Big-ears glanced up at the screen and shushed me. "Just watch this," he said, pointing. I watched. A tiny clown carried an opener at right-shoulder-arms toward a palisade of beer cans. He did port-arms with his opener, shoved one of the cans to the center of the screen, and punched two holes in the top of the can. He grounded the opener, still according to the Manual of Arms, bear-hugged the beer can to tip it into a glass, then picked up the glass, which was tall as he was, and chuga-lugged the lot. While I don't like to commend the competition, that was a good, workmanlike script. I'd be proud to have done that myself. We turned from the screen as the show came on. "Did you see that?" Big-ears demanded. I paused before I answered, straining to be real objective. "Some people might think it was a bit childish," I said. "It's obscene!" he hissed. "Can't you see how the advertisers get that horrible realism? Haven't you watched those tiny ballerinas with king-sized cigarettes for partners? Didn't I tell you about the _bansai_-trees and how they grow?" People down the bar were staring at Big-ears now, impatient of his shouts, his noise that didn't fit the show on the screen. The bartender, glaring at my neighbor, twisted the TV's sound-knob so that the laughter from the set became a niagara. Big-ears raised his voice above his electronic competition. "Do you suppose those little bears, and monkeys, and clowns and chorus girls are puppets, maybe? Was that a doll that opened the beer, a toy that poured the peas for Bryant & May? No! They're changing real people, that's what they're doing." The bartender walked like a tank around the bar and came down our side toward Big-ears. He folded the man's lapels in one hand and explained softly, "These people want to hear our show. You'll have to go on down the street if you want any more beer tonight, friend." Big-ears didn't argue, but he called over his shoulder as the bartender escorted him to the door. "Remember what I told you, please remember!" I turned away, embarrassed. The poor little fellow had got so deep in his story that he was actually crying as he left the bar. I had another of those smooooth Billygoat Beers before I left, feeling pretty sorry for my little friend with the big ears. This was about a year ago--Washington's Birthday, I think. Last night, watching TV at home, I saw a sad-eyed dwarf in an orange cape and green shoes show how Pullo penetrates those sluggish kitchen drains. He did a poor job. Those big, familiar ears just weren't made for drainpipe work.