Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at the Good to the Last Trope Coffee House and Poetry Recycling Center with The Complete Love Poems of Herman Cain on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when three-year-old Clara Wembley came in and slipped into the booth across from him.
“Why do you have a mullet haircut, Clara?” asked Randall.
“Mommy took a nap,” said Clara. “I gave Shingles an even better do. Now he looks like a candidate for president.”
Clara still has not forgiven Shingles the dog for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve of 2009.
“Don’t let the SPCA find out. Speaking of your mother, Clara, where is she?”
“She said if she came in, you’d find some excuse why you couldn’t stay. This way you have to watch me ‘til she gets back from The Methodist Women & Ladies Xmas Tea.”
“I think you should say Christmas instead of Xmas, Clara.”
“No, Mommy says it’s Xmas because X is the unknown quantity and that’s the number of times Bessie Bandervilt will tell somebody that she’s smarter than everybody else because she never got a husband. They have a wading pool about it.”
“I suspect that’s a betting pool, Clara, but right now we need to decide what you’re going to do while you don’t bother me.”
“Don’t you have one of those wooden things… what do you call them…?
“Toys, Clara. They were what children played with before EDs,” said Randall Nathan, who is opposed to anything electrical unless coffee results from it.
“Oh, yeah. Mommy says Daddy’s got a ED. That’s why he has to see Alice.”
“I think she means something other than Electronic Device, Clara.”
He pulled a bb thing out of his child entertainment pocket. It was Santa Claus, with bb holes on the top of his hat, and for his eyes and ears, and his belly button, and for each thumb and each big toe.
“Oh, great, a bb king,” said Clara. “But wouldn’t it have better cemetery if there were places for a couple of those silver bbs between his legs?”
“I think you mean symmetry, Clara, and I choose not to comment on the rest of your question. Get to work.”
Clara dutifully began to roll the bbs in an attempt to get them all into the holes.
Just then Libby Leftoveer came in and slipped into the booth across from them.
“I just got back from Occupy Wal-Mart,” said Libby. “It was awful. Nobody noticed us. We fit right in. They thought we were there for the 10% Off Price Signs sale.”
“There’s a thin line between Wal-Mart and anarchy,” observed Randall.
Immediately, as the Gospel writer Mark would say, Gretchen Retched of the Faux News station entered and came to the booth and stood over them, at parade rest.
“I thought I’d find you here, making war on Christmas,” said Gretchen Retched. “I’ll bet you’re corrupting the mind of that little girl. She should be working the bb thing with the 10 Commandments.”
“What do the 10 Commandments have to do with Christmas?” asked Randall. “Santa is actually a more prevalent Christmas symbol.”
“Christmas isn’t religious at all,” retorted Libby to Gretchen. “It’s just a pagan holiday devoted to economic warlords.”
“You’re wrong,” cried Gretchen. “The 10 Commandments and Christmas have been the basic foundation of this great nation from the beginning.”
“Actually,” said Randall, “the pilgrims banned Christmas, so it was not foundational to our nation, Gretchen. And while Christmas was co-opted by Christians from a pagan holiday, Libby, and it has become a commercial bonanza, it is thoroughly religious for those who have ears to hear the message of peace on earth, good will to people.”
“I guess we’ll have to pay more attention to the facts,” said Gretchen Retched and Libby Leftoveer.
“It’s a Christmas miracle,” shouted Clara.
“Yes, Clara,” said Randall Nathan. “You have witnessed the triumph of truth over…”
Then he looked down at the BB Claus in her hands. Every bb was in place.
***
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Friday, December 16, 2011
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Football Family Values
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Grim Reaper Center for Serious Farm Implements & Coffee Trough, with a loaded super-soaker on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Tex Adermy, from TX Township, came in and slipped into the seat across from him.
“I didn’t count on someone from TX Township coming all the way over here to Memphjus,” muttered Randall. “They like all kinds of guns.”
“Greetings from TX Township,” said Tex Adermy. “May the pigskin be with you.”
“And also with you,” said Randall, automatically. “Oh, wait a minute. Did you say pigskin?”
“You betcha, and I should say expletive deleted pigskin.”
“Does that mean that TX Township high school football team is not doing very well?”
“Worse than that. High school football is the reason for the existence of TX Township. Friday night lights, and all that. But we haven’t won a game in three years. All that’s about to change for next year, though.”
“Did you hire a new coach?”
“Better. We got a new pastor at our church, The First Apostolic Fundamentalist Bible Believing Full Gospel Family Values Community Spiritual Center of TX Township, or TFAFBBFGFVCSCOTT, for short.”
“How will that change things? Will he pray for victory?”
“Of course not. That’s bad theology, especially if the folks for the other team pray harder. And besides, he is a she.”
“The TFAFBBFGFVCSCOTT hired a woman as pastor? I thought you didn’t believe in ordination for women.”
“Youbetcha, we didn’t, until she came along.”
“She must be pretty powerful to get TFAFBBFGFVCSCOTT to change on something like that.”
“Youbetcha, and she’s not just a woman, she’s a lesbian, too.”
“For heaven’s sake. I thought TFAFBBFGFVCSCOATT was totally opposed to gays and lesbians.”
“Youbetcha, we were, until she came along.”
“I can’t believe you hired a lesbian as pastor at TFAFBBFGFVCSCOTT.”
“Youbetcha, it’s not just that. She’s black, too.”
“I thought TFAFBBFGFVCSCOTT believed blacks were inferior and cursed, that children-of-Ham, thing.”
“Youbetcha, we believed that, until we met her.”
“What about her caused you to change your mind on all these hot button issues?”
“She’s the foster mother to eleven big teen-aged boys who play football. Now in Texas Township, THAT’S family values.”
***
A Golden Persimmon is awarded to Dick Reece and the Arcola, IL UMC, because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Grim Reaper Center for Serious Farm Implements & Coffee Trough, with a loaded super-soaker on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Tex Adermy, from TX Township, came in and slipped into the seat across from him.
“I didn’t count on someone from TX Township coming all the way over here to Memphjus,” muttered Randall. “They like all kinds of guns.”
“Greetings from TX Township,” said Tex Adermy. “May the pigskin be with you.”
“And also with you,” said Randall, automatically. “Oh, wait a minute. Did you say pigskin?”
“You betcha, and I should say expletive deleted pigskin.”
“Does that mean that TX Township high school football team is not doing very well?”
“Worse than that. High school football is the reason for the existence of TX Township. Friday night lights, and all that. But we haven’t won a game in three years. All that’s about to change for next year, though.”
“Did you hire a new coach?”
“Better. We got a new pastor at our church, The First Apostolic Fundamentalist Bible Believing Full Gospel Family Values Community Spiritual Center of TX Township, or TFAFBBFGFVCSCOTT, for short.”
“How will that change things? Will he pray for victory?”
“Of course not. That’s bad theology, especially if the folks for the other team pray harder. And besides, he is a she.”
“The TFAFBBFGFVCSCOTT hired a woman as pastor? I thought you didn’t believe in ordination for women.”
“Youbetcha, we didn’t, until she came along.”
“She must be pretty powerful to get TFAFBBFGFVCSCOTT to change on something like that.”
“Youbetcha, and she’s not just a woman, she’s a lesbian, too.”
“For heaven’s sake. I thought TFAFBBFGFVCSCOATT was totally opposed to gays and lesbians.”
“Youbetcha, we were, until she came along.”
“I can’t believe you hired a lesbian as pastor at TFAFBBFGFVCSCOTT.”
“Youbetcha, it’s not just that. She’s black, too.”
“I thought TFAFBBFGFVCSCOTT believed blacks were inferior and cursed, that children-of-Ham, thing.”
“Youbetcha, we believed that, until we met her.”
“What about her caused you to change your mind on all these hot button issues?”
“She’s the foster mother to eleven big teen-aged boys who play football. Now in Texas Township, THAT’S family values.”
***
A Golden Persimmon is awarded to Dick Reece and the Arcola, IL UMC, because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Thursday, October 20, 2011
The Orange Barrel Mystery
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Receding Hare Line Rabbit Recovery Center and Coffee Shop, with a photo of Justin Bieber shaking hands with Glen Beck on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Hugh Mongus, Periwinkle County’s cow-tipping champion, slipped into the booth across from him.
“That’s a good photo, Rev. I didn’t even know they knew each other.”
“They don’t, Hugh. It’s photo-shopped. Remember the old truism: the camera always lies. I haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I’ve got a job.”
“That’s pretty good in this economy.”
“Well, it’s kind of because of the economy. I’m working for the OBSC.”
“I don’t think I’m familiar with the OBSC.”
“Maybe not our name, but I’m sure you know our work. OBSC is the Orange Barrel Storage Company. Not as much call for orange barrels at road construction sites, with no taxes to fix up the roads, so there’s lots of storage work to be done. That’s how I got the job.”
“Where do you store those things, anyway?”
“We don’t have a building or something like that. All the barrels were being used when there was money for roads, so OBSC didn’t need warehouses, so they sold all of the warehouses to the Koch Brothers to keep their politicians in. You ever noticed how there are so many roads where a lane is closed off with orange barrels but there’s no sign of any work being done on the road?”
“Yes, those closed lanes are all over the county.”
“Well, that’s because we’ve got no place else to store the barrels, so we just store them on the roads. We pick out a road that’s in bad enough shape people might think there’s a reason to close off a lane to work on it, and we just store our orange barrels there.”
***
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Receding Hare Line Rabbit Recovery Center and Coffee Shop, with a photo of Justin Bieber shaking hands with Glen Beck on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Hugh Mongus, Periwinkle County’s cow-tipping champion, slipped into the booth across from him.
“That’s a good photo, Rev. I didn’t even know they knew each other.”
“They don’t, Hugh. It’s photo-shopped. Remember the old truism: the camera always lies. I haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I’ve got a job.”
“That’s pretty good in this economy.”
“Well, it’s kind of because of the economy. I’m working for the OBSC.”
“I don’t think I’m familiar with the OBSC.”
“Maybe not our name, but I’m sure you know our work. OBSC is the Orange Barrel Storage Company. Not as much call for orange barrels at road construction sites, with no taxes to fix up the roads, so there’s lots of storage work to be done. That’s how I got the job.”
“Where do you store those things, anyway?”
“We don’t have a building or something like that. All the barrels were being used when there was money for roads, so OBSC didn’t need warehouses, so they sold all of the warehouses to the Koch Brothers to keep their politicians in. You ever noticed how there are so many roads where a lane is closed off with orange barrels but there’s no sign of any work being done on the road?”
“Yes, those closed lanes are all over the county.”
“Well, that’s because we’ve got no place else to store the barrels, so we just store them on the roads. We pick out a road that’s in bad enough shape people might think there’s a reason to close off a lane to work on it, and we just store our orange barrels there.”
***
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
THE FALL FAIR
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at the Stitch In Time Out-patient Surgery and Coffee Center, with a photo of Gaydolf Shitler, the head of the Libertarian Nazi Party on the table, to discourage anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, Hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Pastor Patty of The Methodist came in and dropped into the seat across from him.
“A woman isn’t afraid of Gaydolf and his ilk when she’s pastor of a church that does a Fall Fair,” she sighed. “We had tents all around the church building and on every street corner in town. It was a LOT of work. At least it’s over.”
“The sign said it was a Fall Fare,” Randall remarked, “but you said Fall Fair.”
“Were you even there?” asked Pastor Patty, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Long enough to see the sign,” said Randall.
“You were supposed to stay long enough to buy stuff. After all, all the proceeds go to missions.”
“Hey, I bought. The prices were almost like being at Wrigley Field. I bought a $20 jar of salsa at the All Things Persimmon tent, and I ate a $10 ear of corn and told a joke at the All Things Corny tent. They made me contribute another $10 for that. And I stuffed ten bucks in the noise hole of the ukulele of Stormin Norman, the strolling Terrorist Troubadour.”
“That’s called a sound hole, not a noise hole.”
“Yeah, you could still hear it, even with the money in it.”
“How come you didn’t stay around for the crowning of the Persimmon Queen?”
“Well, after I got my salsa and corn, I was looking over the stuff in the Trashy Treasures tent with Professor Seymour Bottoms, and an old woman offered fifty cents for him, so I decided to get out before they did their end-of-the-day prices.”
***
Thanks to Jon Stewart for his appearance at the Fall Fair, and for contributing the name of the leader of the Libertarian Nazi Party, because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at the Stitch In Time Out-patient Surgery and Coffee Center, with a photo of Gaydolf Shitler, the head of the Libertarian Nazi Party on the table, to discourage anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, Hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Pastor Patty of The Methodist came in and dropped into the seat across from him.
“A woman isn’t afraid of Gaydolf and his ilk when she’s pastor of a church that does a Fall Fair,” she sighed. “We had tents all around the church building and on every street corner in town. It was a LOT of work. At least it’s over.”
“The sign said it was a Fall Fare,” Randall remarked, “but you said Fall Fair.”
“Were you even there?” asked Pastor Patty, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Long enough to see the sign,” said Randall.
“You were supposed to stay long enough to buy stuff. After all, all the proceeds go to missions.”
“Hey, I bought. The prices were almost like being at Wrigley Field. I bought a $20 jar of salsa at the All Things Persimmon tent, and I ate a $10 ear of corn and told a joke at the All Things Corny tent. They made me contribute another $10 for that. And I stuffed ten bucks in the noise hole of the ukulele of Stormin Norman, the strolling Terrorist Troubadour.”
“That’s called a sound hole, not a noise hole.”
“Yeah, you could still hear it, even with the money in it.”
“How come you didn’t stay around for the crowning of the Persimmon Queen?”
“Well, after I got my salsa and corn, I was looking over the stuff in the Trashy Treasures tent with Professor Seymour Bottoms, and an old woman offered fifty cents for him, so I decided to get out before they did their end-of-the-day prices.”
***
Thanks to Jon Stewart for his appearance at the Fall Fair, and for contributing the name of the leader of the Libertarian Nazi Party, because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
Cutting Up
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
Kate Bates went into town to get replacement glass for the door panel that Shingles, the dog, broke out as he tried to escape from Kate’s granddaughter, three-year-old Clara Wembley, as Clara sought to wreak revenge on Shingles for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve of 2009 by dressing him or her—no one is quite sure of Shingles’ gender—like Sara Palin. To keep Shingles relatively safe, Kate took Clara along with her.
“I can cut that glass for you, Ms. Kate,” said Frank Innstein, “but I’ve got to go out back to do it, so you’ll have to watch the store.”
“Well, okay,” said Kate. “I’ve always wanted to run a hardware store.”
The telephone rang. Kate answered. “Frank Innstein’s Monster Hardware and Banquet Hall.” It was Ima Newsance, inquiring about renting the banquet hall.
“Is it an affair or a shindig?” asked Kate. “I’m looking at the rate chart here beside the phone, and the rates for shindigs of various sorts are posted, but for ‘affairs’ it says, talk with Frank. Oh…okay, hold on. I’ll go out back and ask Frank.”
“Clara, you stay right here,” she said as she left.
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Lost Horizon Coffee Bar and Pilot School, with a Twitter he had received from Antony Weiner on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when his wife, Claire, came in and slipped into the booth across from him.
“Randall, I think you’d better come,” said Claire.
