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.}
Saturday, January 29, 2011
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/]
Monday, January 10, 2011
Laughter in Church
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), filled in for Pastor Patty at worship Sunday at The Methodist. [“Retard” is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County.] Pastor Patty was on one of her periodic retreats with her “Amazon Women in the Church” group.
Randall thought it went fairly well, considering that Claire greeted him immediately after with “That was fairly good considering how old you are,” but he was accosted at the door by Bessie Bandervilt.
“I’m opposed to laughter in church,” said Bessie.
Randall was in a hurry to get to Buddy Mutts for lunch before all the loaner dogs were taken. [Buddy Mutts won’t let you in unless you have a dog with you. Some churches loan home medical equipment or carseats to grandparents. The Methodist does, too, but they also have a kennel of loaner dogs for folks who want to go to Buddy Mutts.] So he decided to get rid of Bessie with an insincere apology.
“I’m sorry I told those jokes,” he said.
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Bessie. “They weren’t funny enough to make anyone laugh.”
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), filled in for Pastor Patty at worship Sunday at The Methodist. [“Retard” is how they pronounce “retired” in Periwinkle County.] Pastor Patty was on one of her periodic retreats with her “Amazon Women in the Church” group.
Randall thought it went fairly well, considering that Claire greeted him immediately after with “That was fairly good considering how old you are,” but he was accosted at the door by Bessie Bandervilt.
“I’m opposed to laughter in church,” said Bessie.
Randall was in a hurry to get to Buddy Mutts for lunch before all the loaner dogs were taken. [Buddy Mutts won’t let you in unless you have a dog with you. Some churches loan home medical equipment or carseats to grandparents. The Methodist does, too, but they also have a kennel of loaner dogs for folks who want to go to Buddy Mutts.] So he decided to get rid of Bessie with an insincere apology.
“I’m sorry I told those jokes,” he said.
“Oh, don’t worry,” said Bessie. “They weren’t funny enough to make anyone laugh.”
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
Saturday, January 8, 2011
The Hated Rule
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
Claire Nathan slumped down onto a stool at "The Whistle & Thistle Biker Bar & Glee Impersonators Club.”
“Give me a double Elk Sweat,” she said to Edith.
“You look tired and mad enough for Elk Sweat,” said Edith, “but a double is awful strong. Persimmon juice as well as mad veal.” [“Mad veal” is a Periwinklian slang for caffeine, since it sounds like calf fiend.]
Claire glared at her.
“Once again,” she said, “I have proved the rule that if you just get up and start doing stuff, you can get stuff done.”
“Double Elk Sweat coming up,” said Edith. “I hate that rule, too.”
DN [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/]
{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 Nathan slumped down onto a stool at "The Whistle & Thistle Biker Bar & Glee Impersonators Club.”
“Give me a double Elk Sweat,” she said to Edith.
“You look tired and mad enough for Elk Sweat,” said Edith, “but a double is awful strong. Persimmon juice as well as mad veal.” [“Mad veal” is a Periwinklian slang for caffeine, since it sounds like calf fiend.]
Claire glared at her.
“Once again,” she said, “I have proved the rule that if you just get up and start doing stuff, you can get stuff done.”
“Double Elk Sweat coming up,” said Edith. “I hate that rule, too.”
DN [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/]
{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, January 7, 2011
Persimmon Placebos
Over the holidays, there was a good deal of over-indulgence in the new taste sensation, Reece’s Persimmon Butter Cups. There is no known antidote, so Dr. Sick [sic], of the “Docs & Docks Medical and Canoe Repair Clinic,” out by Blue Bayou Lake, decided to try placebos. He saw recently on TV, where he gets most of his continuing education, that people got better with placebos even if they knew they were getting a placebo rather than the real thing.
Bessie Bandervilt had eaten so many Persimmon Butter Cups that she looked pregnant, which at 94 years of age is cause for talk.
“Doc, you’ve got to help me,” she said to Dr. Sick [sic].
“Here,” he said. “Try some of the new Docs & Docks PCBs.”
“Aren’t PCBs bad for you.”
“Of course not. Persimmon Correcting Busters are great for your condition.”
“Are these the real thing?”
“Of course. If I gave you a placebo, I’d have to charge you more.”
Bessie Bandervilt had eaten so many Persimmon Butter Cups that she looked pregnant, which at 94 years of age is cause for talk.
“Doc, you’ve got to help me,” she said to Dr. Sick [sic].
“Here,” he said. “Try some of the new Docs & Docks PCBs.”
“Aren’t PCBs bad for you.”
“Of course not. Persimmon Correcting Busters are great for your condition.”
“Are these the real thing?”
“Of course. If I gave you a placebo, I’d have to charge you more.”
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Beware the Ides
Randall Nathan was peacefully sipping his Caribou Crunch Coffee, which is listed at the “Good to the Last Slop Coffee House and Colbert Nation Museum” as Kariboo Krunch Kauphy, but he refuses misspelled coffee, but likes CCC a lot, and does not like KKK, so he respells it in his moleskin notebook where he keeps his personal menus of the joints he frequents, when a man called Horace came in and grabbed the rubber boa constrictor The Rev. Dr. Nathan, (Retard) puts in the seat across from him in his booth so that nobody will sit there and said, “What the hell’s this?”
