Randall Nathan talked with his high school friend, Paul Dickson. They are old and old-fashioned, so they use old technology, the telephone.
“Twyla and I go whale watching three days a week,” Paul told Randall.
“Whale watching? But you live in Arizona.”
“It’s at the Y,” said Paul. “They call it water aerobics.”
Saturday, October 30, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Halloween & The Collective Unconscious
“Wasn’t that a great Halloween Parade at the school today?” Edith Whistle asked Romeo Kostrastophe as she refilled his cup of ‘Moose Drool Special Blend’ at the counter at “The Whistle and Thistle Bar and Koan Self-Store.”
“What school?” asked Mr. Kostrastophe.
“Why, the Magnet School,” said Edith.
“Magnet” is short for “The Lucious Altphart Magnet School,” named for the famous chicken farmer, who was renowned as a “chick magnet” for all the little hatchlings who followed him wherever he went.
“They didn’t tell me anything about it,” said Romeo Kostrastophe, “and my grandson goes there. I would have liked to see him in his ‘Revenge of the Moose’ costume. There wasn’t any announcement in the paper or the radio or the web, either. WTH?”
“Here we operate on the basis of Jungian psychology,” observed Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms from two stools away.
“WTH?” said Romeo and Edith together.
“The collective unconscious,” said Prof. Bottoms. “There are some things you just have to be born knowing.
“What school?” asked Mr. Kostrastophe.
“Why, the Magnet School,” said Edith.
“Magnet” is short for “The Lucious Altphart Magnet School,” named for the famous chicken farmer, who was renowned as a “chick magnet” for all the little hatchlings who followed him wherever he went.
“They didn’t tell me anything about it,” said Romeo Kostrastophe, “and my grandson goes there. I would have liked to see him in his ‘Revenge of the Moose’ costume. There wasn’t any announcement in the paper or the radio or the web, either. WTH?”
“Here we operate on the basis of Jungian psychology,” observed Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms from two stools away.
“WTH?” said Romeo and Edith together.
“The collective unconscious,” said Prof. Bottoms. “There are some things you just have to be born knowing.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
The White Castle House Church
Having seen a piece on NBC news about house churches, as though it’s a new thing, even though that’s the way the church started, and house churches have been around consistently for over 2000 years, Derrick Crane, the manager imported from Los Angeles to direct the new White Castle in Memphjus, the seat of Periwinkle County, out on the bypass, decided to start a house church at WC, since a castle is simply a house. He’s using the slogan, “Every Man’s Home is His [White] Castle.”
This touched off a demonstration of POW, Periwinkle Organization of Women, on the theory that men rarely help out around the castle, so it should be “Every Woman’s Home is Her [White] Castle,” but Derrick placated them with White Castle scented candles, which have a particularly disabling effect on those who sniff them.
Claire Nathan says that their church motto should be “But ye are… a peculiar people…” [I Peter 2:9, KJV]
This touched off a demonstration of POW, Periwinkle Organization of Women, on the theory that men rarely help out around the castle, so it should be “Every Woman’s Home is Her [White] Castle,” but Derrick placated them with White Castle scented candles, which have a particularly disabling effect on those who sniff them.
Claire Nathan says that their church motto should be “But ye are… a peculiar people…” [I Peter 2:9, KJV]
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Whither Goest Thou?
Bronc “Three Finger” Ryder, the famous Cowboy Poet, and the Poet Lariat of Periwinkle County, was performing last night at the “Cues & Clues Pool Hall and Detective Agency” saloon. Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms played backup kazoo for Bronc’s distinctive styling on the “kitty litter guitar,” the smaller version of the “dog house bass.” After everyone had gotten settled so that saloon-keeper Lefty Muldoom, who was a lion tamer in Lost Wages, NV before retiring to East Overshoe, in the western sunflower and persimmon country of Periwinkle County, could turn off the smoothie machine, Bronc didn’t worry about tuning or key, he just started singing.