“What’s up?”
“Well, I went to the hardware store, and Clara is behind the counter. She’s the only person in there. She’s having a clearance sale on For Sale signs, and all the boys in fifth grade are buying them. There are For Sale signs on every church and school building in town, and some on the backs of teachers, too.”
“Well, that sounds like a good prank,” said The Rev. Dr. Nathan.
Claire took a deep breath. “Clara also said that Frank and Kate are out in back cutting up and having an affair.”
***
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Pre-Planning
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Surplus Surplice Unnecessary Clergy Clothing and Crying Towel Cafe with the 14 volume set of Karl Barth’s An Introduction to An Outline of A Sketch of Christian Doctrine on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Pastor Patty came in and slipped into the booth across from him.
“I have a problem,” said Pastor Patty, who thinks of Randall as wiser than he is. “It’s the Thanatopsis Circle of MWL, Methodist Women & Ladies.”
“The ones who do the funeral meals?”
“The very ones. They have recently made some new rules for funeral meals. For instance, they’ve banned The Bereavement Casserole, the one with the tater tots.”
“That sounds like a good thing,” said Randall.
“Yes, it is, except that Alice Chalmers is afraid it might cut into her husband’s business. He sells potato pluckers, you know. But the big problem is that they’re trying to get everyone to pre-plan.”
“Pre-planning funerals is a good thing,” said Randall. “Fay Talistic, the new undertaker at Dropem Brothers, will do a whole program for you on it.”
“But it’s not pre-planning funerals that The Thantopsis Circle wants. They want everyone to pre-plan their funeral MEAL. Cora Dorr is mad at her husband because he wrote on her pre-plan form they should have mixed nuts at the table reserved for her family, and Kate Bates insists on desserts only, and no paper plates, which has Rusty Steele up in arms because he has that paper plates and rug cleaning supplies store, and Clara Voyance says they should know what she wants without her having to write anything down. It’s just a mess. Pre-planning doesn’t settle anything. It just gives people a longer time to argue about stuff.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Randall.
“It’s well known that you are against people getting together to plan anything. I think you should talk to them,” said Pastor Patty.
A stream of Moose Drool shot out of Randall Nathan’s nose as he gagged and choked.
“I’m pretty stupid when it comes to women,” said The Rev. Dr. Nathan, “but even I am smarter than that!”
***
A Golden Persimmon goes today to Kathy Roberts, because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Surplus Surplice Unnecessary Clergy Clothing and Crying Towel Cafe with the 14 volume set of Karl Barth’s An Introduction to An Outline of A Sketch of Christian Doctrine on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Pastor Patty came in and slipped into the booth across from him.
“I have a problem,” said Pastor Patty, who thinks of Randall as wiser than he is. “It’s the Thanatopsis Circle of MWL, Methodist Women & Ladies.”
“The ones who do the funeral meals?”
“The very ones. They have recently made some new rules for funeral meals. For instance, they’ve banned The Bereavement Casserole, the one with the tater tots.”
“That sounds like a good thing,” said Randall.
“Yes, it is, except that Alice Chalmers is afraid it might cut into her husband’s business. He sells potato pluckers, you know. But the big problem is that they’re trying to get everyone to pre-plan.”
“Pre-planning funerals is a good thing,” said Randall. “Fay Talistic, the new undertaker at Dropem Brothers, will do a whole program for you on it.”
“But it’s not pre-planning funerals that The Thantopsis Circle wants. They want everyone to pre-plan their funeral MEAL. Cora Dorr is mad at her husband because he wrote on her pre-plan form they should have mixed nuts at the table reserved for her family, and Kate Bates insists on desserts only, and no paper plates, which has Rusty Steele up in arms because he has that paper plates and rug cleaning supplies store, and Clara Voyance says they should know what she wants without her having to write anything down. It’s just a mess. Pre-planning doesn’t settle anything. It just gives people a longer time to argue about stuff.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Randall.
“It’s well known that you are against people getting together to plan anything. I think you should talk to them,” said Pastor Patty.
A stream of Moose Drool shot out of Randall Nathan’s nose as he gagged and choked.
“I’m pretty stupid when it comes to women,” said The Rev. Dr. Nathan, “but even I am smarter than that!”
***
A Golden Persimmon goes today to Kathy Roberts, because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Lesbians for Fathers Day
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Juan Valdez Coffee Shop and Donkey Exchange with a propeller beanie on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Beau Dacious, the oldest redneck sky-diver in Periwinkle County, and Dino Sauer, the oldest German-Italian in Periwinkle County, and Harvey Bristol-Kremo, the oldest English-Finn in Periwinkle County came in carrying a sign reading: LESBIANS FOR FATHERS DAY.
“In case you don’t know,” said Randall, “you guys don’t qualify as lesbians. You’re not even thespians.”
“We are now that we’ve found out that Gay Girl in Damascus blog is actually a forty-year-old American guy living in Scotland,” said Beau Dacious.
“Yeah, and that Paula Brooks who runs the LezGetReal website? She’s really a fifty-two-year-old retired military guy in Ohio,” said Dino Sauer.
“Apparently they flunked the psycho-social development stage of identity v. identity diffusion in their teen years,” said Dr. Nathan, in an attempt to get them to go away, psychobabble always being a good conversation squelcher. It didn’t work. It never does.
“Hey, don’t knock it if you haven’t tried it,” said Harvey Bristol-Kermo.
“Yeah, you need to explore your feminine side, Randy Preacher,” said Beau.
“If you must call me Randy, please put the title first,” said the Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan. “And just where would I explore my feminine side in a place like Periwinkle County?”
“Well, you could go to our website,” said Dino.
“Yeah,” said Harvey. “We’re Flopsie, Mopsie, and Cottontail, the three lesbian Jewish bunnies of the Playgoy web site.”
***
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/ or at http://christinwinter.wordpress.com/, according to which one is working that day.]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Muskrat on My Head
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at the St. Darwin Unitarian Church and Small Pox Vaccination Coffee House, with a copy of Atlas Shrugged on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Ben “Seymour” Bottoms, Extinguished Professor of Comparative Comparisons at the big state university over in the town of Hope’s Promise in Crimson County, slipped into the booth across from him.
“Kate said I should do something special with my sabbatical,” said Professor Bottoms, “so I have learned to sing the blues.”
“That’s surprising,” said Randall, “because you are not known for paying attention to the rubrics, and blues singing has specific rules. You’ve got to wake up in the morning, and have a good woman, you’ve got to shoot a man in…”
“Oh, I know all the rules,” said Prof. Bottoms. “Just listen.”
He took a tenor ukulele out of his backpack and began to strum and sing.
I woke up this morning, with a muskrat on my head. I’ve got me a good woman, but she wants me dead. That’s what the muskrat said.
I shot a man in Memphis because his name was Fred. “That was your father’s name,” that’s what my mother said.” I should have named you Eddiepus instead”
I ran to Mississippi, hid in a chicken shed. But those bloodhounds found me easy; that’s where the bread crumbs led. I should have trailed some Michelob instead.
The stuck me in Stoney Lonesome, no pillow for my head. There was a narrow hallway, beside my narrow bed. Up to the gallows, that’s where the hallway led.
They’re playing Benny Goodman, because I’m going to swing. It’ll take a while to get to heaven, ‘cause my angel’s only got one wing. And he don’t know how to sing.
I made my woman happy, ‘cause I got my body dead. “There’d be more women happy if their men were dead.” That’s what the warden’s winsome woman said.
If you ever go to Memphis, don’t shoot a man named Fred. It will make your woman happy, but you’ll get no credit ‘cause you’re dead. Shoot an accordion or a muskrat instead.
He finished with a flourish, which on a ukulele is known as the Hawaiian good luck sign. The Unitarians applauded uncertainly.
“You forgot the most important rule,” said Rev. Nathan. “If you get sabbaticals and drive an Altima, you can’t sing the blues, regardless of how many men you shot in Memphis.”
***
A Golden Persimmon is awarded posthumously to my late blues-singing guitar-virtuoso brother of the cloth, The Rev. Gary Davis [born 1896], who came to NYC from the Carolinas blind and poor and served as an inspiration to many in the folk revival of the 1960s. I learned from listening to Art Podell of “Art & Paul” [http://www.artpodell.com/] and Jim Moran [http://compvid101.blogspot.com/] and Joe Frazier [http://chadmitchelltrio.com/] on Mary Katherine Aldin’s “Alive & Picking” radio show [http://aliveandpicking.com/] that Peter, Paul, and Mary learned “If I Had My Way,” originally a Blind Willie Johnson song, from Rev. Gary Davis. They made a hit recording of it and gave all the proceeds to Rev. Davis, which allowed him to buy the only home he ever owned, where he lived with his wife until his death in 1972.
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.wordpress.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
It Takes Two
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Whistle & Thistle Biker Bar and Episcopal Ladies Tea House, with an old udder balm can with a sign that simply said DONATE AND RECEIVE ANALYSIS OF YOUR CURRENT STATE OF PSYCHO-SOCIAL ADJUSTMENT on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when three old guys staggered in and sat at the table across from him, just out of reach of the DONATE can.
“I’m tired,” said Dino Sauer, the oldest German Italian in Periwinkle County. “Did you hear the thunder last night? I wouldn’t have, except Lotta shook me awake and said, Dino, there’s thunder. What do you want me to do about it? I said. She said, I shouldn’t have to listen to it alone.”
“That’s nothing,” said Harvey Bristol-Kremo, the oldest English Finn in Periwinkle County. “The storm must have spooked a skunk, ‘cause Helena shook me awake and said, Harvey, wake up and smell the skunk. I said How come you woke me up to smell a skunk? And she said, Well, I shouldn’t have to smell it alone.”
“That’s nothing,” said Tennessee “Choo-Choo” Trane. “Georgette shook me awake to ask me if I was cold. I said, Since I was asleep, I must have been warm enough, until you woke me up! She said, Well, I shouldn’t have to be cold alone.”
“Obviously,” said The Rev. Dr. Nathan, “your wives have conquered the psycho-social adjustment stage of intimacy vs. isolation better than you have.” He held out the udder balm can to them. “You may donate in appreciation for my impartation of this important piece of wisdom to you.”
They all said, “Huh?”
Edith Whistle, the proprietress of The Whistle & Thistle, arrived to take their order. “You guys look like the three mugs-of-tears,” said Edith, which is the way she greets any group of three, but this time she meant it.
***
Golden Persimmons are awarded to Bette Premo, Helen Bell, and Georgia Karr, because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.wordpress.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Whistle & Thistle Biker Bar and Episcopal Ladies Tea House, with an old udder balm can with a sign that simply said DONATE AND RECEIVE ANALYSIS OF YOUR CURRENT STATE OF PSYCHO-SOCIAL ADJUSTMENT on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when three old guys staggered in and sat at the table across from him, just out of reach of the DONATE can.
“I’m tired,” said Dino Sauer, the oldest German Italian in Periwinkle County. “Did you hear the thunder last night? I wouldn’t have, except Lotta shook me awake and said, Dino, there’s thunder. What do you want me to do about it? I said. She said, I shouldn’t have to listen to it alone.”
“That’s nothing,” said Harvey Bristol-Kremo, the oldest English Finn in Periwinkle County. “The storm must have spooked a skunk, ‘cause Helena shook me awake and said, Harvey, wake up and smell the skunk. I said How come you woke me up to smell a skunk? And she said, Well, I shouldn’t have to smell it alone.”
“That’s nothing,” said Tennessee “Choo-Choo” Trane. “Georgette shook me awake to ask me if I was cold. I said, Since I was asleep, I must have been warm enough, until you woke me up! She said, Well, I shouldn’t have to be cold alone.”
“Obviously,” said The Rev. Dr. Nathan, “your wives have conquered the psycho-social adjustment stage of intimacy vs. isolation better than you have.” He held out the udder balm can to them. “You may donate in appreciation for my impartation of this important piece of wisdom to you.”
They all said, “Huh?”
Edith Whistle, the proprietress of The Whistle & Thistle, arrived to take their order. “You guys look like the three mugs-of-tears,” said Edith, which is the way she greets any group of three, but this time she meant it.
***
Golden Persimmons are awarded to Bette Premo, Helen Bell, and Georgia Karr, because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.wordpress.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Saturday, May 7, 2011
Mother Forgiveness Day
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
“I don’t know why I have to do this,” groused The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, from his usual booth at the Mud In Your Eye Coffee House & Optometry Center. “I’m going to lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon. They should get Forgivin’ Joe Flambeau, the baritone in The Rabid Raccoons Quartet & Pest Control Patrol. He’s a priest in The Egalitarian Church & Marsupial Appreciation Society when he’s not touring with the Raccoons. He hears confessions all the time, especially from people who don’t appreciate marsupials. You’d think that would be good preparation for today.”
“That won’t work,” said Randall’s wife, Claire. “His social skills are too good. You’re the only ordained person in the county with adequately inadequate social skills to cut through the FTD crap to hear confessions on Mother Forgiveness Day, and how can people celebrate Mother’s Day without first forgiving their mothers? Look, the line’s already three blocks long.”
First was three-year-old Clara Wembley. “I have to forgive my mother for making me forgive that tootie-head at pre-school for saying he was riding a bicycle when it was a tricycle. I explained to him that bi means two and tri means three, but he just kept calling it a bicycle.”
“Wasn’t there a little more to it than that, Clara?”
“Hey, I have no idea how it became a unicycle. Everybody blamed me just because I was holding a wrench when that wheel came off.”
“To forgive your mother,” intoned the confessor, “you must eat a piece of pumpkin pie.”
Next up was Ava Ricious. “My mother made me believe that money is the only good. I’ve been through three husbands, getting richer each time, but I’m not happy.”
“Go, sell all you have, and give it to the poor, but save enough for a pecan pie, and then run barefoot through the park,” pronounced Randall.
“I can’t do that. I have much stuff, and I’m too old to run barefoot.”
They negotiated until they arrived at 10%, a slow stroll in sandals, and an apple pie.
Next was Mort Ality, the new undertaker.
“I have to forgive my mother because every Mother’s Day, she would recite a poem to me.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It was 'He held the lantern while his mother chopped the wood.' It always made me feel so guilty.”
“For your penance, recite 'Ozymandias' by Shelley twice, and eat a slice of gooseberry pie, which is the anti-guilt pie,” said Dr. Nathan.
Then there was Dick Jones. “I have to forgive my mother. I inherited a small organ from her side of the family.”
“A small organ isn’t really a matter for forgiveness,” said Randall.
“But it’s an awful brown color, and hideously shaped. My wife won’t even let me…”
“Randall, I think now would be a good time to use your inadequate social skills and interrupt,” said Claire, covering Clara’s ears. But Mort was shoveling on.
“…keep it in the living room. It clashes with the rest of the furniture, she says.”
Randall prescribed cherry, the pie of musical instrument forgiveness, which is why banjo players always have cherry pie stains on the fronts of their overalls.
And so it went, with Bessie Bandervilt, whose mother made her mistrust men, so that she never married, and was prescribed the pie for male-mistrust forgiveness, persimmon.
And Kate Bates’ daughter, for naming her Norma. “Hey, you’re the one who majored in motel management,” Kate protested. “You think it was easy being Norma Bates’ mother?” Randall prescribed mincemeat, the pie of naming forgiveness.
