Jezlebub was the sister of Zitzenbio and they were the children of Katinbloom and Snodgrass Smith. third cousins of Tiddlewinks some times removed. The two were inseparable, not like Toobald and Hirsute, but because they liked each other. An older sibling, Annie (who was made fun of because of her name) didn't quite fit in with their mischievous behavior. Besides, Annie was positive that there was a Higher Power, and Jez and Zits were never really sure. The chasm grew between the three (four if you count their brother Hurtsalot who was constantly fighting with Ezra, the town drunk) till it made the Grand Canyon look puny.
It was a sunny day in the middle of May when everything came to a head, including seven pimples on Zitzenbio's nose and three on his neck. Biganddumb Nosebetter, the town bully, was on a rampage. For most of March, all of April and all but two days so far in May he had terrorized Jezlebub and poor Zitz, and with Zitz' nose getting ready to erupt any second, well, he just made a better target for Biganddumb. It had reached a point where townspeople would line the streets at 4:02 p.m., waving flags; the town cheerleader would bounce around with her pompoms and little white boots (they hurt her feet but the town fathers insisted on them) and everybody would sing "On, Wisconsin".
Along would come Biganddumb, and he'd stand in the middle of Main Street waiting for Zitz and Jez, and soon as he saw them he'd wind up that big ol' arm of his and start pounding poor Zitz while Jez wrung her hands and wailed. Why nobody came to his rescue is a mystery. An even bigger mystery was why Zitz and Jezlebub walked that way every day as if wanting to see poor Zitz bloodied. (It later came out that Jez really did have some issues and in therapy years later she admitted to a secret crush on Biganddumb.)
Well, on that day in May Zitz got wind of a bookie who was taking bets on the daily outcome. Actually, Zitz was downwind from the bookie (Jeremiah Sludgebody) who had a terrible body odor and when he went to investigate the stench, he overheard several townsmen and one woman kibitzing on his fate-to-be.
Well, Zitz had had enough. He dropped to his knees and said a heart-felt prayer and asked for a miracle, and when he stood up lo and behold, his forearms were like tree stumps with fingers, his biceps were big as cannons, his triceps were like, like, like...well, I don't know, but you get the idea. He popped out of his shirt like some sort of Incredible Hulk (how come David Banner never ran out of shirts?) and ran towards Biganddumb like an out-of-control freight train (or like Jezlebub after a few Manhattans).
Biganddumb, being too stupid to move his carcass, stood stunned while Zitz had his way, punching here and squeezing a zit there, until Biganddumb couldn't take much more and threw up on Zitzenbio's patent leather shoes.
Oh, the reaction of the townspeople! Hey, they had lost a ton of cash betting on Biganddumb, the "sure thing" and they took after Zitz and ran him and Jez straight into Bugspit, Georgia. So the bookie made a bundle, huh? Not exactly....one townswoman, full of faith that Zitzenbio would win one of these days had wagered two dollars for every dollar the town put up against Zitz.
Annie walked away with a big smile and and a scrub bucket full of moolah.
Saturday, February 11, 2012
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
From the Diary: Hiswife
Hiswife had a given name, Justina, I think it was, but back in those days she was so often referred to as "his wife" that eventually the nickname stuck. Hiswife decided to go into politics before most women had political ambitions, and, indeed, before they had the right to vote in most states. Her frustrated husband, Webster, disapproved, but stopping Hiswife from doing what she wanted was like trying to stop me from eating peanut butter. She would go on a rant, starting about Washington (the man, not the city) and ending...well, not ending, which drove him crazy.
Hiswife decided she needed a cause if she planned to win any kind of seat in Fleabasket County. From there Hiswife dreamed she would go to the state senate, then to the governorship, maybe even president someday. She made a list of everything that troubled her in the small community of Looselice and went to work.
First of all, Fleabasket County was a hotbed of bugs. Little bugs, big bugs, bedbugs, biting bugs, creepy crawlies and head lice. Her slogan became "Bugs Out!' and since the other candidate's name was Butthorn Bugs, well, the men (not the brightest of creatures in Looselice) thought she meant him, and since they didn't like Butthorn Bugs much anyway because he cheated at Texas Hold 'Em, they voted for her. The women, who were a majority in Looselice and had the vote, knew exactly what she meant and came out in swarms (so to speak) to vote for the eradication of insects.
So Hiswife became the first woman custodian of Looselice and probably would have stayed in office till she died, except for one bug in the ointment. Community council voted to merge with the neighboring township of Westofhere and her office was abolished as part of the agreement. I heard it went up for grabs in a game of Penny-Ante, but I have no documentation of that.