First he did “Black, black is the color of my love’s true hair,” not exactly the way John Jacob Niles sang it, then “Which side are you on,” about a drunk cowboy who is trying to find the stirrup so he can get on his horse, then “Goodnight, Ilean,” about a one-legged cowgirl. Then he arrived at his “piece de resistance,” about a piece of pie that kept sliding off the plate, followed by his most famous hit, “You Wiped a Booger on the White Sleeve of My Heart”:
You wiped a booger on the white sleeve of my heart
You stuck a wrench in my transmission which subsequently came apart
You fed me lots of broccoli that made me want to…
start… singing one for the money, two for the show
Three to get ready and four to go…
To Walmart… let’s go to Walmart…
He was going to lurch into the second verse, but Lucinda Metzenboggle rose up, like a warm breeze on a hot night, from a table in the dark corner below the “Griesedieck Brothers Beer” sign. She walked forward, cradling her pink ukulele like a babe in swaddling clothes, and took up the tune…
You wiped a booger on the bare arm of my soul
You promised me a stallion but I only got a foal
You said we’d climb a mountain but we fell into a…
hole, singing one for the money, two for the show
Three to get ready and four to go…
To Walmart… let’s go to Walmart…
Ben “Seymour” Bottoms saw a stare go between the eyes of Bronc and Lucinda, like a laser beam so strong you could walk on it. Bronc stuck his guitar out and let it go. Seymour grabbed it just before it fell to earth. Lucinda did the same with her pink ukulele, which Claire Nathan grabbed, even though it clashed with her orange and black Halloween sweater, featuring representations of a Delaware senatorial candidate. Lucinda Metzenboggle turned on the heel of her pink rhinestone cowgirl boot and marched to the swinging doors like a honkey tonk goddess. Bronc Ryder followed her like a man who walks the line.
“I wonder where they’re going” mused the Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard).
First he did “Black, black is the color of my love’s true hair,” not exactly the way John Jacob Niles sang it, then “Which side are you on,” about a drunk cowboy who is trying to find the stirrup so he can get on his horse, then “Goodnight, Ilean,” about a one-legged cowgirl. Then he arrived at his “piece de resistance,” about a piece of pie that kept sliding off the plate, followed by his most famous hit, “You Wiped a Booger on the White Sleeve of My Heart”:
You wiped a booger on the white sleeve of my heart
You stuck a wrench in my transmission which subsequently came apart
You fed me lots of broccoli that made me want to…
start… singing one for the money, two for the show
Three to get ready and four to go…
To Walmart… let’s go to Walmart…
He was going to lurch into the second verse, but Lucinda Metzenboggle rose up, like a warm breeze on a hot night, from a table in the dark corner below the “Griesedieck Brothers Beer” sign. She walked forward, cradling her pink ukulele like a babe in swaddling clothes, and took up the tune…
You wiped a booger on the bare arm of my soul
You promised me a stallion but I only got a foal
You said we’d climb a mountain but we fell into a…
hole, singing one for the money, two for the show
Three to get ready and four to go…
To Walmart… let’s go to Walmart…
Ben “Seymour” Bottoms saw a stare go between the eyes of Bronc and Lucinda, like a laser beam so strong you could walk on it. Bronc stuck his guitar out and let it go. Seymour grabbed it just before it fell to earth. Lucinda did the same with her pink ukulele, which Claire Nathan grabbed, even though it clashed with her orange and black Halloween sweater, featuring representations of a Delaware senatorial candidate. Lucinda Metzenboggle turned on the heel of her pink rhinestone cowgirl boot and marched to the swinging doors like a honkey tonk goddess. Bronc Ryder followed her like a man who walks the line.
“I wonder where they’re going” mused the Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard).
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
The Return
The many fans of Periwinkle Chronicles who have been silently clamoring for a return to the tales of the denizens of the county some readers refer to as Persimmon County, will be delighted when they turn out the lights, and also when they learn that said denizens have returned from their unanticipated sojourn in Somalia, referred to by three-year-old Clara Wembley as “Sowhatsittoya,” having been hijacked by Somalia pirates while cruising the beautiful blue Danube while on their way to Madagascar, called “Maggie’s Gas Car” by Clara, it being Clara’s idea in the first place to take the Danube shortcut to go see the penguins of Maggie’s Gas Car, she having announced during the Joys & Concerns at Sunday worship on The Ms Hotdam that anyone who said “No” to her one more time would not be able to go to heaven, and everyone waited for Pastor Patty to meet this theological challenge, but Pastor Patty has a three-year-old herself, so she was not about to say “No” to Clara, especially since Clara was wearing a hat festooned with old tea bags that she had picked up out of her yard after a particular parade had passed by, the parade being especially loud for such a small group of paraders, even though the local Faux News Channel claimed there had been over 310 million people in the parade, which is more than the entire population of Periwinkle County, but Faux News has been known to count illegal aliens from the planet Factless, and so Clara’s nana, Kate Bates, had gone inside to escape the noise from the vuvuzelas of the soccer moms in the parade, both of them, so she did not know that Clara had not only picked up the hat but had packed it for the cruise on Ms Hotdam, so they were on their way to Maggie’s Gas Car, the capital of which, according to Clara, is Maggie’s Dish Towel, although that’s actually in Sowhatsittoya, and to secure their release had to work out an exchange with the pirates, who had become addicted to Claire Nathan’s persimmon pudding while holding the Periwinklians hostage. And so it goes…
Sunday, October 24, 2010
How Preachers Get Retired
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), was sitting with Claire at the “Good To the Last Slop Coffee House and Former Pig Barn” when four sixtyish ladies in blue jeans and white running jeans and gray ponytails and orange tee-shirts proclaiming “Persimmon Fest 2010” came bustling in.