There was rhubarb, for mother-of-the-bride forgiveness, and strawberry, for eating-vegetables forgiveness, and chocolate, for wearing-galoshes forgiveness, and coconut for tying-to-act-cool forgiveness.
At last the day was over. The mothers were forgiven, so that Mother’s Day tomorrow could be reasonably free of tension. Randall’s grandson, Johnny, came dashing up to his booth.
“Wow, Grandpa, you wouldn’t believe how much money we made at the Boy Scout pie stand today.”
***
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
“I don’t know why I have to do this,” groused The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, from his usual booth at the Mud In Your Eye Coffee House & Optometry Center. “I’m going to lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon. They should get Forgivin’ Joe Flambeau, the baritone in The Rabid Raccoons Quartet & Pest Control Patrol. He’s a priest in The Egalitarian Church & Marsupial Appreciation Society when he’s not touring with the Raccoons. He hears confessions all the time, especially from people who don’t appreciate marsupials. You’d think that would be good preparation for today.”
“That won’t work,” said Randall’s wife, Claire. “His social skills are too good. You’re the only ordained person in the county with adequately inadequate social skills to cut through the FTD crap to hear confessions on Mother Forgiveness Day, and how can people celebrate Mother’s Day without first forgiving their mothers? Look, the line’s already three blocks long.”
First was three-year-old Clara Wembley. “I have to forgive my mother for making me forgive that tootie-head at pre-school for saying he was riding a bicycle when it was a tricycle. I explained to him that bi means two and tri means three, but he just kept calling it a bicycle.”
“Wasn’t there a little more to it than that, Clara?”
“Hey, I have no idea how it became a unicycle. Everybody blamed me just because I was holding a wrench when that wheel came off.”
“To forgive your mother,” intoned the confessor, “you must eat a piece of pumpkin pie.”
Next up was Ava Ricious. “My mother made me believe that money is the only good. I’ve been through three husbands, getting richer each time, but I’m not happy.”
“Go, sell all you have, and give it to the poor, but save enough for a pecan pie, and then run barefoot through the park,” pronounced Randall.
“I can’t do that. I have much stuff, and I’m too old to run barefoot.”
They negotiated until they arrived at 10%, a slow stroll in sandals, and an apple pie.
Next was Mort Ality, the new undertaker.
“I have to forgive my mother because every Mother’s Day, she would recite a poem to me.”
“That doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It was 'He held the lantern while his mother chopped the wood.' It always made me feel so guilty.”
“For your penance, recite 'Ozymandias' by Shelley twice, and eat a slice of gooseberry pie, which is the anti-guilt pie,” said Dr. Nathan.
Then there was Dick Jones. “I have to forgive my mother. I inherited a small organ from her side of the family.”
“A small organ isn’t really a matter for forgiveness,” said Randall.
“But it’s an awful brown color, and hideously shaped. My wife won’t even let me…”
“Randall, I think now would be a good time to use your inadequate social skills and interrupt,” said Claire, covering Clara’s ears. But Mort was shoveling on.
“…keep it in the living room. It clashes with the rest of the furniture, she says.”
Randall prescribed cherry, the pie of musical instrument forgiveness, which is why banjo players always have cherry pie stains on the fronts of their overalls.
And so it went, with Bessie Bandervilt, whose mother made her mistrust men, so that she never married, and was prescribed the pie for male-mistrust forgiveness, persimmon.
And Kate Bates’ daughter, for naming her Norma. “Hey, you’re the one who majored in motel management,” Kate protested. “You think it was easy being Norma Bates’ mother?” Randall prescribed mincemeat, the pie of naming forgiveness.
There was rhubarb, for mother-of-the-bride forgiveness, and strawberry, for eating-vegetables forgiveness, and chocolate, for wearing-galoshes forgiveness, and coconut for tying-to-act-cool forgiveness.
At last the day was over. The mothers were forgiven, so that Mother’s Day tomorrow could be reasonably free of tension. Randall’s grandson, Johnny, came dashing up to his booth.
“Wow, Grandpa, you wouldn’t believe how much money we made at the Boy Scout pie stand today.”
***
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Friday, April 29, 2011
Royal Wedding Invitation Names
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at the Royal Wedding Headquarters & Newspaper Resurrection Center, which provides three-day old newspapers for the waiting rooms of doctors and other professionals too poor to have current subscriptions, with a faux-silver pot of Earl Persimmon Tea on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, and nobody at RWH&MRC would be caught drinking commoner tea on the day of a royal wedding, although his wife Claire, and her friend, Kate Bates, and Kate’s husband, Prof. Ben “Seymour” Bottoms, and Kate’s granddaughter, three-year-old Clara Wembley, were wedged into the booth with him anyway, the place being packed like a mal, as they call a mall in England, when Lady Henrietta Fuzzybottom Ruralroute-One stood to announce the commencement of the Royal Wedding Invitation Name Game.
Lady Henrietta Fuzzybottom Ruralroute-One is normally Edith Whistle, but for the invitation card for the royal wedding it is necessary to have an aristocratic name, which is obtained by using the name of one of your grandparents, the name of your first pet, and the name of the place in which you grew up.
Claire was pleased to be Lady Lara Shep Monon-Tracks. Kate announced herself as Lady Hortense Blammer St. John-Swamp. Seymour declared himself Lord Yates Old Blue Delta-Silt. Randall reluctantly admitted he was Lord Marvin Pisser Seedtick.
Clara Wembley refused to play, not because she would not like to use the name of her nana, Kate, as her royal first name, or because she objected to a last name of Bloody Gulch, which she actually rather enjoys when she tells the new teachers at the Wind in the Diapers pre-school, but because she refused to have as any part of her identity the nefarious Shingles, the dog, who remains un-forgiven for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve of 2009.
Nonetheless, the game was going quite well until the door opened and a wild-eyed Irish-looking man stepped in.
“Oh, good grief,” muttered Lady Henrietta Fuzzybottom Ruralroute-One. “Who told Reggie Cide about this?”
***
A Golden Persimmon is awarded today to Bishop Woodie W. White for contributing his dog’s real name to be used as part of Randall Nathan’s royal wedding name, since the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at the Royal Wedding Headquarters & Newspaper Resurrection Center, which provides three-day old newspapers for the waiting rooms of doctors and other professionals too poor to have current subscriptions, with a faux-silver pot of Earl Persimmon Tea on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, and nobody at RWH&MRC would be caught drinking commoner tea on the day of a royal wedding, although his wife Claire, and her friend, Kate Bates, and Kate’s husband, Prof. Ben “Seymour” Bottoms, and Kate’s granddaughter, three-year-old Clara Wembley, were wedged into the booth with him anyway, the place being packed like a mal, as they call a mall in England, when Lady Henrietta Fuzzybottom Ruralroute-One stood to announce the commencement of the Royal Wedding Invitation Name Game.
Lady Henrietta Fuzzybottom Ruralroute-One is normally Edith Whistle, but for the invitation card for the royal wedding it is necessary to have an aristocratic name, which is obtained by using the name of one of your grandparents, the name of your first pet, and the name of the place in which you grew up.
Claire was pleased to be Lady Lara Shep Monon-Tracks. Kate announced herself as Lady Hortense Blammer St. John-Swamp. Seymour declared himself Lord Yates Old Blue Delta-Silt. Randall reluctantly admitted he was Lord Marvin Pisser Seedtick.
Clara Wembley refused to play, not because she would not like to use the name of her nana, Kate, as her royal first name, or because she objected to a last name of Bloody Gulch, which she actually rather enjoys when she tells the new teachers at the Wind in the Diapers pre-school, but because she refused to have as any part of her identity the nefarious Shingles, the dog, who remains un-forgiven for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve of 2009.
Nonetheless, the game was going quite well until the door opened and a wild-eyed Irish-looking man stepped in.
“Oh, good grief,” muttered Lady Henrietta Fuzzybottom Ruralroute-One. “Who told Reggie Cide about this?”
***
A Golden Persimmon is awarded today to Bishop Woodie W. White for contributing his dog’s real name to be used as part of Randall Nathan’s royal wedding name, since the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Monday, April 25, 2011
Apostrophe Protection Society
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
Three-year-old Clara Wembley watched with trepidation as Polly Androus directed the big men to load retired funeral director Jake Newland and Prof. Ben “Seymour” Bottoms, the husband of her nana, Kate Bates, and The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, into the back of her truck. Clara could not read the words on the side of the truck, "Let Polly Androus Recycle Your Old Stuff," painted over the faded image of millionaire Morgan P. Moneybags, which bore a striking resemblance to The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), especially if you struck it from the left side.
She had already watched with trepidation as Jennie Newland posted a note on the side of the garage and went back into the house, and she knew that there would be problems when Jake came out of the house to look at the stuff Jennie had piled there beside the garage, and even more trouble when Prof. Bottoms and Dr. Nathan stopped to talk to him. No, she could not read the words on the side of the truck, but she knew what she had to do.
“Come on, trepidation,” she yelled to her imaginary friend. She jumped into her car and pedaled furiously down the sidewalk, yelling, “Beep, beep. Get out of the way people, if you don’t want me to give you the finger.” [1]
She pulled into the curving driveway of a trapezoidal house. Beside the door was a neatly lettered sign: Ella Cution, President, Periwinkle County Chapter of the Apostrophe Protection Society (PCCOT’PS). Clara went to the door with trepidation.
“You’ve got to come, Ms. Cution,” Clara said. “It’s an emergency.”
“I can see that, Clara,” said Ella Cution, “but since he is your friend, you really must capitalize Trepidation.”
“He’s a she,” said Clara.
“I stand by my Ruling,” said Ella Cution. “Perhaps Trepidation and Ruling can play together while we take care of this emergency.”
Just then Polly Andrus’s truck careered around the curve in the street.
“My goodness, such driving,” said Ella Cution. “I really think that truck should be looking for a new job if it is careering. Otherwise, it’s just careening. And that extra s on Androus simply makes an ass our of as.”
Nonetheless, she stepped out and waved down the truck and directed it back to Jake and Jenny Newland’s house, where she demanded that Polly Andrus redeposit Jake and Randall and Seymour. Then she went to the door of the house and knocked until Jenny emerged.
“Mrs. Newland, you really must be more careful when you leave a note,” she said, as she added an apostrophe to Jenny’s note, so that it then read: Take those old things beside the garage; they are my husband’s.
***
1] For an explanation of Clara’s giving of the finger, read Periwinkle Chronicles for March 22, 2011.
A Golden Persimmon is awarded today to Lynne Truss, because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
Three-year-old Clara Wembley watched with trepidation as Polly Androus directed the big men to load retired funeral director Jake Newland and Prof. Ben “Seymour” Bottoms, the husband of her nana, Kate Bates, and The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, into the back of her truck. Clara could not read the words on the side of the truck, "Let Polly Androus Recycle Your Old Stuff," painted over the faded image of millionaire Morgan P. Moneybags, which bore a striking resemblance to The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), especially if you struck it from the left side.
She had already watched with trepidation as Jennie Newland posted a note on the side of the garage and went back into the house, and she knew that there would be problems when Jake came out of the house to look at the stuff Jennie had piled there beside the garage, and even more trouble when Prof. Bottoms and Dr. Nathan stopped to talk to him. No, she could not read the words on the side of the truck, but she knew what she had to do.
“Come on, trepidation,” she yelled to her imaginary friend. She jumped into her car and pedaled furiously down the sidewalk, yelling, “Beep, beep. Get out of the way people, if you don’t want me to give you the finger.” [1]
She pulled into the curving driveway of a trapezoidal house. Beside the door was a neatly lettered sign: Ella Cution, President, Periwinkle County Chapter of the Apostrophe Protection Society (PCCOT’PS). Clara went to the door with trepidation.
“You’ve got to come, Ms. Cution,” Clara said. “It’s an emergency.”
“I can see that, Clara,” said Ella Cution, “but since he is your friend, you really must capitalize Trepidation.”
“He’s a she,” said Clara.
“I stand by my Ruling,” said Ella Cution. “Perhaps Trepidation and Ruling can play together while we take care of this emergency.”
Just then Polly Andrus’s truck careered around the curve in the street.
“My goodness, such driving,” said Ella Cution. “I really think that truck should be looking for a new job if it is careering. Otherwise, it’s just careening. And that extra s on Androus simply makes an ass our of as.”
Nonetheless, she stepped out and waved down the truck and directed it back to Jake and Jenny Newland’s house, where she demanded that Polly Andrus redeposit Jake and Randall and Seymour. Then she went to the door of the house and knocked until Jenny emerged.
“Mrs. Newland, you really must be more careful when you leave a note,” she said, as she added an apostrophe to Jenny’s note, so that it then read: Take those old things beside the garage; they are my husband’s.
***
1] For an explanation of Clara’s giving of the finger, read Periwinkle Chronicles for March 22, 2011.
A Golden Persimmon is awarded today to Lynne Truss, because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Monday, April 18, 2011
La Dame du Non Secours
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at La Dame du Non Secours Persimmon Espresso Bar
with a pig ringer and a box of rings on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Della Catessen brought him his usual Perspicacious Persimmon Placebo Platte’.
“Hey,” yelled Pastor Patty, who was in the next booth, trying to think up a different sermon for the coming Sunday, since most of the crowd heard only the resurrection part of the Gospel, because they came only on Easter, and didn’t know anything about sacrifice and forgiveness and eschewing money and the rest of what Jesus preached and died for, “how come you bring his drink out to him when the rest of us have to stand in line? That’s the whole point of the name of this place. You’re the dame of no help. He’s old, but he can still stand in line.”
“It’s a gift to Claire,” said Della Catessen. “As long as he’s in here, he’s not home. Also, as long as he’s drinking his platte’ he can’t be telling those corny jokes.”
“Oh, well that’s okay, then,” said Pastor Patty.
She turned to Randall.
“I assume you’re not coming to church this week?”
“Never on Easter,” he replied, “or Christmas. Too many people.”
“But you used to preach to big crowds all the time,” she protested.
“Yes, but I was up in the pulpit. That’s why I went into the ministry, so I didn’t have to sit with other people in church.”
“I guess you don’t have any ideas for a different way to get the Easter message across then…”
“I’ll tell you something Claire said to me when I was worrying about new ways to preach. ‘You have only one thing to do in that pulpit, and that’s to remind us that God loves us.’”
Pastor Patty turned and yelled to Della Catessen, “Hey, you can go back to being the dame of no help. I’ll bring him his platte’ from now on. I owe Claire, too.”
***
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at La Dame du Non Secours Persimmon Espresso Bar
with a pig ringer and a box of rings on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Della Catessen brought him his usual Perspicacious Persimmon Placebo Platte’.
“Hey,” yelled Pastor Patty, who was in the next booth, trying to think up a different sermon for the coming Sunday, since most of the crowd heard only the resurrection part of the Gospel, because they came only on Easter, and didn’t know anything about sacrifice and forgiveness and eschewing money and the rest of what Jesus preached and died for, “how come you bring his drink out to him when the rest of us have to stand in line? That’s the whole point of the name of this place. You’re the dame of no help. He’s old, but he can still stand in line.”