The "bugs out" slogan didn't work so well during the state race and went nowhere when she ran as a candidate for president although her idea that women everywhere should vote did catch on. She made a small fortune on fly traps and sticky strips, hair wash made from kerosene and tiny little combs which she called nitpickers. Sales of anti-itch creams dropped considerably under her watch. The sales of convenience foods grew exponentially because nobody cooked from scratch anymore. Yes, it was a shame to see her reign end.
Webster was so proud of Hiswife that he quit his job as a soap salesman to become Hiswife's campaign manager when she decided to run for mayor. His untimely death due to the bite of a black widow spider made Hiswife even more determined to succeed at the political game. Her new slogan would be "Stomp Out Arachnids!"......
And since the mayor's name was Arachnid Redbelly, and he wasn't well-liked anyway because he cheated at Texas Hold 'Em, well, her political web caught all the people and she went on to serve eight and a half terms.
I don't know why Tiddlewinks included Hiswife in the diary because I can't see how she could be related to me and Zelda unless it's from the time great-great granduncle Protrude (also called "Probe") went out west with the harem girl and came back with ringworm, three puppies, eleven kids and a scorpion called 'Ray'.
Hiswife decided she needed a cause if she planned to win any kind of seat in Fleabasket County. From there Hiswife dreamed she would go to the state senate, then to the governorship, maybe even president someday. She made a list of everything that troubled her in the small community of Looselice and went to work.
First of all, Fleabasket County was a hotbed of bugs. Little bugs, big bugs, bedbugs, biting bugs, creepy crawlies and head lice. Her slogan became "Bugs Out!' and since the other candidate's name was Butthorn Bugs, well, the men (not the brightest of creatures in Looselice) thought she meant him, and since they didn't like Butthorn Bugs much anyway because he cheated at Texas Hold 'Em, they voted for her. The women, who were a majority in Looselice and had the vote, knew exactly what she meant and came out in swarms (so to speak) to vote for the eradication of insects.
So Hiswife became the first woman custodian of Looselice and probably would have stayed in office till she died, except for one bug in the ointment. Community council voted to merge with the neighboring township of Westofhere and her office was abolished as part of the agreement. I heard it went up for grabs in a game of Penny-Ante, but I have no documentation of that.
The "bugs out" slogan didn't work so well during the state race and went nowhere when she ran as a candidate for president although her idea that women everywhere should vote did catch on. She made a small fortune on fly traps and sticky strips, hair wash made from kerosene and tiny little combs which she called nitpickers. Sales of anti-itch creams dropped considerably under her watch. The sales of convenience foods grew exponentially because nobody cooked from scratch anymore. Yes, it was a shame to see her reign end.
Webster was so proud of Hiswife that he quit his job as a soap salesman to become Hiswife's campaign manager when she decided to run for mayor. His untimely death due to the bite of a black widow spider made Hiswife even more determined to succeed at the political game. Her new slogan would be "Stomp Out Arachnids!"......
And since the mayor's name was Arachnid Redbelly, and he wasn't well-liked anyway because he cheated at Texas Hold 'Em, well, her political web caught all the people and she went on to serve eight and a half terms.
I don't know why Tiddlewinks included Hiswife in the diary because I can't see how she could be related to me and Zelda unless it's from the time great-great granduncle Protrude (also called "Probe") went out west with the harem girl and came back with ringworm, three puppies, eleven kids and a scorpion called 'Ray'.
Politics and Me
I see that two old acquaintances are vying for the same seat in our primary election in April. They are both filing their petitions under my registered party. There are others running, too. In a city this size I am amazed that I don't know all of the candidates on a first-name basis.
I was thinking that I should choose. Fortunately, I have grown enough to know that I don't have to choose. Neither of them espouses my political ideals. This may be the first election where I decide to abstain--at least in the primary. I haven't missed one since I turned twenty-one, the first year I was allowed by law to vote.
I'm disgusted with politics. The in-fighting of the candidates irritates me--aren't they all of the same party? For the most part the current crop of elected officials are leaches on the taxpayers' wallets. How dare they criticize welfare recipients and corporate hand-outs when they are living on the public dole themselves? They work for it? They work fewer days a year than many children attend school.
I don't want politicians telling me that it is wrong or right to be pro-choice or pro-life. Stay out of my medicine. Stay out of my bed--who I sleep with or choose to marry isn't for government to decide. Don't tell me where I have to go to school. Stay out of my church.
Don't tell me it's OK to get drunk as a skunk on Jack Daniels but it's not OK to get high on marijuana. Of course I don't want heroin for sale at the corner CVS, but for an adult to choose pot? The same rules apply as to alcohol--DUI, no selling to minors. Jail time for an ounce? I don't think so.