“I’ll bet you can’t tell what we’re here for,” the one with the little foofie that looked like a broomstick on her ponytail yelled.
“The hookers’ convention?” Randall asked.
“I’ll bet you’re a preacher,” the woman retorted, arms akimbo.
“Not since he started making comments like that,” observed Claire.
“I’ll bet you can’t tell what we’re here for,” the one with the little foofie that looked like a broomstick on her ponytail yelled.
“The hookers’ convention?” Randall asked.
“I’ll bet you’re a preacher,” the woman retorted, arms akimbo.
“Not since he started making comments like that,” observed Claire.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
The Exchange
[Continuing the posts of 9-3, 9-30, 10-1, 10-2, and 10-3, with apologies for being so erratic in posting…]
“I have to write a song about it,” intoned Joe, in the key of A.
He started to play air guitar on the binoculars of the little old lady with the blue hair.
“Oh, I need persimmons to make plentiful pudding to pacify the pirates into placidity,” he lowly lilted.
“Kay Pasa, Uncle Joe,” said Clara.
“Is Kay on the ship, too?”
“Yes, and you’d better get going, because I think she’s getting tired of waiting for this to pasa.”
Just then, as happens so conveniently in stories, Chad and Mike came strolling along. Joe explained the disappearance of the whole of Periwinkle County.
“If it’s Claire Nathan in trouble, we have no choice,” said Mike. “Randall… well, who cares? But if it’s Claire, we’ve got to do a benefit concert to raise money for persimmon ransom.”
“You have to do it in Maggie Dishtowel’s place,” said Clara.
“You mean Mogadishu?” asked Mike.
“Whatever,” said Clara. “The place where the pirates live. But there are no persimmons there.”
“We’ll just have to work out an exchange,” said Joe.
So Chad and Joe and Mike and Paul and Bob and Ron went to Mogadishu and gave a benefit concert for the pirated Periwinklians. The pirates all agreed that it was great and that they would abide by the exchange.
Some were happy to give up the piratical life for persimmons, but others insisted on a different sort of exchange.
That is why there is now an agricultural mission of Periwinklians in Somalia teaching former pirates how to grow persimmons, and why there is a shipload of Somali pirates plying the Blue Bottom River in Periwinkle County.
“I have to write a song about it,” intoned Joe, in the key of A.
He started to play air guitar on the binoculars of the little old lady with the blue hair.
“Oh, I need persimmons to make plentiful pudding to pacify the pirates into placidity,” he lowly lilted.
“Kay Pasa, Uncle Joe,” said Clara.
“Is Kay on the ship, too?”
“Yes, and you’d better get going, because I think she’s getting tired of waiting for this to pasa.”
Just then, as happens so conveniently in stories, Chad and Mike came strolling along. Joe explained the disappearance of the whole of Periwinkle County.
“If it’s Claire Nathan in trouble, we have no choice,” said Mike. “Randall… well, who cares? But if it’s Claire, we’ve got to do a benefit concert to raise money for persimmon ransom.”
“You have to do it in Maggie Dishtowel’s place,” said Clara.
“You mean Mogadishu?” asked Mike.
“Whatever,” said Clara. “The place where the pirates live. But there are no persimmons there.”
“We’ll just have to work out an exchange,” said Joe.
So Chad and Joe and Mike and Paul and Bob and Ron went to Mogadishu and gave a benefit concert for the pirated Periwinklians. The pirates all agreed that it was great and that they would abide by the exchange.
Some were happy to give up the piratical life for persimmons, but others insisted on a different sort of exchange.
That is why there is now an agricultural mission of Periwinklians in Somalia teaching former pirates how to grow persimmons, and why there is a shipload of Somali pirates plying the Blue Bottom River in Periwinkle County.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
The Bird's Tale
[Continuing from 9-30 through 10-2]
“Persimmon on its breath,” mused Joe Frazier. [“Folkin’ Joe,” the baritone, not “Smokin’ Joe,” the boxer] “That bird could come from only one place. PC, and I don’t mean Politically Correct. Except that now all of Periwinkle County went cruising, and that note from the bottle says they were boarded by Somali pirates and taken into Mogadishu and unloaded onto…”
He scanned the horizon once again. Yes, a second ship with black sails, this one with a skull and crossbones flag.