“It’s a gift to Claire,” said Della Catessen. “As long as he’s in here, he’s not home. Also, as long as he’s drinking his platte’ he can’t be telling those corny jokes.”
“Oh, well that’s okay, then,” said Pastor Patty.
She turned to Randall.
“I assume you’re not coming to church this week?”
“Never on Easter,” he replied, “or Christmas. Too many people.”
“But you used to preach to big crowds all the time,” she protested.
“Yes, but I was up in the pulpit. That’s why I went into the ministry, so I didn’t have to sit with other people in church.”
“I guess you don’t have any ideas for a different way to get the Easter message across then…”
“I’ll tell you something Claire said to me when I was worrying about new ways to preach. ‘You have only one thing to do in that pulpit, and that’s to remind us that God loves us.’”
Pastor Patty turned and yelled to Della Catessen, “Hey, you can go back to being the dame of no help. I’ll bring him his platte’ from now on. I owe Claire, too.”
***
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
By Their Drinks Ye Shall Know Them
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce "retired" in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Deja Brew Used Coffee & Plumbing Fixtures, with a book, "1001 Noises You Can Make With Your Armpit," open on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Helmut Himmel, the new pastor at Our Lady of Wittenberg Lutheran Church & Lutefisk Outlet came in and slipped into the booth across from him.
“I’ve never lived in a small town before,” said Pastor Himmel.
“Congratulations,” said Pastor Nathan.
“Yesterday I was at the Christian Outlet Mall, and I met a woman who said she might be interested in joining our church. So last night at choir practice, I asked the sopranos if they knew her. You need to check before you let somebody into a Lutheran church, because some people don’t like to shake hands to pass the peace while wearing germ-proof rubber gloves, the way we do. Ann Hiser-Bush, the lead soprano, said, ‘Yes, she drinks Manhattans.’ I’ve lived all over the world, but I didn’t know that people in small towns are identified by what they drink.”
“Well,” said Randall, “people in small towns are identified in many ways, because everybody knows everything about everybody, and now I know why everybody says your sopranos hit the high notes better than any other choir in town.”
***
A Golden Persimmon is awarded today to II Imhoff, David, the II to distinguish him from his older brother, Roger, who is I Imhoff, because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce "retired" in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Deja Brew Used Coffee & Plumbing Fixtures, with a book, "1001 Noises You Can Make With Your Armpit," open on the table in front of him, to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Helmut Himmel, the new pastor at Our Lady of Wittenberg Lutheran Church & Lutefisk Outlet came in and slipped into the booth across from him.
“I’ve never lived in a small town before,” said Pastor Himmel.
“Congratulations,” said Pastor Nathan.
“Yesterday I was at the Christian Outlet Mall, and I met a woman who said she might be interested in joining our church. So last night at choir practice, I asked the sopranos if they knew her. You need to check before you let somebody into a Lutheran church, because some people don’t like to shake hands to pass the peace while wearing germ-proof rubber gloves, the way we do. Ann Hiser-Bush, the lead soprano, said, ‘Yes, she drinks Manhattans.’ I’ve lived all over the world, but I didn’t know that people in small towns are identified by what they drink.”
“Well,” said Randall, “people in small towns are identified in many ways, because everybody knows everything about everybody, and now I know why everybody says your sopranos hit the high notes better than any other choir in town.”
***
A Golden Persimmon is awarded today to II Imhoff, David, the II to distinguish him from his older brother, Roger, who is I Imhoff, because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Nobody Believed
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at the Good to the Last Slop Coffee Shop and Pig Racing OTB Parlor, with copies of the Koran and US Constitution open on the table in front of him to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Coach Gabe “Silent Gabby” Knightshade came in and slipped into the booth across from him.
“Nobody believed I would sit down with you,” said Silent Gabby, “but I did.”
“I watched on TV last night,” said Randall, “when your HPU Vegetable Molesters team won the NPAA national championship.”
“Yes,” said Silent Gabby, “nobody believed that we could win the National Persimmon Athletic Association championship, nobody but us, but we believed, and so we won.”
“But all the pundits picked you to win it all.”
“They picked us, but nobody believed in us, but we won.”
“That reminds me, sort of, that I want to talk with you about your mascot and what it does during the games.”
“Ha, nobody believed our mascot could do that, right out in public, but the VM lived up to its name.”
“But isn’t that a bit extreme?”
“Nobody believed we could be extreme, but we were. Besides, being Vegetable Molesters isn’t nearly as extreme as those Cornjerkers from Hoopeston and the Appleknockers from Cobden. [1] Nobody believed in us,” said Coach Gabby “but we believed in ourselves, and so we won it all.”
“But you were picked by all the newspapers and the casinos over at Lost Wages and every pundit on ESP to win it all,” said Randall.
“Yes, nobody believed in us. They thought we couldn’t win, but we did, because we believed in ourselves, even though nobody else did.”
“You coaches have a strange relationship to belief.”
“That’s right. Nobody believed I could talk like this, but I did.”
***
1] The Hoopeston, IL Cornjerkers and the Cobden, IL Appleknockers are real high school teams. Nobody believes it, but it’s true. To the best of my knowledge, they are the only teams in the country that molest vegetables, although the Somerset, KY Briar Jumpers come close, especially if they fail to clear the briars.
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at the Good to the Last Slop Coffee Shop and Pig Racing OTB Parlor, with copies of the Koran and US Constitution open on the table in front of him to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Coach Gabe “Silent Gabby” Knightshade came in and slipped into the booth across from him.
“Nobody believed I would sit down with you,” said Silent Gabby, “but I did.”
“I watched on TV last night,” said Randall, “when your HPU Vegetable Molesters team won the NPAA national championship.”
“Yes,” said Silent Gabby, “nobody believed that we could win the National Persimmon Athletic Association championship, nobody but us, but we believed, and so we won.”
“But all the pundits picked you to win it all.”
“They picked us, but nobody believed in us, but we won.”
“That reminds me, sort of, that I want to talk with you about your mascot and what it does during the games.”
“Ha, nobody believed our mascot could do that, right out in public, but the VM lived up to its name.”
“But isn’t that a bit extreme?”
“Nobody believed we could be extreme, but we were. Besides, being Vegetable Molesters isn’t nearly as extreme as those Cornjerkers from Hoopeston and the Appleknockers from Cobden. [1] Nobody believed in us,” said Coach Gabby “but we believed in ourselves, and so we won it all.”
“But you were picked by all the newspapers and the casinos over at Lost Wages and every pundit on ESP to win it all,” said Randall.
“Yes, nobody believed in us. They thought we couldn’t win, but we did, because we believed in ourselves, even though nobody else did.”
“You coaches have a strange relationship to belief.”
“That’s right. Nobody believed I could talk like this, but I did.”
***
1] The Hoopeston, IL Cornjerkers and the Cobden, IL Appleknockers are real high school teams. Nobody believes it, but it’s true. To the best of my knowledge, they are the only teams in the country that molest vegetables, although the Somerset, KY Briar Jumpers come close, especially if they fail to clear the briars.
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Mustard Thursday
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County: Mustard Thursday & Informing God
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Deja Moo Day-Old Large-Crud Cottage Cheese Shop and Coffee House, with a statue of a Holstein in the seat across from him, so no one would sit with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Homer Runn came in and pushed the Holstein over and slipped into the booth across from him. There was a strange yellow spot on his forehead.
“I thought you’d be home rending your Cubs jersey, or sacrificing a billy goat, or some such, now that baseball season is starting,” said Randall.
“I’ve been to church,” said Homer. “It was a special service to start the baseball season, sort of like Ash Wednesday, except Pastor Patty smeared hot dog mustard on our foreheads. I was the liturgist today, so I read from Genesis. You know, In the big inning, God created the heavens and the earth, which is to say, She created first the National League, which is heavenly, and the American League, which is earth-bound, with its anti-biblical designated hitter rule.”
“You certainly have a strange way of interpreting scripture,” said Dr. Nathan.
“Hey, you’re the one who preached a whole sermon series on constipation, all that business about Moses taking two tablets and going into the wilderness, and Titus, and…”
“I was talking about spiritual constipation,” retorted Randall, “and how faith relaxes uptight people…”
“Don’t go on. I remember it too well already,” said Homer, an uptight look on his face. “Today’s worship was an ecumenical service. Mustard Thursday is the only time the righties and lefties will sit together, sort of like the relievers in the bullpen. Anyway, Sister Beulah Land was preaching, about how there is no crying in baseball, but there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth at the end of the season when the sheep and the goats, or at least those under the curse of the goat, will be left out of the kingdom again, but Pastor Patty had forgotten to tell her that the service had to be over by one o’clock, so everyone could get out in time to watch the Reds beat the Brewers on the Webster’s Definition TV at Barry’s Sports Bar & Steroids Outlet, and she couldn’t get at her, because she was sitting on the other side of the chancel, behind the icon of the Louisville Slugger, so she told C.D. Romm, the pastor of The Virtual Church South, of God, who was sitting beside her, to tell Sister Beulah Land, when he got up to give the opening day prayer just before Sister Beulah preached, but instead of making an announcement, he did it in the prayer. O Lord, Thou who knowest that this service must end promptly by one o’clock so that we won’t miss seeing the Reds beat the Brewers…”
***
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at The Deja Moo Day-Old Large-Crud Cottage Cheese Shop and Coffee House, with a statue of a Holstein in the seat across from him, so no one would sit with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Homer Runn came in and pushed the Holstein over and slipped into the booth across from him. There was a strange yellow spot on his forehead.
“I thought you’d be home rending your Cubs jersey, or sacrificing a billy goat, or some such, now that baseball season is starting,” said Randall.
“I’ve been to church,” said Homer. “It was a special service to start the baseball season, sort of like Ash Wednesday, except Pastor Patty smeared hot dog mustard on our foreheads. I was the liturgist today, so I read from Genesis. You know, In the big inning, God created the heavens and the earth, which is to say, She created first the National League, which is heavenly, and the American League, which is earth-bound, with its anti-biblical designated hitter rule.”
“You certainly have a strange way of interpreting scripture,” said Dr. Nathan.
“Hey, you’re the one who preached a whole sermon series on constipation, all that business about Moses taking two tablets and going into the wilderness, and Titus, and…”
“I was talking about spiritual constipation,” retorted Randall, “and how faith relaxes uptight people…”
“Don’t go on. I remember it too well already,” said Homer, an uptight look on his face. “Today’s worship was an ecumenical service. Mustard Thursday is the only time the righties and lefties will sit together, sort of like the relievers in the bullpen. Anyway, Sister Beulah Land was preaching, about how there is no crying in baseball, but there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth at the end of the season when the sheep and the goats, or at least those under the curse of the goat, will be left out of the kingdom again, but Pastor Patty had forgotten to tell her that the service had to be over by one o’clock, so everyone could get out in time to watch the Reds beat the Brewers on the Webster’s Definition TV at Barry’s Sports Bar & Steroids Outlet, and she couldn’t get at her, because she was sitting on the other side of the chancel, behind the icon of the Louisville Slugger, so she told C.D. Romm, the pastor of The Virtual Church South, of God, who was sitting beside her, to tell Sister Beulah Land, when he got up to give the opening day prayer just before Sister Beulah preached, but instead of making an announcement, he did it in the prayer. O Lord, Thou who knowest that this service must end promptly by one o’clock so that we won’t miss seeing the Reds beat the Brewers…”
***
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://www.christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Monday, March 28, 2011
The Christian Outlet Mall
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at Alley Cat Magee’s Coffee Shop & Persimmon Neutering Clinic with a copy of Grey’s Surgical Techniques and Spaghetti Recipes open in front of him to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Ellen Palendro, the Sharon Baker Professor of Poetry at Hope’s Promise University, the big state university over in Crimson County, in the town of Hope’s Promise, came in and slipped into the booth across from him and said, “Did you know there’s a new mall out on the Wayfaring Stranger Memorial Highway? I didn’t think you would, since you never leave town.”
“What in hades do we need a new mall for?” asked Randall. “And what were you doing driving on the Wayfaring Stranger Highway?”
“Well, I realize that only Christians use that highway, because it’s a straight and narrow way. We heathen prefer the broad way that leads to Destruction. Makes you wonder why people in Ohio would want a town named Destruction. But I got on the Wayfaring Stranger Highway sort of by accident on the way home from Pennsylvania.”
“What were you doing in Pennsylvania? Isn’t that where you fractured your prosaic bone last time you were there?”
“That was personal. This was business. I went to the Algorithmic Poetry Conference there, at HUI.”
“What’s HUI?”
“Harvard University at Intercourse. I think maybe they decided to have a branch campus there in PA because of the ‘course’ part of the town’s name. Colleges like lots of courses.”
“Their students are usually fascinated by the ‘inter’ part, too,” said Dr. Nathan.
“Anyway, there’s a big sign on it that says Christian Outlet Mall. What gives? Do they sell shopworn Methodists? Scratched and dented Presbyterians? Baptist overruns? Holy Roller seconds? Catholic rejects?”
“Hmm,” said The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, “If so, I think I have some prospects for them.”
***
Because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental, a Golden Persimmon is awarded today to author Elaine Palencia. The last time I mentioned Elaine, in my Christ In Winter blog, I said: “I suppose the best known Champaign-Urbana author is Richard Powers, but I think the best one is Elaine. Try BRIER COUNTRY or SMALL CAUCASIAN WOMAN.” A reader commented: “Please don’t tell my husband to try a small Caucasian woman.”
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Dave Nash says these links usually don’t work. If they don’t, just type them in. They are accurate, even if not workable.
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at Alley Cat Magee’s Coffee Shop & Persimmon Neutering Clinic with a copy of Grey’s Surgical Techniques and Spaghetti Recipes open in front of him to keep anyone from sitting with him, lest he lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Ellen Palendro, the Sharon Baker Professor of Poetry at Hope’s Promise University, the big state university over in Crimson County, in the town of Hope’s Promise, came in and slipped into the booth across from him and said, “Did you know there’s a new mall out on the Wayfaring Stranger Memorial Highway? I didn’t think you would, since you never leave town.”
“What in hades do we need a new mall for?” asked Randall. “And what were you doing driving on the Wayfaring Stranger Highway?”
“Well, I realize that only Christians use that highway, because it’s a straight and narrow way. We heathen prefer the broad way that leads to Destruction. Makes you wonder why people in Ohio would want a town named Destruction. But I got on the Wayfaring Stranger Highway sort of by accident on the way home from Pennsylvania.”
“What were you doing in Pennsylvania? Isn’t that where you fractured your prosaic bone last time you were there?”
“That was personal. This was business. I went to the Algorithmic Poetry Conference there, at HUI.”
“What’s HUI?”
“Harvard University at Intercourse. I think maybe they decided to have a branch campus there in PA because of the ‘course’ part of the town’s name. Colleges like lots of courses.”
“Their students are usually fascinated by the ‘inter’ part, too,” said Dr. Nathan.
“Anyway, there’s a big sign on it that says Christian Outlet Mall. What gives? Do they sell shopworn Methodists? Scratched and dented Presbyterians? Baptist overruns? Holy Roller seconds? Catholic rejects?”
“Hmm,” said The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, “If so, I think I have some prospects for them.”