I don't want the feds intervening in education, housing, insurance or business. Let the states set rules if they must. In business, forget federal interference. The consumer will weed out the incompetent and make wealthy the reputable. No, we don't need feds to regulate our milk or our vitamins. Americans are independent and resourceful when they have to be. The candidate I'm looking for will back off personal issues and let the government get back to defending our liberty.
The federal government is our biggest employer. They have no incentive to be creative or productive. If a program fails taxes go up and they throw money at it. They spend precious time and money passing legislation that is designed for their own job security. Government adds nothing to the consumer--no product, no distribution--only rules that keep Grandma from selling the jelly she makes in her own kitchen.
I get so angry when I think about it!
So to you who choose to run for political office I ask this: WHY?? Are you willing to be a servant of the people? Or are you in it for the perks? Will you answer honestly when asked a question? Or will you ignore it and hope it passes? No, I will not sign your petition and no, you will not get my vote unless you can show me you believe as I do. You believe as your conscience will allow. Maybe there is a middle ground somewhere.
I may not vote at all this year for the first time. It's quite a struggle to separate the wheat from the chaff.
I was thinking that I should choose. Fortunately, I have grown enough to know that I don't have to choose. Neither of them espouses my political ideals. This may be the first election where I decide to abstain--at least in the primary. I haven't missed one since I turned twenty-one, the first year I was allowed by law to vote.
I'm disgusted with politics. The in-fighting of the candidates irritates me--aren't they all of the same party? For the most part the current crop of elected officials are leaches on the taxpayers' wallets. How dare they criticize welfare recipients and corporate hand-outs when they are living on the public dole themselves? They work for it? They work fewer days a year than many children attend school.
I don't want politicians telling me that it is wrong or right to be pro-choice or pro-life. Stay out of my medicine. Stay out of my bed--who I sleep with or choose to marry isn't for government to decide. Don't tell me where I have to go to school. Stay out of my church.
Don't tell me it's OK to get drunk as a skunk on Jack Daniels but it's not OK to get high on marijuana. Of course I don't want heroin for sale at the corner CVS, but for an adult to choose pot? The same rules apply as to alcohol--DUI, no selling to minors. Jail time for an ounce? I don't think so.
I don't want the feds intervening in education, housing, insurance or business. Let the states set rules if they must. In business, forget federal interference. The consumer will weed out the incompetent and make wealthy the reputable. No, we don't need feds to regulate our milk or our vitamins. Americans are independent and resourceful when they have to be. The candidate I'm looking for will back off personal issues and let the government get back to defending our liberty.
The federal government is our biggest employer. They have no incentive to be creative or productive. If a program fails taxes go up and they throw money at it. They spend precious time and money passing legislation that is designed for their own job security. Government adds nothing to the consumer--no product, no distribution--only rules that keep Grandma from selling the jelly she makes in her own kitchen.
I get so angry when I think about it!
So to you who choose to run for political office I ask this: WHY?? Are you willing to be a servant of the people? Or are you in it for the perks? Will you answer honestly when asked a question? Or will you ignore it and hope it passes? No, I will not sign your petition and no, you will not get my vote unless you can show me you believe as I do. You believe as your conscience will allow. Maybe there is a middle ground somewhere.
I may not vote at all this year for the first time. It's quite a struggle to separate the wheat from the chaff.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
The Book of Felsnaptha
Felsnaptha had a mouth like a fishmonger's wife (but not knowing any fishmongers' wives, I can't verify that) or perhaps Tom Brady's grandma who I heard say some choice phrases on Super Bowl Sunday. Felsnaptha (fourth cousin, twice removed, I think on Zelda's mother's father's side, but that's a little fuzzy), whose real name was Ebenezra (I am not making this up...) was so nicknamed because she spent much of her younger days with a bar of soap in her mouth in the useless attempt to clean up her language. Nobody knew where she had learned those words, though I suspect Jon Crapper, the second-floor houseman had something to do with that, just to get even with the nanny (Bruce Twoshoes, of course nicknamed Goody) who told Felsnaptha's aunt that he had been trying on her wigs and...oh, never mind.
Felsnaptha's mouth was a source of irritation to everyone around her, especially to the pharmacist Mr. Pillmaker. She would go into the pharmacy-slash-soda bar, wait until he was concentrating on mixing drugs for a special order (often a particularly volatile one that she had called in herself) and wait...wait...wait for it ..."$#$% ^&*( %%#@!!!" till poor Mr. Pillmaker would leap skyward and cling to the bars he had installed on the ceiling for this very purpose when Felsnaptha came of age. She'd proceed to laugh her BWAHAHAHA laugh until Mr. Pillmaker would drop exhausted from his branch, then go on to ridicule street children, cab drivers (who often responded with a "<>?$" of their own) and the humans at Watcherwalkin Pet Park...