Suddenly a very large bird behind loomed in front of him. “WTBB!” he exclaimed.
The little brown everyday bird had turned around and was sticking its tail in front of the binoculars. At first Joe thought it must have come from the ship with the black tea party sails and was just mooning him on general principles, but then he saw the post-it note.
He remembered the second thing Molly Ivins had impressed upon her fellow baritones at his commencement from Baritone School [BS]: “Never read a message that comes from a bird’s behind. Only basses do that.”
He looked around for Mike. No bass in sight.
“I’m going to have to lower my voice and my standards and read that thing myself,” he intoned.
Carefully he unrolled it. He recognized the handwriting.
“Running dangerously low on persimmon pudding,” it read. “It’s the only thing that is keeping us alive. The pirates love it, but once it’s gone, we have no hope. Need persimmons to live…”
“So,” murmured Joe, “Claire Nathan is on that pirate ship with the black sails, and she needs persimmons to make more pudding to pacify the pirates into placidity. It’s clear what I must do…”
“Persimmon on its breath,” mused Joe Frazier. [“Folkin’ Joe,” the baritone, not “Smokin’ Joe,” the boxer] “That bird could come from only one place. PC, and I don’t mean Politically Correct. Except that now all of Periwinkle County went cruising, and that note from the bottle says they were boarded by Somali pirates and taken into Mogadishu and unloaded onto…”
He scanned the horizon once again. Yes, a second ship with black sails, this one with a skull and crossbones flag.
Suddenly a very large bird behind loomed in front of him. “WTBB!” he exclaimed.
The little brown everyday bird had turned around and was sticking its tail in front of the binoculars. At first Joe thought it must have come from the ship with the black tea party sails and was just mooning him on general principles, but then he saw the post-it note.
He remembered the second thing Molly Ivins had impressed upon her fellow baritones at his commencement from Baritone School [BS]: “Never read a message that comes from a bird’s behind. Only basses do that.”
He looked around for Mike. No bass in sight.
“I’m going to have to lower my voice and my standards and read that thing myself,” he intoned.
Carefully he unrolled it. He recognized the handwriting.
“Running dangerously low on persimmon pudding,” it read. “It’s the only thing that is keeping us alive. The pirates love it, but once it’s gone, we have no hope. Need persimmons to live…”
“So,” murmured Joe, “Claire Nathan is on that pirate ship with the black sails, and she needs persimmons to make more pudding to pacify the pirates into placidity. It’s clear what I must do…”
Saturday, October 2, 2010
Persimmon Breath
[Continued from 9-30-10 and 10-1-10, just like Thackeray doing “Vanity Fair.”]
When he saw the ship with the black sails, Joe Frazier [“Singin’ Joe,” not “Smokin’ Joe] quickly grabbed the binoculars out of the hands of a lady with blue hair.
“Hey,” she yelled, “give those back. I just figured out where the poop deck is.”
“NSA,” said Joe.
“No strings attached? Why did you say that?” asked the old lady.
“Because your binocs don’t have a strap,” Joe answered. “Also because I’m cool and can talk txt.”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with the poop deck,” groused the old lady.
Joe ignored her and scanned the waters, turned the dials on the binocs, found the ship with the black sails. There was a strange but familiar flag. It featured a picture of a tea bag, and the words, in “Intolerant” font, “We are the only true patriots.”
“Not Somalis,” the Joe muttered. “A different breed of pirates.”
He felt a slight weight on the binoculars. He pulled them back from his eyes. There sat a little brown everyday bird.
“Let me smell your breath,” Joe said to the bird.
The bird didn’t budge. Joe patted his pockets, hoping to find the raisin bread he had pocketed that morning in the Lido Restaurant on Deck 9. As he did so, a crumb of leftover Eucharist wafer popped off his lapel. The bird snatched it deftly out of the air.
“Well, I guess you’re an Episcopalian now,” said Joe.
The bird promptly puked on the toe of his priest shoe. But not before he had smelled its breath.
“Just as I thought,” mused the priest. “Persimmon on its breath. That can mean only one thing…”
When he saw the ship with the black sails, Joe Frazier [“Singin’ Joe,” not “Smokin’ Joe] quickly grabbed the binoculars out of the hands of a lady with blue hair.