***
Because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental, a Golden Persimmon is awarded today to author Elaine Palencia. The last time I mentioned Elaine, in my Christ In Winter blog, I said: “I suppose the best known Champaign-Urbana author is Richard Powers, but I think the best one is Elaine. Try BRIER COUNTRY or SMALL CAUCASIAN WOMAN.” A reader commented: “Please don’t tell my husband to try a small Caucasian woman.”
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Dave Nash says these links usually don’t work. If they don’t, just type them in. They are accurate, even if not workable.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Clara's Education
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at the Doctors Without Boarders Coffee House & Real Estate Agency, entertaining three-year-old Clara Wembley by doing back-lighted shadow puppets against the window while her nana, Kate Bates, was out looking for her husband, Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms, because Shingles the dog had told them that Professor Bottoms had been abducted by gypsy-impersonators who were holding him hostage at the bottom of a well. At least, that is how Clara interpreted Shingles, since she wanted to get rid of him or her—no one has ever been sure of Shingles’ gender—because she has still not forgiven Shingles for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve in 2009, and she wanted to get both Singles and her nana out of Doctors Without Boarders because she knew they would not approve of the double- caffeine Persimmon latte-dah she was planning to talk the old bald guy into buying for her, and Kate went along with it because she knew her sociologist husband was likely to get into trouble on the streets by himself because he had recently decided to revisit phrenology and some people do not like having a stranger walk up and start feeling their head to see if they have criminal tendencies. But Kate was back quickly, this time with Claire Nathan.
“Randall, you’ve got to stop doing those finger puppets,” said Claire. “Bessie Bandervilt was walking by and thought you were giving her the finger. She’s still pretty sharp for 98, but her sight must be going. She’s writing a letter to the editor about it right now.”
“No, Bessie sees okay,” said Clara. “Dr. Randy Retard was really having the bunny give her the finger, just like our teacher at pre-school does when she gets mad at us.”
“Good grief, Clara,” said Kate. “Miss Aprehenshun gives you the finger?”
“Yep, if we aren’t being have enough for her. She jumps up and down and gives us the finger.”
“Show us how she does it, Clara,” said Rev. Nathan.
“Oh, no, I don’t think…” started Kate, but Clara was already holding up her chubby and grubby little hand and extending a finger.
“Oh, thank goodness,” sighed Kate, as Clara plopped out her index finger and wagged it up and down.
“Here comes Bessie again, Clara,” said Randall Nathan. “I’ll show you another way to give the finger to someone who’s bugging you.”
“You do and I’ll show you five fingers all bunched up,” said Claire.
“These nanas keep hanging around,” grumbled Clara. “The only time I learn something good is when they’re not here.”
***
[The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.]
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce retired in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him, was in his usual booth at the Doctors Without Boarders Coffee House & Real Estate Agency, entertaining three-year-old Clara Wembley by doing back-lighted shadow puppets against the window while her nana, Kate Bates, was out looking for her husband, Professor Ben “Seymour” Bottoms, because Shingles the dog had told them that Professor Bottoms had been abducted by gypsy-impersonators who were holding him hostage at the bottom of a well. At least, that is how Clara interpreted Shingles, since she wanted to get rid of him or her—no one has ever been sure of Shingles’ gender—because she has still not forgiven Shingles for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve in 2009, and she wanted to get both Singles and her nana out of Doctors Without Boarders because she knew they would not approve of the double- caffeine Persimmon latte-dah she was planning to talk the old bald guy into buying for her, and Kate went along with it because she knew her sociologist husband was likely to get into trouble on the streets by himself because he had recently decided to revisit phrenology and some people do not like having a stranger walk up and start feeling their head to see if they have criminal tendencies. But Kate was back quickly, this time with Claire Nathan.
“Randall, you’ve got to stop doing those finger puppets,” said Claire. “Bessie Bandervilt was walking by and thought you were giving her the finger. She’s still pretty sharp for 98, but her sight must be going. She’s writing a letter to the editor about it right now.”
“No, Bessie sees okay,” said Clara. “Dr. Randy Retard was really having the bunny give her the finger, just like our teacher at pre-school does when she gets mad at us.”
“Good grief, Clara,” said Kate. “Miss Aprehenshun gives you the finger?”
“Yep, if we aren’t being have enough for her. She jumps up and down and gives us the finger.”
“Show us how she does it, Clara,” said Rev. Nathan.
“Oh, no, I don’t think…” started Kate, but Clara was already holding up her chubby and grubby little hand and extending a finger.
“Oh, thank goodness,” sighed Kate, as Clara plopped out her index finger and wagged it up and down.
“Here comes Bessie again, Clara,” said Randall Nathan. “I’ll show you another way to give the finger to someone who’s bugging you.”
“You do and I’ll show you five fingers all bunched up,” said Claire.
“These nanas keep hanging around,” grumbled Clara. “The only time I learn something good is when they’re not here.”
***
[The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.]
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
A Car By Any Other Name
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
Randall Nathan was in his usual booth, labeled LJ, at The Good to the Last Slop Coffee Haus and Pig Repair Center, with two crash dummies dressed in snowmobile suits sitting across from him, so that no one would sit down with him, lest he lose points in The Hermudgeon of the Year contest, hermudgeon being a combination of hermit and curmudgeon.
That’s when a clean-shaven man in clean-washed overalls and a long ponytail pulled up into a hairnet, with the word “Mr. Snoodwrench” stenciled on the back, and the name Rex in needlepoint on the front, slouched in and grabbed up a chair from a table and pulled it up to the booth of The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him.
Abbey Rhoad grabbed a cup and the coffee pot with the chartreuse handle and negotiated her way over to booth LJ.
“Is that you, Rex?” asked Abbey.
“What was your first clue?” muttered Randall Nathan.
“How come you’re in here this time of day, Rex?” said Abbey.
“Lost my job.”
“I thought you were working at the Ford garage,” said Randall.
“Yeah, I was. But Stu DeBaker, the owner, got to thinking about my name and decided it was bad publicity. My full name is Rexford Carr.”
***
A Golden Persimmon is awarded today to LJ Booth, guitarist supreme, from Scandinavia, WI.
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
Randall Nathan was in his usual booth, labeled LJ, at The Good to the Last Slop Coffee Haus and Pig Repair Center, with two crash dummies dressed in snowmobile suits sitting across from him, so that no one would sit down with him, lest he lose points in The Hermudgeon of the Year contest, hermudgeon being a combination of hermit and curmudgeon.
That’s when a clean-shaven man in clean-washed overalls and a long ponytail pulled up into a hairnet, with the word “Mr. Snoodwrench” stenciled on the back, and the name Rex in needlepoint on the front, slouched in and grabbed up a chair from a table and pulled it up to the booth of The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him.
Abbey Rhoad grabbed a cup and the coffee pot with the chartreuse handle and negotiated her way over to booth LJ.
“Is that you, Rex?” asked Abbey.
“What was your first clue?” muttered Randall Nathan.
“How come you’re in here this time of day, Rex?” said Abbey.
“Lost my job.”
“I thought you were working at the Ford garage,” said Randall.
“Yeah, I was. But Stu DeBaker, the owner, got to thinking about my name and decided it was bad publicity. My full name is Rexford Carr.”
***
A Golden Persimmon is awarded today to LJ Booth, guitarist supreme, from Scandinavia, WI.
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Advancing Civilization
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
“What you doing in here this time of day, Seymour?” Edith Whistle, of The Whistle and Thistle Biker Bar and Episcopal Ladies Tea House, asked Professor Ben Bottoms, who teaches at the big state university in the town of Hope’s Promise, over in neighboring Crimson County.
“Spring break, Edith.”
“Oh, girls gone wild, and all that sort of stuff,” said Edith.
“Well, the girls in Professor Cat Requies’ class have gone Wilde, since they are on a literary gravestone tour with Catherine [1], as I should call her, since she doesn’t really like to be called Cat, but the girls in my class, and the guys, too, have gone to build Habitat homes, as a way of contributing to the second most important advance in the rise of civilization.”
“Okay, you’ve got me hooked. What’s the most important one?”
“That was about 50 to 100 thousand years ago. Something happened to humans genetically that allowed us to use language. That opened up all sorts of possibilities.”
“So what was second, Prof?” asked Carla Carlson, who was sitting at the next table with her husband, Carl.
“Sedentary life style, which was based on growing crops and domesticated animals instead of hunting and gathering. If people could stay in one place, they could acquire non-portable goods, which allowed for advances in technology. The more sedentary we became, the more civilization advanced.”
“Good grief, Carl,” said Carla to her husband, “you’ve brought us to the brink of a whole new era of civilization.”
***
1] This is an obscure reference to Oscar Wilde’s poem, Requiescat, which means RIP.
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
“What you doing in here this time of day, Seymour?” Edith Whistle, of The Whistle and Thistle Biker Bar and Episcopal Ladies Tea House, asked Professor Ben Bottoms, who teaches at the big state university in the town of Hope’s Promise, over in neighboring Crimson County.
“Spring break, Edith.”
“Oh, girls gone wild, and all that sort of stuff,” said Edith.
“Well, the girls in Professor Cat Requies’ class have gone Wilde, since they are on a literary gravestone tour with Catherine [1], as I should call her, since she doesn’t really like to be called Cat, but the girls in my class, and the guys, too, have gone to build Habitat homes, as a way of contributing to the second most important advance in the rise of civilization.”
“Okay, you’ve got me hooked. What’s the most important one?”
“That was about 50 to 100 thousand years ago. Something happened to humans genetically that allowed us to use language. That opened up all sorts of possibilities.”
“So what was second, Prof?” asked Carla Carlson, who was sitting at the next table with her husband, Carl.
“Sedentary life style, which was based on growing crops and domesticated animals instead of hunting and gathering. If people could stay in one place, they could acquire non-portable goods, which allowed for advances in technology. The more sedentary we became, the more civilization advanced.”
“Good grief, Carl,” said Carla to her husband, “you’ve brought us to the brink of a whole new era of civilization.”
***
1] This is an obscure reference to Oscar Wilde’s poem, Requiescat, which means RIP.
The similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Friday, March 4, 2011
Always Sunny
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
Retired funeral director Jake Newland and three-year-old Clara Wembley stopped into The Whistle & Thistle Biker Bar & Episcopal Ladies Tea House for lunch. They joined the Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, in his usual booth, overlooking Charybdis, the wishing Whirlpool washing machine.
“So it’s the three mugs of tears,” said Edith as she brought them a menu. “Where’s Shingles today?”
Shingles is the companion dog of the Wembley family, and sometimes of Kate Bates, Clara’s nana, or, the way Shingles thinks of it, they are his companion people. Clara has still not forgiven Shingles for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve of 2009 and continues to plot her revenge.
“Shingles has gone to that great Buddy Mutts in The Sky,” said Clara.
“OMG. He’s in heaven?” shrieked Edith.
“Not exactly,” said Jake. “The Brothers Jim are franchising Buddy Mutts, and their first franchisee is in Transkei, in African Violet County. Clara and I went over there sort of by accident, and you know how you can’t get in at Buddy Mutts unless you have a dog with you, and they didn’t have enough dogs, so they had a sign wanting loaner dogs, so Clara sort of leased Shingles to them. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put OMG in our food.”
Edith looked suspicious. “Just what were you two doing over in African Violet County, anyway?”
Clara piped up. “When Miss Jenny saw we were watching that Delphinimums show on TV, she told Mr. Jake to get lost, so he did.”
“Well,” said Jake, “getting lost wasn’t an immediate response to Jenny’s command. Clara and I drove over to the Jean Pool at Transkei, and got lost in the process.”
“Jean Pool?”
“Yeah, you have to wear jeans or be named Jean or they won’t let you in.”
“Sort of like church,” said Clara. “They cut off Mr. Smith’s tie last Sunday, and made him put double in the plate because he was wearing good clothes to church.”
“We’re trying to make our services user friendly,” said Jake. “People won’t think it’s friendly if there are folks in good clothes there. Pastor Tod says we need to be more like a Lions Club.”
“Roarrrr,” said Clara.
“But we didn’t qualify for the Jean Pool, so we went to the new Buddy Mutts there.”
“How come Clara was watching TV at your house in the first place?” asked Randall.
“She came down to my house to get me to take her over to Hope’s Promise, to the university, because she heard some frat boys saying they needed some hair of the dog. She was going to sell Shingles to them. She was going to hitch-hike over if I couldn’t take her. I figured it was better to have her watch TV with me than having her hitch-hike.”
“Wait a minute,” said Edith. “What TV show were you watching again?”
“Always Sunny in Phil’s Delphiniums,” said Jake, resting his head on his walker.
“You let Clara watch THAT?” shrieked Edith.
“I thought it was a gardening show,” protested Jake. “Who would have thought that delphinium is a euphemism for…”
“I don’t want to know,” said Randall.
***
(The similarity between activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.)
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
Retired funeral director Jake Newland and three-year-old Clara Wembley stopped into The Whistle & Thistle Biker Bar & Episcopal Ladies Tea House for lunch. They joined the Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, in his usual booth, overlooking Charybdis, the wishing Whirlpool washing machine.
“So it’s the three mugs of tears,” said Edith as she brought them a menu. “Where’s Shingles today?”
Shingles is the companion dog of the Wembley family, and sometimes of Kate Bates, Clara’s nana, or, the way Shingles thinks of it, they are his companion people. Clara has still not forgiven Shingles for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve of 2009 and continues to plot her revenge.
“Shingles has gone to that great Buddy Mutts in The Sky,” said Clara.
“OMG. He’s in heaven?” shrieked Edith.
“Not exactly,” said Jake. “The Brothers Jim are franchising Buddy Mutts, and their first franchisee is in Transkei, in African Violet County. Clara and I went over there sort of by accident, and you know how you can’t get in at Buddy Mutts unless you have a dog with you, and they didn’t have enough dogs, so they had a sign wanting loaner dogs, so Clara sort of leased Shingles to them. And I’d appreciate it if you didn’t put OMG in our food.”
Edith looked suspicious. “Just what were you two doing over in African Violet County, anyway?”
Clara piped up. “When Miss Jenny saw we were watching that Delphinimums show on TV, she told Mr. Jake to get lost, so he did.”
“Well,” said Jake, “getting lost wasn’t an immediate response to Jenny’s command. Clara and I drove over to the Jean Pool at Transkei, and got lost in the process.”
“Jean Pool?”
“Yeah, you have to wear jeans or be named Jean or they won’t let you in.”
“Sort of like church,” said Clara. “They cut off Mr. Smith’s tie last Sunday, and made him put double in the plate because he was wearing good clothes to church.”
“We’re trying to make our services user friendly,” said Jake. “People won’t think it’s friendly if there are folks in good clothes there. Pastor Tod says we need to be more like a Lions Club.”
“Roarrrr,” said Clara.
“But we didn’t qualify for the Jean Pool, so we went to the new Buddy Mutts there.”
“How come Clara was watching TV at your house in the first place?” asked Randall.
“She came down to my house to get me to take her over to Hope’s Promise, to the university, because she heard some frat boys saying they needed some hair of the dog. She was going to sell Shingles to them. She was going to hitch-hike over if I couldn’t take her. I figured it was better to have her watch TV with me than having her hitch-hike.”