Felsnaptha was well into maturity when she met her match, a mostly soft-spoken vet (animal doctor, not disengaged service personnel) who specialized in wild animals. She had actually gone to see him, thinking he was a doctor for humans, for a sore hoof...uh...foot. (They were quite clunky. It was hard to tell.) When he stroked the offending appendage, she let off a stream of expletives that would have made George Carlin blush. Well, young Dr. Halfpigeon took her under his wing (literally--you should have seen it! White, with feather-shaped fingers), amazed at her extensive vocabulary.
They instantly fell in love. He taught her how to reserve her language for the hyenas who laughed at it and the gorillas who mocked her and Felsnaptha found that she was quite the animal whisperer. She of course preferred to tutor parrots and toucans which wouldn't have bothered Dr. Halfpigeon quite as much if they hadn't been boarding an African blue for a preacher from Redneck, Kentucky and a cockatoo from Hewhospeaksfoulgetsslapped, Minnesota. It took months to re-educate the birds and of course by that time every six year old in the Land of a Thousand Lakes knew a thousand ways to call somebody a dirty name.
Dr. Halfpigeon and Felsnaptha have spent the last few years in Catchupwitchu, Peru where they teach the Mayan descendants how to speak English slang.
Their mission ends on December 21, 2012.
Felsnaptha's mouth was a source of irritation to everyone around her, especially to the pharmacist Mr. Pillmaker. She would go into the pharmacy-slash-soda bar, wait until he was concentrating on mixing drugs for a special order (often a particularly volatile one that she had called in herself) and wait...wait...wait for it ..."$#$% ^&*( %%#@!!!" till poor Mr. Pillmaker would leap skyward and cling to the bars he had installed on the ceiling for this very purpose when Felsnaptha came of age. She'd proceed to laugh her BWAHAHAHA laugh until Mr. Pillmaker would drop exhausted from his branch, then go on to ridicule street children, cab drivers (who often responded with a "<>?$" of their own) and the humans at Watcherwalkin Pet Park...
Felsnaptha was well into maturity when she met her match, a mostly soft-spoken vet (animal doctor, not disengaged service personnel) who specialized in wild animals. She had actually gone to see him, thinking he was a doctor for humans, for a sore hoof...uh...foot. (They were quite clunky. It was hard to tell.) When he stroked the offending appendage, she let off a stream of expletives that would have made George Carlin blush. Well, young Dr. Halfpigeon took her under his wing (literally--you should have seen it! White, with feather-shaped fingers), amazed at her extensive vocabulary.
They instantly fell in love. He taught her how to reserve her language for the hyenas who laughed at it and the gorillas who mocked her and Felsnaptha found that she was quite the animal whisperer. She of course preferred to tutor parrots and toucans which wouldn't have bothered Dr. Halfpigeon quite as much if they hadn't been boarding an African blue for a preacher from Redneck, Kentucky and a cockatoo from Hewhospeaksfoulgetsslapped, Minnesota. It took months to re-educate the birds and of course by that time every six year old in the Land of a Thousand Lakes knew a thousand ways to call somebody a dirty name.
Dr. Halfpigeon and Felsnaptha have spent the last few years in Catchupwitchu, Peru where they teach the Mayan descendants how to speak English slang.
Their mission ends on December 21, 2012.
Reminded
There are two kinds of people in the world...those who give and those who take.
Or those who give darkness and those who light a candle.
Or those who need healing and those who lead them to the way of healing.
Or those who reject the will of God and those who embrace His Word.
You see what I mean? My social studies teacher (they called it Civics back then) said the world is full of "haves" and "have nots". Which kind are you?
I believe most of us are "haves", but we are unable to accept that and dwell instead on our troubles and our wants, becoming willing "have nots".
I believe that everyone has a calling--one has to listen carefully to know what the calling is. In real life I see those who are called and those who are pew-warmers. It's so sad. Many are called but few are chosen? Many are called, but few hear.
Since I accepted my own calling some months ago, I find that I am being called again and again. Sometimes I move too quickly, like today. The object of my concern wanted me to listen. I did. For some reason, she is unwilling to share her plight with the people of the church--those who would be so willing to pray with her and for her. I find it hard to understand. . . why reject the helping hand of God through people who are filled with the Holy Spirit? She is too private to share, and I should have realized that, but a burden of a hundred pounds becomes only ten--or five--or nothing-- when others help to lift it.
