of the upper St. Joe River.

“Who are you to label me? I hate labels!” the lone islander screeched at the boat-bound explorer. “I’m not a hermit. I’m an individual resident. I’m a sole denizen. I’m a solitary occupier. I’m …”

“But, you’re not big on labels?” interrupted the river rafter. “Do you have a name, sir?”

“The name is Walter Rego, but you can call me the guy that told you to push your dingy out of where it doesn’t belong.”

“Walter Rego? Haven’t I heard that name before?”

“Yep. Same name, same guy, different time and setting. Get over it. Can’t a guy take a little poetic license, now and then? Geeze! Everyone’s a critic!”

Malcolm had no idea as to what in the name of dropped logs this guy was talking about. He started to nose the “Bon Jovi” upstream, concluding that the label detesting Walter was saying to all the world that it’s my life, he was living on a prayer, and he would never say goodbye (well, that last part was just plain silly).

Just as Malcolm was about to frighten mosquitoes away by cranking up his smoke spewing, two-cycle outboard to number eleven on the amplifier dial, Walter called out, “Blonde jokes just aren’t funny, anymore,” in a voice that sounded eerily like Christopher Walken. “It’s red-headed jokes, now.”

“What?” asked Malcolm, who immediately knew he shouldn’t have stopped to ask. It was like slowing down to look at a wreck on I-94 — no one should do it, but everyone does.

“I invested my entire life savings, almost $172, buying up the rights to every blonde joke ever written, thinking I would get a sweet royalty check every time one was told. Instead, red-headed jokes are all the rage. No one tells blonde jokes, anymore. I lost a small fortune.”

“That was a very small fortune,” Malcolm agreed. “What’s a red-headed joke?” Malcolm regretted the question, as if he had just agreed to sit on a committee at work.

“What did the red-head say to the blonde?”

“I don’t know. What did the red-head say to the blonde?”

“No one cares,” sighed the mislabeled recluse. “Believe it or not, that’s funny. But, you won’t get it until the middle of the night. Then you’ll laugh your flat-bottom boat off.”

Larry Wilson is a mostly lifelong resident of Niles. His optimistic “glass full to overflowing” view of life shapes his writing. His essays stem from experiences, compilations and recollections from friends and family. Wilson touts himself as “a dubiously licensed teller of tall tales, sworn to uphold the precept of ‘It’s my story; that’s the way I’m telling it.’” He can be reached at wflw@hotmail.com.