“Wait a minute,” said Edith. “What TV show were you watching again?”
“Always Sunny in Phil’s Delphiniums,” said Jake, resting his head on his walker.
“You let Clara watch THAT?” shrieked Edith.
“I thought it was a gardening show,” protested Jake. “Who would have thought that delphinium is a euphemism for…”
“I don’t want to know,” said Randall.
***
(The similarity between activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.)
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Wise Acres Follies
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan pulled his 1953 MG into the spot reserved for Armand Leggpuller, the Physical Therapist at the “Wise Acres Home for Old Guys,” named for Carol Wise, the famed anthropologist whose pioneering work revealed the only consistent principal of elderly male natural-habitat life: “They think they’re funny.”
“If they call me out on a Sunday morning for THIS bunch,” he muttered, “I’ll park wherever I durn well please. Besides, a little exercise should appeal to a physical terrorist. Let him walk.”
“Thank God you’re here, Rev. Nathan,” said Ann Xious, the Wise Acres administrator, running out to meet him.
“It’s not always a good thing when people are glad to see you,” thought The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan. (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him.
“You simply must talk to Austin Sitylimitz. Nothing’s been the same since that old country singer came here,” said Ann Xious.
“Has he been singing Chad Mitchell Trio songs again?”
“Even worse. He won’t let Mia Kulpah, that visitor lady from ‘Come Here Or Go To Hell Fundamentalist Progressive Bible Finagling Church’ leave his room. He keeps holding her hand and begging her to tell him more about how Jesus wants him to be rich.”
“What’s wrong with that? I’d think a church lady like Mia Kulpah would be glad to have an old far.. that is, an old man like Austin Sitylimitz be asking to hear more about how Jesus wants him to be rich. That’s what they advertise on Critter, the social networking site where people can post a “bleet” about stuff like that.”
“Well, you almost said the operative word… oh, just go talk to him, won’t you?”
So Randall Nathan maneuvered his way through the wheel chairs in the hallway, where old men were regaling one another with tales of the three blond women with Parkinson’s who went into a bar and… he didn’t hear the rest of it, because Mia Kulpah came running down the hall, her face a ghastly purple mask. She ran out the front doors and fell on her knees and kissed the concrete of the parking lot. At least, that’s what it looked like she was doing.
Randall went on until he reached the room of Austin Sitylimitz, where the strains of a strained git-fiddle and a frog-like voice were singing, “Bring me little water, Sylvie, bring me little water now…” He broke off when Randall Nathan walked into the room.
“Good to hear you singing again, Austin,”
“Hades, I ain’t singin’. I’m trying to get that durn nurse Sylvie to bring me some water. I’m parched from having that durn church lady, Mia Kulpah, in here. You got anything to drink?”
Randall pulled his communion flask out of his sleeve like a magician and gave Austin Sitylimitz a swig.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” sighed Austin. “That tastes like Reunited Lambrusco.”
“Speaking of church ladies,” said Randall, “I saw Mia Kulpa running down the hall.”
“Yeah, I let her go. I ran out of ammo.”
“Ammo?”
“Yeah, that dame doesn’t come here to bring the word of God, or comfort, or anything else. She just wants to mark me off her list of stuff to do. Last night they fed us government surplus sweet persimmons, and they’d been working up into a storm inside of me. She came in here and started spouting stuff about Jesus and how he wants everybody to be rich and that’s how you know you’re saved, and so I should give her church all my money so God will make me rich. I felt real sorry for Jesus, what with friends like that, you know. Then them sweet ‘simmons… well, I just kept holding onto her hand and let it rip.”
“I’m sure Jesus is glad to count you as one of his friends,” said Randall Nathan, but he left shortly thereafter.
***
A Golden Persimmon is awarded today to The Residence at McCormick’s Creek, Spencer, IN, because… The similarity between activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan pulled his 1953 MG into the spot reserved for Armand Leggpuller, the Physical Therapist at the “Wise Acres Home for Old Guys,” named for Carol Wise, the famed anthropologist whose pioneering work revealed the only consistent principal of elderly male natural-habitat life: “They think they’re funny.”
“If they call me out on a Sunday morning for THIS bunch,” he muttered, “I’ll park wherever I durn well please. Besides, a little exercise should appeal to a physical terrorist. Let him walk.”
“Thank God you’re here, Rev. Nathan,” said Ann Xious, the Wise Acres administrator, running out to meet him.
“It’s not always a good thing when people are glad to see you,” thought The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan. (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, or at least that’s what they tell him.
“You simply must talk to Austin Sitylimitz. Nothing’s been the same since that old country singer came here,” said Ann Xious.
“Has he been singing Chad Mitchell Trio songs again?”
“Even worse. He won’t let Mia Kulpah, that visitor lady from ‘Come Here Or Go To Hell Fundamentalist Progressive Bible Finagling Church’ leave his room. He keeps holding her hand and begging her to tell him more about how Jesus wants him to be rich.”
“What’s wrong with that? I’d think a church lady like Mia Kulpah would be glad to have an old far.. that is, an old man like Austin Sitylimitz be asking to hear more about how Jesus wants him to be rich. That’s what they advertise on Critter, the social networking site where people can post a “bleet” about stuff like that.”
“Well, you almost said the operative word… oh, just go talk to him, won’t you?”
So Randall Nathan maneuvered his way through the wheel chairs in the hallway, where old men were regaling one another with tales of the three blond women with Parkinson’s who went into a bar and… he didn’t hear the rest of it, because Mia Kulpah came running down the hall, her face a ghastly purple mask. She ran out the front doors and fell on her knees and kissed the concrete of the parking lot. At least, that’s what it looked like she was doing.
Randall went on until he reached the room of Austin Sitylimitz, where the strains of a strained git-fiddle and a frog-like voice were singing, “Bring me little water, Sylvie, bring me little water now…” He broke off when Randall Nathan walked into the room.
“Good to hear you singing again, Austin,”
“Hades, I ain’t singin’. I’m trying to get that durn nurse Sylvie to bring me some water. I’m parched from having that durn church lady, Mia Kulpah, in here. You got anything to drink?”
Randall pulled his communion flask out of his sleeve like a magician and gave Austin Sitylimitz a swig.
“Oh, sweet Jesus,” sighed Austin. “That tastes like Reunited Lambrusco.”
“Speaking of church ladies,” said Randall, “I saw Mia Kulpa running down the hall.”
“Yeah, I let her go. I ran out of ammo.”
“Ammo?”
“Yeah, that dame doesn’t come here to bring the word of God, or comfort, or anything else. She just wants to mark me off her list of stuff to do. Last night they fed us government surplus sweet persimmons, and they’d been working up into a storm inside of me. She came in here and started spouting stuff about Jesus and how he wants everybody to be rich and that’s how you know you’re saved, and so I should give her church all my money so God will make me rich. I felt real sorry for Jesus, what with friends like that, you know. Then them sweet ‘simmons… well, I just kept holding onto her hand and let it rip.”
“I’m sure Jesus is glad to count you as one of his friends,” said Randall Nathan, but he left shortly thereafter.
***
A Golden Persimmon is awarded today to The Residence at McCormick’s Creek, Spencer, IN, because… The similarity between activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
3 Time Losers
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
The phone rang. Claire Nathan looked at the caller ID. She has been screening calls since her old boyfriend found her on PlaceMat, the social network site for cooks and decorators. He now has his own cooking show on the Faux Network, Cooking With a Boy Named Sous.
But it wasn’t Chef Sous. It was the Jen U. Kroc Periwinkle County Library & Plastic Surgery Center.
“Hmm, I wonder what they want,” mused Claire. “Randall, you didn’t take any of your plastic soldiers to the JUCPCL&PS after we dog-sat with Shingles and she or he got into them, did you?”
“It’s stupid to suggest I would take anything precious to those chainsaw artists,” said Randall.
Claire punched the “on” button.
“You’ve had a book out since last May,” said Libby Rarian.
“I have not,” gasped Claire.
“Yes you have,” insisted Libby. “It’s not been checked in, so it has to be out. Our computer never lies.”
“You don’t even have a computer,” said Claire.
“Yes we do. It’s in the basement so Igor, our circulation moderator, doesn’t have to interact with patrons. He had a bad experience with one once. She looked at him.”
“Sounds sort of like my husband,” said Claire.
“Whatever,” said Libby. “But you still have ‘The Secret Love Life of Persimmons,’ and there’s a waiting list.”
Randall could see a transcript of the conversation on the TV, since Periwinkle County’s electronic confusion provider, A T & Clueless, got the ions for their system mixed up with the signals from C. D. Romm’s pacemaker.
“That’s a stupid book,” muttered Randall. “Whoever heard of a persimmon being secretive about anything?”
Claire hung up the phone and turned to her husband.
“Lib Rarian claims I have a book I never even heard of, and they… they… It’s unfair. I never even had that book, and they say I didn’t return it,” she sputtered.
“Oh, just buy them a new copy and let it go. It would be stupid to do anything else,” said Randall.
“But what if I get arrested for something else? Then I’ll have a record. I’ll be considered an habitual criminal. Remember that parking ticket I got? It’s three strikes and you’re out. The next one will be the third.”
“Oh, that’s stupid. What else would you get arrested for?”
“I’m thinking murder might be a good possibility,” said Claire.
***
{The similarity between activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.}
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
The phone rang. Claire Nathan looked at the caller ID. She has been screening calls since her old boyfriend found her on PlaceMat, the social network site for cooks and decorators. He now has his own cooking show on the Faux Network, Cooking With a Boy Named Sous.
But it wasn’t Chef Sous. It was the Jen U. Kroc Periwinkle County Library & Plastic Surgery Center.
“Hmm, I wonder what they want,” mused Claire. “Randall, you didn’t take any of your plastic soldiers to the JUCPCL&PS after we dog-sat with Shingles and she or he got into them, did you?”
“It’s stupid to suggest I would take anything precious to those chainsaw artists,” said Randall.
Claire punched the “on” button.
“You’ve had a book out since last May,” said Libby Rarian.
“I have not,” gasped Claire.
“Yes you have,” insisted Libby. “It’s not been checked in, so it has to be out. Our computer never lies.”
“You don’t even have a computer,” said Claire.
“Yes we do. It’s in the basement so Igor, our circulation moderator, doesn’t have to interact with patrons. He had a bad experience with one once. She looked at him.”
“Sounds sort of like my husband,” said Claire.
“Whatever,” said Libby. “But you still have ‘The Secret Love Life of Persimmons,’ and there’s a waiting list.”
Randall could see a transcript of the conversation on the TV, since Periwinkle County’s electronic confusion provider, A T & Clueless, got the ions for their system mixed up with the signals from C. D. Romm’s pacemaker.
“That’s a stupid book,” muttered Randall. “Whoever heard of a persimmon being secretive about anything?”
Claire hung up the phone and turned to her husband.
“Lib Rarian claims I have a book I never even heard of, and they… they… It’s unfair. I never even had that book, and they say I didn’t return it,” she sputtered.
“Oh, just buy them a new copy and let it go. It would be stupid to do anything else,” said Randall.
“But what if I get arrested for something else? Then I’ll have a record. I’ll be considered an habitual criminal. Remember that parking ticket I got? It’s three strikes and you’re out. The next one will be the third.”
“Oh, that’s stupid. What else would you get arrested for?”
“I’m thinking murder might be a good possibility,” said Claire.
***
{The similarity between activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental.}
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Clara's Snow Man
Periwinkle Chronicles: Tales of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
Sheriff Omar slouched into The Hell’s Angles Biker Bar & Geometry Club just as Constance Comment was ending the Chai Chai dance lessons, which requires one to sip tea from beer goggles while doing the cha cha.
The sheriff had a rather large and unpleasant looking lump in the middle of his shaved head.
“You’re never going to look like Yul Brynner, Sharif, so give up the shaved look,” said Constance. “It only makes your brain bulge more obvious.”
“How’d you get that there brain bulge anyway, Sheriff?” asked Zeke Domkowski.
“I got called out to Bessie Bandervilt’s house. Kate Bates had took her home after the Geopardy tournament the Baptist ladies had, and I guess Bessie was feeling pretty good, ‘cause she won a treasure map, so she decided she and Kate and Clara Wembley, Kate’s three-year-old granddaughter, should build a snow man in the yard. After they did that, they were sitting in Bessie’s kitchen, where she does her pig taxidermy, and looking out the window, and that big deer, the one they call John, he and his gang attacked that snow man.”
“Why in the world?” exclaimed Constance.
“Well, it seems Bessie doesn’t keep any carrots in the house, ‘cause they remind her of a basketball team she doesn’t like, so she put a persimmon on the snow man for a nose, and Kate put sweet potatoes on for its ears, and little Clara put them little cheery tomatoes down its front for buttons. You know how that John deer and his gang hate red. Reminds him of a tractor brand he doesn’t like.”
“So you got that brain bulge trying to chase John and his gang off?”
“No, little Clara had already grabbed a rolling pin and chased ‘em off by the time I got there. Clara was still holding that rolling pin when I said, ‘Dressed like that, the snow man was askin’ for it.’”
***
(The similarity between activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is never coincidental.) Today a Golden Persimmon goes to Lynne Hendershott Wilson.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
Sheriff Omar slouched into The Hell’s Angles Biker Bar & Geometry Club just as Constance Comment was ending the Chai Chai dance lessons, which requires one to sip tea from beer goggles while doing the cha cha.
The sheriff had a rather large and unpleasant looking lump in the middle of his shaved head.
“You’re never going to look like Yul Brynner, Sharif, so give up the shaved look,” said Constance. “It only makes your brain bulge more obvious.”
“How’d you get that there brain bulge anyway, Sheriff?” asked Zeke Domkowski.
“I got called out to Bessie Bandervilt’s house. Kate Bates had took her home after the Geopardy tournament the Baptist ladies had, and I guess Bessie was feeling pretty good, ‘cause she won a treasure map, so she decided she and Kate and Clara Wembley, Kate’s three-year-old granddaughter, should build a snow man in the yard. After they did that, they were sitting in Bessie’s kitchen, where she does her pig taxidermy, and looking out the window, and that big deer, the one they call John, he and his gang attacked that snow man.”
“Why in the world?” exclaimed Constance.
“Well, it seems Bessie doesn’t keep any carrots in the house, ‘cause they remind her of a basketball team she doesn’t like, so she put a persimmon on the snow man for a nose, and Kate put sweet potatoes on for its ears, and little Clara put them little cheery tomatoes down its front for buttons. You know how that John deer and his gang hate red. Reminds him of a tractor brand he doesn’t like.”
“So you got that brain bulge trying to chase John and his gang off?”
“No, little Clara had already grabbed a rolling pin and chased ‘em off by the time I got there. Clara was still holding that rolling pin when I said, ‘Dressed like that, the snow man was askin’ for it.’”
***
(The similarity between activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is never coincidental.) Today a Golden Persimmon goes to Lynne Hendershott Wilson.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentines & Brains
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
***
Randall Nathan picked up his grandson, eleven-year-old Johnny Kendy, after school, so they could buy Valentine gifts for Johnny’s grandmother and mother and sister. They went to the Persimmon Pot Floating Gift Shop & Vulcanizing Center, on the Volvo River.