The sermon caught me off guard. I had finished writing and was set to edit and post a column about how dissatisfied I am with my work of late and how I was thinking about going back into sales. I've been on a roller-coaster of highs and lows, never leveling off for long enough to see where I am. As I usually do, I asked at the start of the service for God to release my mind, that I could concentrate on His Word instead of my daily tribulations. When the woman said to me, "I want to be at peace", I knew exactly what she was talking about. Being at peace trumps my niggling dissatisfaction. And then I heard the words of the sermon. I knew that it was time to accept another calling. Being a listening ear? Yes. Turning water to wine? No.
I know that my calling is to write. I hope that my words will be shared. I have recently been called to caregiving, and my newest client shows me exactly what that means. I believe I have been called to chair the Stewardship Committee because of the blinding flash that accompanied my revelations about stewardship...the words, unrehearsed and unwritten, came as I stood before the congregational meeting. As they came from my mouth, I knew that they were coming from my heart.
What about you? Are you called to bring joy to someone's life with a plate of muffins? To crochet a prayer shawl to bring someone peace? To serve as a lay pastor to help share the Word? Are you supposed to use your skills as a mechanic to help keep someone safe? Or as a teacher to give knowledge? Or to surprise a friend with a care package you know she needs but for which she would never ask?
Your calling may not be inside the Church, but just the same it is something that will serve God as well as your community. OK, so you are not a preacher. Are you a friend? OK, so you are not a gung-ho evangelist or a committee person. Did you cut your neighbor's grass or shovel snow? Were you there to pick up a child who had fallen from his bike? Sometimes your calling isn't a big thing with a grandiose purpose, but a small thing with gentle impact.
You never know when your tiniest deed, your seemingly insignificant spoken word, your touch of a hand or kiss on the cheek, your gift of applesauce or venison, your compliment or your saying, "I'm thinking of you" could be the hope that makes someone go on for another day.
I am reminded today that one has to take stock in one's position in life on a regular basis. One has to listen carefully to find out if God has a new reason for you to be alive. As circumstances change, maybe your calling has, too.
Maybe my words fall on deaf ears. Maybe you are at best agnostic, even an atheist who denies the existence of the Creator, Sustainer and Redeemer. I will pray that He reveals Himself to you, and that your purpose and your calling are made clear to you. Perhaps your calling, be it as a secretary or a tool-maker or maintenance worker, is exactly where God wants you to be. Ask, and He will show Himself.
There are two kinds of people...those who have a purpose in life and those who accept chaos.
Or those who choose a calling instead of those who are led to it.
Or those who wallow in their loneliness and misery and those who reach out of their comfort zone for help.
Sometimes we need to be reminded of which kind of person we are.
Or those who give darkness and those who light a candle.
Or those who need healing and those who lead them to the way of healing.
Or those who reject the will of God and those who embrace His Word.
You see what I mean? My social studies teacher (they called it Civics back then) said the world is full of "haves" and "have nots". Which kind are you?
I believe most of us are "haves", but we are unable to accept that and dwell instead on our troubles and our wants, becoming willing "have nots".
I believe that everyone has a calling--one has to listen carefully to know what the calling is. In real life I see those who are called and those who are pew-warmers. It's so sad. Many are called but few are chosen? Many are called, but few hear.
Since I accepted my own calling some months ago, I find that I am being called again and again. Sometimes I move too quickly, like today. The object of my concern wanted me to listen. I did. For some reason, she is unwilling to share her plight with the people of the church--those who would be so willing to pray with her and for her. I find it hard to understand. . . why reject the helping hand of God through people who are filled with the Holy Spirit? She is too private to share, and I should have realized that, but a burden of a hundred pounds becomes only ten--or five--or nothing-- when others help to lift it.
The sermon caught me off guard. I had finished writing and was set to edit and post a column about how dissatisfied I am with my work of late and how I was thinking about going back into sales. I've been on a roller-coaster of highs and lows, never leveling off for long enough to see where I am. As I usually do, I asked at the start of the service for God to release my mind, that I could concentrate on His Word instead of my daily tribulations. When the woman said to me, "I want to be at peace", I knew exactly what she was talking about. Being at peace trumps my niggling dissatisfaction. And then I heard the words of the sermon. I knew that it was time to accept another calling. Being a listening ear? Yes. Turning water to wine? No.