“Hey,” she yelled, “give those back. I just figured out where the poop deck is.”
“NSA,” said Joe.
“No strings attached? Why did you say that?” asked the old lady.
“Because your binocs don’t have a strap,” Joe answered. “Also because I’m cool and can talk txt.”
“I still don’t see what that has to do with the poop deck,” groused the old lady.
Joe ignored her and scanned the waters, turned the dials on the binocs, found the ship with the black sails. There was a strange but familiar flag. It featured a picture of a tea bag, and the words, in “Intolerant” font, “We are the only true patriots.”
“Not Somalis,” the Joe muttered. “A different breed of pirates.”
He felt a slight weight on the binoculars. He pulled them back from his eyes. There sat a little brown everyday bird.
“Let me smell your breath,” Joe said to the bird.
The bird didn’t budge. Joe patted his pockets, hoping to find the raisin bread he had pocketed that morning in the Lido Restaurant on Deck 9. As he did so, a crumb of leftover Eucharist wafer popped off his lapel. The bird snatched it deftly out of the air.
“Well, I guess you’re an Episcopalian now,” said Joe.
The bird promptly puked on the toe of his priest shoe. But not before he had smelled its breath.
“Just as I thought,” mused the priest. “Persimmon on its breath. That can mean only one thing…”
Friday, October 1, 2010
The Ship With the Black Sails
Joe Frazier stared at the message in the bottle. And the inward battle began, just as it had ever since he had received his BS [Barely Stable] degree at BS [Baritone School]. At his graduation, the commencement speaker, the late lamented Molly Ivins, herself a baritone, had impressed one thing upon them: “As a baritone, you must never respond to messages in bottles. That is for tenors.”
He looked around for Chad. No tenor in sight. He knew he should just walk away, but… he was also a radical priest now, vicar in an Episcopal mission, not just a baritone in a trio. Radical priests never walk away from any message that calls for help, even if it is in a bottle.
And this was definitely a cry for help. After he had figured out all the “idk” and “wtf” and “lol” and “crs” references, it was clear that the Ms Hotdam, the ship of The Ancient Mariner Cruise Lines, on which the Periwinklians had been taking their joint vacation, had been hijacked by Somali pirates. Apparently Ms Hotdam was towed into Mogadishu and the Periwinklians were offloaded onto a pirate sailing ship.
“They should have read Coleridge before getting on a ship of The Ancient Mariner Lines,” Joe muttered. “The ancient mariner didn’t fare very well.”
The problem was that no one in The State Dept, nor in Periwinkle County’s home state of CO [not Colorado, with which it is often confused, because of the similar postal CO, but the state of COnfusion] was willing to ransom them. He knew if he could wait it out long enough, the pirates would be willing to pay to get rid of them, but in the meantime, all sorts of awful things could happen. Somali pirates were known to humiliate dogs, by dressing them up in funny costumes. Joe could not think of a worse fate for a dog, and he knew what his dog-daughter, [you may insert the joke about the dyslexic agnostic here], Clara Wembley, would do with Shingles once she leaned that tidbit of information.
Then he saw the ship with the black sails…
He looked around for Chad. No tenor in sight. He knew he should just walk away, but… he was also a radical priest now, vicar in an Episcopal mission, not just a baritone in a trio. Radical priests never walk away from any message that calls for help, even if it is in a bottle.
And this was definitely a cry for help. After he had figured out all the “idk” and “wtf” and “lol” and “crs” references, it was clear that the Ms Hotdam, the ship of The Ancient Mariner Cruise Lines, on which the Periwinklians had been taking their joint vacation, had been hijacked by Somali pirates. Apparently Ms Hotdam was towed into Mogadishu and the Periwinklians were offloaded onto a pirate sailing ship.
“They should have read Coleridge before getting on a ship of The Ancient Mariner Lines,” Joe muttered. “The ancient mariner didn’t fare very well.”
The problem was that no one in The State Dept, nor in Periwinkle County’s home state of CO [not Colorado, with which it is often confused, because of the similar postal CO, but the state of COnfusion] was willing to ransom them. He knew if he could wait it out long enough, the pirates would be willing to pay to get rid of them, but in the meantime, all sorts of awful things could happen. Somali pirates were known to humiliate dogs, by dressing them up in funny costumes. Joe could not think of a worse fate for a dog, and he knew what his dog-daughter, [you may insert the joke about the dyslexic agnostic here], Clara Wembley, would do with Shingles once she leaned that tidbit of information.
Then he saw the ship with the black sails…
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