“You think we should get them Vulcan blood pressure kits?” said Johnny, looking over the shelves on the starboard side of the shop.
“No, those are joke gifts, since Vulcans have no blood pressure,” his grandfather replied. “You can’t get joke gifts for Valentine’s day. Women take this very seriously. Let’s go over to port side and see what they have.”
They saw a flock of women and teen-aged girls clustered around a woman dressed like a box of chocolates who was showing them a pink purse.
“It’s very small, because your purse can never be too small or too pink” the chocolate box woman said, “so there is room only for the most necessary things. Here are different sections for a lipstick selection, and here is a pocket for false eyebrows, and one for eye liner. And here, in a secret compartment at the bottom, is a glass vial for perfume.”
The women all ooed and ahhed. “How wonderful,” they exclaimed. “It’s even ready if you have a perfume emergency.”
“We’ll get three of those,” Randall said to Johnny.
Johnny shook his head and muttered, “I’ll never understand the way their brains work.”
“That,” said his grandfather, “is the beginning of wisdom.”
***
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
***
Randall Nathan picked up his grandson, eleven-year-old Johnny Kendy, after school, so they could buy Valentine gifts for Johnny’s grandmother and mother and sister. They went to the Persimmon Pot Floating Gift Shop & Vulcanizing Center, on the Volvo River.
“You think we should get them Vulcan blood pressure kits?” said Johnny, looking over the shelves on the starboard side of the shop.
“No, those are joke gifts, since Vulcans have no blood pressure,” his grandfather replied. “You can’t get joke gifts for Valentine’s day. Women take this very seriously. Let’s go over to port side and see what they have.”
They saw a flock of women and teen-aged girls clustered around a woman dressed like a box of chocolates who was showing them a pink purse.
“It’s very small, because your purse can never be too small or too pink” the chocolate box woman said, “so there is room only for the most necessary things. Here are different sections for a lipstick selection, and here is a pocket for false eyebrows, and one for eye liner. And here, in a secret compartment at the bottom, is a glass vial for perfume.”
The women all ooed and ahhed. “How wonderful,” they exclaimed. “It’s even ready if you have a perfume emergency.”
“We’ll get three of those,” Randall said to Johnny.
Johnny shook his head and muttered, “I’ll never understand the way their brains work.”
“That,” said his grandfather, “is the beginning of wisdom.”
***
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
The Parka Polka
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
Stan McMorse tapped and snapped his way into “The Puce Julius Persimmon Bar & Decorating Salon” and tapped and snapped his way over to the booth where the Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, was drinking a persimmon roughy and whittling on a puzzleword cross.
“Hey, Rev, you know McMorse code. You going to join?”
“You know my rule. No meetings unless music is involved.”
“Well, you must not have understood the message I just tapped out. We’re starting up The Pulsating Persimmons Barbershop Chorus again.”
“I understood perfectly well,” opined Dr. Nathan. “Besides, I read about it in The Old Weird Herald.”
“Come on, Rev, it’ll be great to have the guys singing together again,” he said, as he tapped around the room, handing out fliers about the restoration plans of The Pulsating Persimmons. “We could even do one of your songs. How’s about The Parka Polka?”
He jumped onto a chair at the table where Kay Pasa and Shirley Knott sat with Roald Oates and began to sing, with a tune that sounded a great deal like The Pennsylvania Polka:
The wind chill’s 100 and I mean below
Let’s do the parka polka
The pipes are all frozen, the water won’t flow
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Roald Oates stood and joined him with a mealy baritone.
Your hands are in mittens, your face in a mask
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Are you a woman or is that too much to ask
Let’s do the Parka Polka
From the corner Ole Aginous joined in with an oily bass.
You may be a bow-wow, I couldn’t care less
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Bundled up like that I couldn’t even guess
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Al Fredo joined them with the high tenor, extending his hand to Kay Pasa.
Stick out your hand, put your mitten in mine
Let’s do the Parka Polka
If you are a woman please give me a sign
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Kay gave him a sign. The men ignored it and continued to sing.
There is one thing to know that I really need
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Are you going to follow or will you lead
Let’s do the Parka Polka
All the men in the place, with the exception of the song’s author, were now singing.
I love you madly, our romance can’t fail
Let’s do the Parka Polka
But the only way I know you’re female is by the way you do the Parka Polka.
They finished and applauded themselves. Shirley Knott was reading the flier.
“This thing says that all men of good character are welcome.”
“Makes you understand why they had to fold the first time, doesn’t it?” said Randall Nathan.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Stan McMorse tapped and snapped his way into “The Puce Julius Persimmon Bar & Decorating Salon” and tapped and snapped his way over to the booth where the Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, was drinking a persimmon roughy and whittling on a puzzleword cross.
“Hey, Rev, you know McMorse code. You going to join?”
“You know my rule. No meetings unless music is involved.”
“Well, you must not have understood the message I just tapped out. We’re starting up The Pulsating Persimmons Barbershop Chorus again.”
“I understood perfectly well,” opined Dr. Nathan. “Besides, I read about it in The Old Weird Herald.”
“Come on, Rev, it’ll be great to have the guys singing together again,” he said, as he tapped around the room, handing out fliers about the restoration plans of The Pulsating Persimmons. “We could even do one of your songs. How’s about The Parka Polka?”
He jumped onto a chair at the table where Kay Pasa and Shirley Knott sat with Roald Oates and began to sing, with a tune that sounded a great deal like The Pennsylvania Polka:
The wind chill’s 100 and I mean below
Let’s do the parka polka
The pipes are all frozen, the water won’t flow
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Roald Oates stood and joined him with a mealy baritone.
Your hands are in mittens, your face in a mask
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Are you a woman or is that too much to ask
Let’s do the Parka Polka
From the corner Ole Aginous joined in with an oily bass.
You may be a bow-wow, I couldn’t care less
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Bundled up like that I couldn’t even guess
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Al Fredo joined them with the high tenor, extending his hand to Kay Pasa.
Stick out your hand, put your mitten in mine
Let’s do the Parka Polka
If you are a woman please give me a sign
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Kay gave him a sign. The men ignored it and continued to sing.
There is one thing to know that I really need
Let’s do the Parka Polka
Are you going to follow or will you lead
Let’s do the Parka Polka
All the men in the place, with the exception of the song’s author, were now singing.
I love you madly, our romance can’t fail
Let’s do the Parka Polka
But the only way I know you’re female is by the way you do the Parka Polka.
They finished and applauded themselves. Shirley Knott was reading the flier.
“This thing says that all men of good character are welcome.”
“Makes you understand why they had to fold the first time, doesn’t it?” said Randall Nathan.
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Unknown Precipitation
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
The big snow storm hit Periwinkle County, like it did the rest of the country.
Naturally, everyone in the county heeded Sheriff Omar’s admonition to stay off the roads. Instead they drove their snowmobiles and ATMs on the sidewalks and through people’s yards and on the extensive network of persimmon harvesting pathways.
“Shouldn’t that be ATVs?” asked Priscilla Shufflebottom, the famous persimmon polka dancer, who was down from Kapetal City for a concert and got snowed in at the Veggiedale fire house.
“No. Thirdfifth Bank believes the next big thing in money moving is ATMs on wheels, taking the money to the people, so to speak, so they give mobile ATMs out to people who go where’s there’s lots of drinking and not much sense. The only problem is that an ATM on wheels is sort of subject to theft.”
Naturally, the storm brought out the blizzard buzzards, large wild turkey-like creatures who appear only when there is bad weather, since they prefer frozen entrees.
The storm was all anyone talked about at the coffee shops.
“It’s all because they brought in them Chipahoys to do that snow dance at the “Persimmon Harvest and Pumpkin Stand Church” at the winter festival,” said Zeke Domkowski. “Them’s tough cookies. They really know how to dance.”
“Did you see the report on us on ‘The Whether Channel?’ asked Roald Oates. “They couldn’t tell whether we were getting snowed, or what.”
“I don’t know why they bothered to send that Jim Cannedstory here to do a report,” said Bessie Bandervilt, who is 94 and so called Kate Bates and told her she had to go to the emergency room immediately, so Kate spent three hours shoveling out her brother’s Jeep and went to get Bessie, only to find out on the way to the hospital that Bessie had meant “The Emergency Room Coffee Shop & Unionsuit Hall.”
“Well,” said Kate, reasonably, “we’re always in one of those lines on the map where you can’t tell if it is rain or hail or snow or ice. On the whether map, they just put Unknown Precipitation.”
“It’s a pretty sorry place to live when even your precipitation can’t be identified,” said Evangeline Northby-Northwest.
***
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
The big snow storm hit Periwinkle County, like it did the rest of the country.
Naturally, everyone in the county heeded Sheriff Omar’s admonition to stay off the roads. Instead they drove their snowmobiles and ATMs on the sidewalks and through people’s yards and on the extensive network of persimmon harvesting pathways.
“Shouldn’t that be ATVs?” asked Priscilla Shufflebottom, the famous persimmon polka dancer, who was down from Kapetal City for a concert and got snowed in at the Veggiedale fire house.
“No. Thirdfifth Bank believes the next big thing in money moving is ATMs on wheels, taking the money to the people, so to speak, so they give mobile ATMs out to people who go where’s there’s lots of drinking and not much sense. The only problem is that an ATM on wheels is sort of subject to theft.”
Naturally, the storm brought out the blizzard buzzards, large wild turkey-like creatures who appear only when there is bad weather, since they prefer frozen entrees.
The storm was all anyone talked about at the coffee shops.
“It’s all because they brought in them Chipahoys to do that snow dance at the “Persimmon Harvest and Pumpkin Stand Church” at the winter festival,” said Zeke Domkowski. “Them’s tough cookies. They really know how to dance.”
“Did you see the report on us on ‘The Whether Channel?’ asked Roald Oates. “They couldn’t tell whether we were getting snowed, or what.”
“I don’t know why they bothered to send that Jim Cannedstory here to do a report,” said Bessie Bandervilt, who is 94 and so called Kate Bates and told her she had to go to the emergency room immediately, so Kate spent three hours shoveling out her brother’s Jeep and went to get Bessie, only to find out on the way to the hospital that Bessie had meant “The Emergency Room Coffee Shop & Unionsuit Hall.”
“Well,” said Kate, reasonably, “we’re always in one of those lines on the map where you can’t tell if it is rain or hail or snow or ice. On the whether map, they just put Unknown Precipitation.”
“It’s a pretty sorry place to live when even your precipitation can’t be identified,” said Evangeline Northby-Northwest.
***
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Saturday, January 29, 2011
The Laugher
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
Gaylord Coventry drooped into the “Good to the Last Slop Coffee Shop and Pig Pedicure Proscenium” and slowly oozed his way over to the booth where The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, was sitting with a stack of newspapers and six pairs of Fiskars on the table, so that people would think that the coupon-clipping ladies of Second Pentecostal Progressive Fundamentalist Church would soon be there and so would not sit with him, since he is still trying to earn points in “The Hermudgeon of the Year” contest, hermudgeon being a combination of hermit and curmudgeon, with the prize being an Oscar the Grouch statue from “The Academy of Arson Sciences,” and he loses points if he is seen consorting with real people, but coupon-clippers don’t count, for obvious reasons. Gaylord picked up two pairs of Fiskars and started grooming his nose hair.
“You haven’t heard me for a while,” said Gaylord.
“It’s been nice,” said Randall.
“I’ve been on the road.”
“Lego competitions didn’t work out so you went back to acting?”
“Not exactly acting. I’m a professional laugher now. An agent heard me laughing that time at church when you filled in for Pastor Patty and hired me to sit in the front row of comedy clubs and shows. I laugh so hard everybody else laughs, too.”
“Well, I’m glad that coming to church that time helped you find a career,” said The Rev. Dr. Nathan. “I had begun to worry that I was losing the humorous touch in the pulpit, but your laughter restored my faith.”
“Yeah,” said Gaylord. “Tell your wife she still owes me money.”
@+
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Gaylord Coventry drooped into the “Good to the Last Slop Coffee Shop and Pig Pedicure Proscenium” and slowly oozed his way over to the booth where The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County, was sitting with a stack of newspapers and six pairs of Fiskars on the table, so that people would think that the coupon-clipping ladies of Second Pentecostal Progressive Fundamentalist Church would soon be there and so would not sit with him, since he is still trying to earn points in “The Hermudgeon of the Year” contest, hermudgeon being a combination of hermit and curmudgeon, with the prize being an Oscar the Grouch statue from “The Academy of Arson Sciences,” and he loses points if he is seen consorting with real people, but coupon-clippers don’t count, for obvious reasons. Gaylord picked up two pairs of Fiskars and started grooming his nose hair.
“You haven’t heard me for a while,” said Gaylord.
“It’s been nice,” said Randall.
“I’ve been on the road.”
“Lego competitions didn’t work out so you went back to acting?”
“Not exactly acting. I’m a professional laugher now. An agent heard me laughing that time at church when you filled in for Pastor Patty and hired me to sit in the front row of comedy clubs and shows. I laugh so hard everybody else laughs, too.”
“Well, I’m glad that coming to church that time helped you find a career,” said The Rev. Dr. Nathan. “I had begun to worry that I was losing the humorous touch in the pulpit, but your laughter restored my faith.”
“Yeah,” said Gaylord. “Tell your wife she still owes me money.”
@+
[“Christ in Winter,” Reflections On Faith For People In The Winter Of Their Years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Monday, January 24, 2011
The New Zodiak Signs
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
“You heard about the way the signs of the Zodiak have been recalculated, Mrs. Westwick-Eastbrook?” Edith asked as she set down a faux-silver pot, Louie Louie design, of Earl Grey on the “High Thread Count White Linen Table” in “The Silver Spoon Corner” of “The Whistle & Thistle Biker Bar and Episcopal Ladies Tea House.”
“Oh, my goodness, yes,” said Eveline Eastbrook-Westwick. “Mr. Greasy Gus from over there at the pool table told me about it, since we can’t get cable up on ‘Discover Card Summit,’ since it’s a gated community and cable guys are not allowed through the gates. Isn’t it awful? Mr. Greasy Gus is worried that he may have to divorce his wife since they are no longer under compatible signs.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem for Mrs. Greasy Gus,” said Edith, “but there’s not much to worry about in general. I hear that Madame Mitzi has recalculated the recalculations of the astrologers.”
Just then the owl above the door hooted to indicate someone had entered. It was Madame Mitzi herself, in her purple robe with the cargo pockets to hold her Terro packets, since she moonlights as an ant whisperer.
“We’re so glad you’re here, Madame Mitzi,” said Eveline Westbridge-Eastbrook, extending her white glove in a royal wave. “We understand you have fixed this awful Zodiak tragedy.”
“Ewe betz yur beauties,” said Madame Mitzi. “Ze astromonists, and eye emphazize zee ass part, zey don no notheeng. Awl they due ees look thru zee looking glasses at zee sky while zey eat zee ham zandweeches. Eet ees us partickular fiscicists astrologists, knot zee stringy theery guys, vee r zee wuns hoo unnerstand zee stars, because vee eat zee chicken zuppe mit zee liddle stars n it, and eet makes us to zee things n zee toilet when vee throws it up, which ees axeuly down.”