I know that my calling is to write. I hope that my words will be shared. I have recently been called to caregiving, and my newest client shows me exactly what that means. I believe I have been called to chair the Stewardship Committee because of the blinding flash that accompanied my revelations about stewardship...the words, unrehearsed and unwritten, came as I stood before the congregational meeting. As they came from my mouth, I knew that they were coming from my heart.
What about you? Are you called to bring joy to someone's life with a plate of muffins? To crochet a prayer shawl to bring someone peace? To serve as a lay pastor to help share the Word? Are you supposed to use your skills as a mechanic to help keep someone safe? Or as a teacher to give knowledge? Or to surprise a friend with a care package you know she needs but for which she would never ask?
Your calling may not be inside the Church, but just the same it is something that will serve God as well as your community. OK, so you are not a preacher. Are you a friend? OK, so you are not a gung-ho evangelist or a committee person. Did you cut your neighbor's grass or shovel snow? Were you there to pick up a child who had fallen from his bike? Sometimes your calling isn't a big thing with a grandiose purpose, but a small thing with gentle impact.
You never know when your tiniest deed, your seemingly insignificant spoken word, your touch of a hand or kiss on the cheek, your gift of applesauce or venison, your compliment or your saying, "I'm thinking of you" could be the hope that makes someone go on for another day.
I am reminded today that one has to take stock in one's position in life on a regular basis. One has to listen carefully to find out if God has a new reason for you to be alive. As circumstances change, maybe your calling has, too.
Maybe my words fall on deaf ears. Maybe you are at best agnostic, even an atheist who denies the existence of the Creator, Sustainer and Redeemer. I will pray that He reveals Himself to you, and that your purpose and your calling are made clear to you. Perhaps your calling, be it as a secretary or a tool-maker or maintenance worker, is exactly where God wants you to be. Ask, and He will show Himself.
There are two kinds of people...those who have a purpose in life and those who accept chaos.
Or those who choose a calling instead of those who are led to it.
Or those who wallow in their loneliness and misery and those who reach out of their comfort zone for help.
Sometimes we need to be reminded of which kind of person we are.
Thursday, February 2, 2012
Page Next: Alibaba
Alibaba was one of Chester Macalvey's thirty-seven children by his nine wives and two concubines. Chester was a very busy man. He ran a grocery store to get all the family's food at a discount (and charged exorbitant prices to the rest of the folks in Dead Plants, Arkansas), worked part time at Ding and Felter's Department Store for the employee savings and bought their clothes at the thrift stores. He also had a small dairy farm, trained the middle kids to dumpster-dive and claimed that the youngest two were descendants of Anastasia (their mother was Czech, not Russian, but that didn't matter to Chester) in a reckless effort to gain the Russian throne. Not only was his claim dismissed, but he was forbidden to ever enter Moscow again. Since he had never set foot on Moscowian soil in the first place, he was not impressed.
Alibaba was daughter number six, born to our cousin (third, four times removed, I think--barely a relative at all, thank goodness). She was actually quite pretty if you viewed her from the left side and not at all from the right. Her right side resembled a carp--scaly and yellowish with this thing that looked like a fin sticking out only not as sharp. She had a striking figure, long golden blond hair, a big blue eye (sigh...yes, only one, the other was devoid of color and lashes. When one asked her if she could see out of it, she most often replied, "What?", so we were never sure if it was an eye after all, or maybe an ear).
She could be sweet as her left face or as mean as her right implied. Trust me. Mean.
I explained to her, after being victimized by one of her pranks that I won't discuss, that Murphy Brown was just a TV show and that Murphy had a nasty streak, yes, but it was all for comedy's sake. It isn't appropriate in the real world to do those thing, plus plenty more Murphy hadn't thought of. Like filling a Miata to the brim with water balloons. Like calling every pizza shop in town, asking them to deliver large supreme every fifteen minutes to a certain address on Pennsylvania Avenue (the Secret Service ate leftovers for weeks. Bubba got fat). Like opening the door to an ant farm in a spa that featured a honey-wrap, and rubbing habenero peppers on the door handles of the men's room at Quantico....oh, I could go on and on.
Eventually, the pastor at Snake Breath Believers Church in Yallcomebacknow, Kentucky (where she lived while being married to her first cousin, no times removed, until his death from an asp bite) decided she was possessed by son of Satan and ordered her to subject herself to a rattler calling contest. If the snakes came, she was NOT possessed, and if they didn't come, she was. (Did you guess the pastor only had a second-grade schooling?) I never found out what happened after she spewed pea soup and spun her head around clockwise and chased the snakes so far that none one in Yallcomebacknow has seen one since. Of course, that could be a fairy tale.
Last I heard, Alibaba was working in Washington, DC with forty thieves and some part-time lobbyists. She had cosmetic surgery and now resembles a carp from both angles. She decided to have the work-up because she didn't want anybody to think that everyone in Washington was two-faced.
Alibaba was daughter number six, born to our cousin (third, four times removed, I think--barely a relative at all, thank goodness). She was actually quite pretty if you viewed her from the left side and not at all from the right. Her right side resembled a carp--scaly and yellowish with this thing that looked like a fin sticking out only not as sharp. She had a striking figure, long golden blond hair, a big blue eye (sigh...yes, only one, the other was devoid of color and lashes. When one asked her if she could see out of it, she most often replied, "What?", so we were never sure if it was an eye after all, or maybe an ear).
She could be sweet as her left face or as mean as her right implied. Trust me. Mean.
I explained to her, after being victimized by one of her pranks that I won't discuss, that Murphy Brown was just a TV show and that Murphy had a nasty streak, yes, but it was all for comedy's sake. It isn't appropriate in the real world to do those thing, plus plenty more Murphy hadn't thought of. Like filling a Miata to the brim with water balloons. Like calling every pizza shop in town, asking them to deliver large supreme every fifteen minutes to a certain address on Pennsylvania Avenue (the Secret Service ate leftovers for weeks. Bubba got fat). Like opening the door to an ant farm in a spa that featured a honey-wrap, and rubbing habenero peppers on the door handles of the men's room at Quantico....oh, I could go on and on.
Eventually, the pastor at Snake Breath Believers Church in Yallcomebacknow, Kentucky (where she lived while being married to her first cousin, no times removed, until his death from an asp bite) decided she was possessed by son of Satan and ordered her to subject herself to a rattler calling contest. If the snakes came, she was NOT possessed, and if they didn't come, she was. (Did you guess the pastor only had a second-grade schooling?) I never found out what happened after she spewed pea soup and spun her head around clockwise and chased the snakes so far that none one in Yallcomebacknow has seen one since. Of course, that could be a fairy tale.
Last I heard, Alibaba was working in Washington, DC with forty thieves and some part-time lobbyists. She had cosmetic surgery and now resembles a carp from both angles. She decided to have the work-up because she didn't want anybody to think that everyone in Washington was two-faced.
Wednesday, February 1, 2012
Tootsweet
Toastre (AKA Gruntsmuch) had a daughter that no one knew about, except of course Tiddlewinks, possibly the girl's birth father (who I think may have been Troubadour, the singer in the rock group Night Terrors and Sweat) and probably cousin Zelda's paternal grand uncle Kibbles who had started the Kennel and met Gruntsmuch when he saw her dancing at Limber Puppies Nightclub. (What kind of dogs did he breed? Well, he didn't exactly breed dogs. He was a undocumented {his word} plastic surgeon who specialized in women's breasts and affectionately called his operating studio 'the Kennel'. He also had a majority interest in Limber Puppies. Anyway....)
Tootsweet was her name, and a nicer person there never was. She had none of Gruntsmuch's dance moves, couldn't sing the ABC's without the words in front of her and had frizzy blond hair (frizzy because it should have been black) she tied back with a chiffon scarf twisted into a big bow. But she was a sweetheart, never arguing, always trying to give everyone she met a laugh and a compliment.
Gruntsmuch had given her up at birth, but little Tootsweet sniffed out her mother at the tender age of six and they instantly bonded. Her father by then had gone the way of many rock stars (into rehab) and had not much to do with Tootsweet until some years later when he began playing again and let her bang on the tambourine. When she hit a sour note (not hard for Tootsweet, even on a tambourine), they just played louder. It is said that they set off car alarms in seven counties, but I don't believe it. Any one of our relatives could have done that.
Anyway, Tootsweet by her smile alone (one would rather not look at her face) could charm almost anyone. Her voice (while not a singing one) was still quite musical. So when she met Moundsof Q. Moneybucks he simply fell in love BOOM! like a thunderbolt had come from the sky and singed his heart. He and Tootsweet had twelve children, ten of them born with blond hair and black roots and two who resembled Shrek although he swore they never met.
Moneybucks and Tootsweet had adventures that amazed Zelda and me. One time she began to swing and sway to the music on a trip to India and seventeen cobras began to dance. Another time Moneybucks bought a genuine Rafeal (no, not Raphael) and paid only twenty six hundred and thirty-two dollars and twelve cents plus tax because the vendor was so enthralled with Tootsweet. At Starbucks she got them free whipped cream on their lattes, and McDonald's left off the pickles when they saw her coming. Even Barnes and Noble (the taxidermists, not the book sellers) had a special area of stuffed wolverines and hyenas that had Tootsweet's name on a plaque. Somebody said she scared them to death and she brought their limp little bodies to Barnes because she thought he was a vet and Noble, by his name alone, must be a very kind man (which he wasn't, not really) and they gave her a song and dance (much better than hers) and told her they would take care of her pets. Yes, Tootsweet was a charmer.