“Oh, my goodness,” said Mrs. Eastwick-Westbrook. “That reminds me of a song we sang in Finishing School Scouts. Great green…”
“Uh, better be careful there, Mrs. Eastbrook-Westwind,” said Edith. “Greasy Gus is a queasy cuss.”
Madame Mitzi did not seem to notice the interruption.
“Now vee haf zee new zigns of zee Sodiak. Zee zigns of Texico and Bee Pee and ZittiBank and Goldman’s Zaks…”
“Wait. The new Zodiak signs have the names of big companies?” said Edith.
“Uff coarse. Eff ewe ver born unner zee zign of zee Master…”
“Sign of the master? You mean Jesus has a Zodiak sign now?” asked Evaline.
“Nein, dumkopf. Eet ees zee zign of zee Master Card. And if ewe born unner eet, ewe must chews zee mait frum zee zign of zee Apple, mit zee wun bite mizzing.”
“But you really mean the Zodiak sign naming rights have been sold?” asked Edith.
“Well, uff course, dumkopf. Vee had tew zell zee naming rites too zee big companies. Zee supreme cort sez it ees zee law, now. Awl must bee runny like zee bizness. Hooeefer haz zee most munny, zey r zee wuns who get tew name zee stuff.”
“Hmm,” said Evaline, “perhaps this explains ‘The Honda Prelude’ in last Sunday’s worship bulletin.”
Until next time, may your sign be a good one…
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
“You heard about the way the signs of the Zodiak have been recalculated, Mrs. Westwick-Eastbrook?” Edith asked as she set down a faux-silver pot, Louie Louie design, of Earl Grey on the “High Thread Count White Linen Table” in “The Silver Spoon Corner” of “The Whistle & Thistle Biker Bar and Episcopal Ladies Tea House.”
“Oh, my goodness, yes,” said Eveline Eastbrook-Westwick. “Mr. Greasy Gus from over there at the pool table told me about it, since we can’t get cable up on ‘Discover Card Summit,’ since it’s a gated community and cable guys are not allowed through the gates. Isn’t it awful? Mr. Greasy Gus is worried that he may have to divorce his wife since they are no longer under compatible signs.”
“I don’t think that will be a problem for Mrs. Greasy Gus,” said Edith, “but there’s not much to worry about in general. I hear that Madame Mitzi has recalculated the recalculations of the astrologers.”
Just then the owl above the door hooted to indicate someone had entered. It was Madame Mitzi herself, in her purple robe with the cargo pockets to hold her Terro packets, since she moonlights as an ant whisperer.
“We’re so glad you’re here, Madame Mitzi,” said Eveline Westbridge-Eastbrook, extending her white glove in a royal wave. “We understand you have fixed this awful Zodiak tragedy.”
“Ewe betz yur beauties,” said Madame Mitzi. “Ze astromonists, and eye emphazize zee ass part, zey don no notheeng. Awl they due ees look thru zee looking glasses at zee sky while zey eat zee ham zandweeches. Eet ees us partickular fiscicists astrologists, knot zee stringy theery guys, vee r zee wuns hoo unnerstand zee stars, because vee eat zee chicken zuppe mit zee liddle stars n it, and eet makes us to zee things n zee toilet when vee throws it up, which ees axeuly down.”
“Oh, my goodness,” said Mrs. Eastwick-Westbrook. “That reminds me of a song we sang in Finishing School Scouts. Great green…”
“Uh, better be careful there, Mrs. Eastbrook-Westwind,” said Edith. “Greasy Gus is a queasy cuss.”
Madame Mitzi did not seem to notice the interruption.
“Now vee haf zee new zigns of zee Sodiak. Zee zigns of Texico and Bee Pee and ZittiBank and Goldman’s Zaks…”
“Wait. The new Zodiak signs have the names of big companies?” said Edith.
“Uff coarse. Eff ewe ver born unner zee zign of zee Master…”
“Sign of the master? You mean Jesus has a Zodiak sign now?” asked Evaline.
“Nein, dumkopf. Eet ees zee zign of zee Master Card. And if ewe born unner eet, ewe must chews zee mait frum zee zign of zee Apple, mit zee wun bite mizzing.”
“But you really mean the Zodiak sign naming rights have been sold?” asked Edith.
“Well, uff course, dumkopf. Vee had tew zell zee naming rites too zee big companies. Zee supreme cort sez it ees zee law, now. Awl must bee runny like zee bizness. Hooeefer haz zee most munny, zey r zee wuns who get tew name zee stuff.”
“Hmm,” said Evaline, “perhaps this explains ‘The Honda Prelude’ in last Sunday’s worship bulletin.”
Until next time, may your sign be a good one…
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Digesting New Things
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
Claire and Randall Nathan were invited to the home of Radbyme and June Rarey last Monday night for a scrapple taco feed, scrapple tacos being a staple of Hex-Mex cooking, which is a combination of Pennsylvania Dutch and Mexican cuisines. It was really a debut party for the new LP of WWI songs, “It’s a Long Way,” by their daughter, Tippa.
Everyone was invited to bring their own special side dish contributions. Claire took her famous persimmon & lambrusco salad. Randall took a bag of his homemade persimmon crisps. Mountain Man Malcolm, known on the pig tag-team wrestling circuit as The Wyoming Stranger, where he reigns supreme with his thousand pound Poland-China, Zorro, brought his road-kill jack-a-lope stew.
The jack-a-lopes were brought in from Wyoming to control the Moose Moths in the persimmon vineyards by “The County Cabinet & Historical Desecration Committee.” Now they run all over, and are run over by people from the city practicing for the Running of the Gulls. When Sheriff Grace Orlaw, the first female sheriff of the county since 2008, who gave up her career in theology for obvious reasons, finds a decimated jack-a-lope on the highway, she calls Mountain Man Malcolm, and he makes it into road-kill stew.
Claire Nathan ate three bowls of it, and not just because she’s not a big scrapple taco fan. On the way out the door, though, she said, “I’m burping things I’ve never burped before.”
Tippa Rarey heard her. Since she had sold only three of her new LPs that night, and she suspected her father had bought two, she had already begun to think she needed a cross-over vehicle. Since rap and rock were both out, the obvious choice was country. And what better debut song than the one she composed right there, WJRS, “Wild Jack-a-lope Road-kill Stew”, the Mary Beth Connolly version, which is a little bit confusing, since those are also the call letters of the Persimmon Broadcasting Service radio station, “The Voice of the Swedish Automobiles,” at Volvo River High School.
Oh, I’m burpin’ stuff I’ve never burped before
And every burp just leaves me wantin’ more
I’m burpin’ up Hex-Mex and jack-a-lope stew
And if you give me grief, I’ll be burpin’ you.
Initial sales figures have not yet been released.
{Until next time, may the piece of stew be with you.}
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Claire and Randall Nathan were invited to the home of Radbyme and June Rarey last Monday night for a scrapple taco feed, scrapple tacos being a staple of Hex-Mex cooking, which is a combination of Pennsylvania Dutch and Mexican cuisines. It was really a debut party for the new LP of WWI songs, “It’s a Long Way,” by their daughter, Tippa.
Everyone was invited to bring their own special side dish contributions. Claire took her famous persimmon & lambrusco salad. Randall took a bag of his homemade persimmon crisps. Mountain Man Malcolm, known on the pig tag-team wrestling circuit as The Wyoming Stranger, where he reigns supreme with his thousand pound Poland-China, Zorro, brought his road-kill jack-a-lope stew.
The jack-a-lopes were brought in from Wyoming to control the Moose Moths in the persimmon vineyards by “The County Cabinet & Historical Desecration Committee.” Now they run all over, and are run over by people from the city practicing for the Running of the Gulls. When Sheriff Grace Orlaw, the first female sheriff of the county since 2008, who gave up her career in theology for obvious reasons, finds a decimated jack-a-lope on the highway, she calls Mountain Man Malcolm, and he makes it into road-kill stew.
Claire Nathan ate three bowls of it, and not just because she’s not a big scrapple taco fan. On the way out the door, though, she said, “I’m burping things I’ve never burped before.”
Tippa Rarey heard her. Since she had sold only three of her new LPs that night, and she suspected her father had bought two, she had already begun to think she needed a cross-over vehicle. Since rap and rock were both out, the obvious choice was country. And what better debut song than the one she composed right there, WJRS, “Wild Jack-a-lope Road-kill Stew”, the Mary Beth Connolly version, which is a little bit confusing, since those are also the call letters of the Persimmon Broadcasting Service radio station, “The Voice of the Swedish Automobiles,” at Volvo River High School.
Oh, I’m burpin’ stuff I’ve never burped before
And every burp just leaves me wantin’ more
I’m burpin’ up Hex-Mex and jack-a-lope stew
And if you give me grief, I’ll be burpin’ you.
Initial sales figures have not yet been released.
{Until next time, may the piece of stew be with you.}
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Monday, January 17, 2011
The Secret Worshipper
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
Randall Nathan was at The Silence is Golden Coffee Igloo & Foosball Emporium Monday morning, holding a copy of The Periwinkle Garden & Ammo magazine in front of his face so no one would know he was there. Zelda Littletact flounced in with a flurry of snow flakes, with persimmon schnapps on her breath. She sat down across from Randall.
“You haven’t seen me at church for a while,” Zelda said.
“I hadn’t noticed,” said The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard). [Which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County.]
“The reason,” said Zelda, “is the Crisco Cathedral up in Caputil City hired me to be a mystery worshipper.”
“Tough gig,” said Randall.
“Tell me about it,” said Zelda. “I had to go every Sunday for 3 months, then fill out this form so they could figure out what to do better. Worst part was I had to go to the seeker-friendly service.”
“Was it friendly?”
“Are you kidding me? They were all over me like a swarm of gnats on a mushed persimmon.”
“Must have been nice.”
“Does a bear like to get shot in the woods? It was awful. I asked them why they were so nice to me, and they said it was because Rev. Tim and Sister Cindy told them to, so I’d come back. I said so why should I come back, and they said so I could be friendly to new seekers, too.”
“So you’re not going back?”
“Does a drowning man ask for a drink? I filled out that form and collected my ten bucks and got out of there.”
“What did you say on the form?”
“I said they’ve got 9 stories in that cathedral, but they don’t have a story.”
“What did they say to that?”
“They said that since I didn’t like it, they must not have been friendly enough, so they’d have to give everybody more friendliness training.”
“So you’re against friendliness now?” asked Randall.
“Why in that place that just froze over do you think I decided to sit with you?” said Zelda.
{Until next time, may the taste of persimmon pudding linger…}
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Randall Nathan was at The Silence is Golden Coffee Igloo & Foosball Emporium Monday morning, holding a copy of The Periwinkle Garden & Ammo magazine in front of his face so no one would know he was there. Zelda Littletact flounced in with a flurry of snow flakes, with persimmon schnapps on her breath. She sat down across from Randall.
“You haven’t seen me at church for a while,” Zelda said.
“I hadn’t noticed,” said The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard). [Which is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County.]
“The reason,” said Zelda, “is the Crisco Cathedral up in Caputil City hired me to be a mystery worshipper.”
“Tough gig,” said Randall.
“Tell me about it,” said Zelda. “I had to go every Sunday for 3 months, then fill out this form so they could figure out what to do better. Worst part was I had to go to the seeker-friendly service.”
“Was it friendly?”
“Are you kidding me? They were all over me like a swarm of gnats on a mushed persimmon.”
“Must have been nice.”
“Does a bear like to get shot in the woods? It was awful. I asked them why they were so nice to me, and they said it was because Rev. Tim and Sister Cindy told them to, so I’d come back. I said so why should I come back, and they said so I could be friendly to new seekers, too.”
“So you’re not going back?”
“Does a drowning man ask for a drink? I filled out that form and collected my ten bucks and got out of there.”
“What did you say on the form?”
“I said they’ve got 9 stories in that cathedral, but they don’t have a story.”
“What did they say to that?”
“They said that since I didn’t like it, they must not have been friendly enough, so they’d have to give everybody more friendliness training.”
“So you’re against friendliness now?” asked Randall.
“Why in that place that just froze over do you think I decided to sit with you?” said Zelda.
{Until next time, may the taste of persimmon pudding linger…}
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
{If you would like to receive PC or CIW by email, let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the list.}
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
How to Deter Ukulele Players
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
Olaf Mapquist, the great ukulele player was in county last week for a concert at “The Venue: Where Rock & Zen Collide.”
The next morning he wandered into the “Good to the Last Slop Coffee & Poetry Repair Shop.”
Randall Nathan was in his usual booth, with an accordion beside him. He doesn’t play the accordion, but he carries it with him to the coffee shop so people will not sit with him.
Of course, an accordion does not deter or detour a ukulele player, [nor does anything else], so Olaf sat down across from Randall.
“Oh, man,” said Olaf, holding his head, “I need coffee bad. After my concert last night, you won’t believe all the [deleted] [deleted] I got into. The [deleted] stuff was [deleted] great, and the [deleted] women were [deleted] and we [deleted] all night. You’ve got a [deleted] place here.”
“You’d better have some Hair of the Bear coffee then,” said Randall. “It will cure what ails you.”
He opened up the button side of the accordion, pulled a flask out of it, and poured a double for Olaf.
“Hey, [deleted], that’s really [deleted],” said Olaf. “I always knew a [deleted] accordion should be good for [deleted] something.”
He took a big swig.
“Oh, this stuff is awful,” cried Olaf. “Lord, have mercy on my soul. It’s changing my neurons all around. I don’t even want to say [deleted] anymore. I’m being ionized into something…. I’m saved. I’m going to be a missionary to the Finns and teach them to play the ukulele. What kind of devil are you, making me drink this stuff?”
“I’m a preacher,” said Randall, “and I like to be left alone.”
30 [Which means The End…until next time…]
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
Olaf Mapquist, the great ukulele player was in county last week for a concert at “The Venue: Where Rock & Zen Collide.”
The next morning he wandered into the “Good to the Last Slop Coffee & Poetry Repair Shop.”
Randall Nathan was in his usual booth, with an accordion beside him. He doesn’t play the accordion, but he carries it with him to the coffee shop so people will not sit with him.
Of course, an accordion does not deter or detour a ukulele player, [nor does anything else], so Olaf sat down across from Randall.
“Oh, man,” said Olaf, holding his head, “I need coffee bad. After my concert last night, you won’t believe all the [deleted] [deleted] I got into. The [deleted] stuff was [deleted] great, and the [deleted] women were [deleted] and we [deleted] all night. You’ve got a [deleted] place here.”
“You’d better have some Hair of the Bear coffee then,” said Randall. “It will cure what ails you.”
He opened up the button side of the accordion, pulled a flask out of it, and poured a double for Olaf.
“Hey, [deleted], that’s really [deleted],” said Olaf. “I always knew a [deleted] accordion should be good for [deleted] something.”
He took a big swig.
“Oh, this stuff is awful,” cried Olaf. “Lord, have mercy on my soul. It’s changing my neurons all around. I don’t even want to say [deleted] anymore. I’m being ionized into something…. I’m saved. I’m going to be a missionary to the Finns and teach them to play the ukulele. What kind of devil are you, making me drink this stuff?”
“I’m a preacher,” said Randall, “and I like to be left alone.”
30 [Which means The End…until next time…]
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)