Tootsweet and Moneybucks eventually moved to Gromax, Texas, to open an indoor flea market and pub which they called the Junk Stop and Beer. People from all over brought their stuff to sell at a booth that Tootsweet rented them for only seventy-three cents an hour as long as they drank beer all day at eight seventy five a bottle, six bottle minimum, two for toddlers. By the time they got to the fourth beer of their special brew, they were sure it was a bargain and spent happy hours hawking junk and swilling lager.
The health department closed down Junk Stop and Beer when one of the marketeers brought in actual trained fleas to sell and they got loose and wouldn't come back when the whistle blew. They got into the custom brew, got stinkin' drunk and terrorized the marketplace. The whole thing was stupid. The fleas didn't have enough money between them to pay for the beer they drank and Tootsweet decided they took advantage of her good nature, took care of the tab and they never bothered reopening even after the fine was paid and the flea carcasses removed.
The diary ends here--this page, anyhow--so I'm not sure yet what happened to Tootsweet and Moneybucks. I do know they kept the surviving fleas and formed a circus so the fleas could work off their beer binge bill.
I think they called it Itchkabibble.
Tootsweet was her name, and a nicer person there never was. She had none of Gruntsmuch's dance moves, couldn't sing the ABC's without the words in front of her and had frizzy blond hair (frizzy because it should have been black) she tied back with a chiffon scarf twisted into a big bow. But she was a sweetheart, never arguing, always trying to give everyone she met a laugh and a compliment.
Gruntsmuch had given her up at birth, but little Tootsweet sniffed out her mother at the tender age of six and they instantly bonded. Her father by then had gone the way of many rock stars (into rehab) and had not much to do with Tootsweet until some years later when he began playing again and let her bang on the tambourine. When she hit a sour note (not hard for Tootsweet, even on a tambourine), they just played louder. It is said that they set off car alarms in seven counties, but I don't believe it. Any one of our relatives could have done that.
Anyway, Tootsweet by her smile alone (one would rather not look at her face) could charm almost anyone. Her voice (while not a singing one) was still quite musical. So when she met Moundsof Q. Moneybucks he simply fell in love BOOM! like a thunderbolt had come from the sky and singed his heart. He and Tootsweet had twelve children, ten of them born with blond hair and black roots and two who resembled Shrek although he swore they never met.
Moneybucks and Tootsweet had adventures that amazed Zelda and me. One time she began to swing and sway to the music on a trip to India and seventeen cobras began to dance. Another time Moneybucks bought a genuine Rafeal (no, not Raphael) and paid only twenty six hundred and thirty-two dollars and twelve cents plus tax because the vendor was so enthralled with Tootsweet. At Starbucks she got them free whipped cream on their lattes, and McDonald's left off the pickles when they saw her coming. Even Barnes and Noble (the taxidermists, not the book sellers) had a special area of stuffed wolverines and hyenas that had Tootsweet's name on a plaque. Somebody said she scared them to death and she brought their limp little bodies to Barnes because she thought he was a vet and Noble, by his name alone, must be a very kind man (which he wasn't, not really) and they gave her a song and dance (much better than hers) and told her they would take care of her pets. Yes, Tootsweet was a charmer.
Tootsweet and Moneybucks eventually moved to Gromax, Texas, to open an indoor flea market and pub which they called the Junk Stop and Beer. People from all over brought their stuff to sell at a booth that Tootsweet rented them for only seventy-three cents an hour as long as they drank beer all day at eight seventy five a bottle, six bottle minimum, two for toddlers. By the time they got to the fourth beer of their special brew, they were sure it was a bargain and spent happy hours hawking junk and swilling lager.
The health department closed down Junk Stop and Beer when one of the marketeers brought in actual trained fleas to sell and they got loose and wouldn't come back when the whistle blew. They got into the custom brew, got stinkin' drunk and terrorized the marketplace. The whole thing was stupid. The fleas didn't have enough money between them to pay for the beer they drank and Tootsweet decided they took advantage of her good nature, took care of the tab and they never bothered reopening even after the fine was paid and the flea carcasses removed.
The diary ends here--this page, anyhow--so I'm not sure yet what happened to Tootsweet and Moneybucks. I do know they kept the surviving fleas and formed a circus so the fleas could work off their beer binge bill.
I think they called it Itchkabibble.
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