“A boa,” said Randall.
“Oh,” said Horace, and he wrapped it around his neck and sat down. “Haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“It’s been longer than that,” said Randall. “We’ve never met.”
“Yeah, but I recognize you from your picture at the post office, but I haven’t been there in a long time, so I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“I’m Ran…”
“I know,” interrupted Horace, “you’re randy. I can see that. That’s my problem, too. And now they won’t let me into the Henry Ferd Community College over to the hard road, and they should never have named it after that anti-simian, anyway.”
“I didn’t realize that Henry Ferd was an anti-simian,” said Randall. “I thought he was just famous for inventing the automatic persimmon pervenator.”
“Oh, yeah, total anti-simian. Hated monkeys. Bamboos, too.”
“Don’t you mean baboons?”
“No, he thought they were okay, because they could be trained to use his pervenators. But he hated pandas, too, ‘cause they’ve got those disposable thumbs and can’t use the pervenators, so he hated bamboos, ‘cause pandas like to eat them, you know.”
“What does this have to do with them not letting you into the Community College?”
“Well, it said in ‘The Old Weird Harold’ that you could register online or in person. I didn’t want to stand in line, and I’m a person, so I just went out there and right through their front doors and there wasn’t even any line, just this woman with big balloons sitting there at a desk. Must have been left over from a party. But she said I’d have to get into their computer, and durned if I’m going to do that. I’ve read all about them things. They steal your id. You realize how hard it is to get along at my age without an id? Now, if they’d steal my super-ego, that would be okay, but not my id.”
“I think that’s I-D instead of id,” said Randall.
“I got no eye-dee what you’re talking about.”
“It’s pronounced id…”
“Oh, yeah, I know that. Beware the ids of Marge. I’ll tell you, that woman’s got an id like you wouldn’t believe.”
That was when Randall Nathan flipped the switch on the remote control that causes his rubber boa to start constricting.
And a big persimmon pucker to you,
Until next time…
“A boa,” said Randall.
“Oh,” said Horace, and he wrapped it around his neck and sat down. “Haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“It’s been longer than that,” said Randall. “We’ve never met.”
“Yeah, but I recognize you from your picture at the post office, but I haven’t been there in a long time, so I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
“I’m Ran…”
“I know,” interrupted Horace, “you’re randy. I can see that. That’s my problem, too. And now they won’t let me into the Henry Ferd Community College over to the hard road, and they should never have named it after that anti-simian, anyway.”
“I didn’t realize that Henry Ferd was an anti-simian,” said Randall. “I thought he was just famous for inventing the automatic persimmon pervenator.”
“Oh, yeah, total anti-simian. Hated monkeys. Bamboos, too.”
“Don’t you mean baboons?”
“No, he thought they were okay, because they could be trained to use his pervenators. But he hated pandas, too, ‘cause they’ve got those disposable thumbs and can’t use the pervenators, so he hated bamboos, ‘cause pandas like to eat them, you know.”
“What does this have to do with them not letting you into the Community College?”
“Well, it said in ‘The Old Weird Harold’ that you could register online or in person. I didn’t want to stand in line, and I’m a person, so I just went out there and right through their front doors and there wasn’t even any line, just this woman with big balloons sitting there at a desk. Must have been left over from a party. But she said I’d have to get into their computer, and durned if I’m going to do that. I’ve read all about them things. They steal your id. You realize how hard it is to get along at my age without an id? Now, if they’d steal my super-ego, that would be okay, but not my id.”
“I think that’s I-D instead of id,” said Randall.
“I got no eye-dee what you’re talking about.”
“It’s pronounced id…”
“Oh, yeah, I know that. Beware the ids of Marge. I’ll tell you, that woman’s got an id like you wouldn’t believe.”
That was when Randall Nathan flipped the switch on the remote control that causes his rubber boa to start constricting.
And a big persimmon pucker to you,
Until next time…
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
A Round Mound Christmas
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
Randall Nathan was right when he said on Christmas eve that nothing was going to happen in Periwinkle County over the Christmas break. Except that Charles Barkley came to town. In his Santa suit.
It was a mistake. He was supposed to play Santa in Memphis, but Horned Frog Airlines naturally thought he was going to Memphjus, the seat of Periwinkle County, and thus booked him into The Buddy Holly Air Strip & Persimmon Juicery.
Cab Cataway, who drives for Lallo Cabs, looked at the Santa suit and took him directly to The Whistle and Thistle Biker Bar and Episcopal Ladies Tea House, since that was the venue for the community Christmas bash.
The Episcopal ladies were quite pleased when they heard that “Sir Charles” was there, assuming he was British nobility.
Not knowing he was in the wrong Memphjus, he did his Santa routine, in his Sir Charles voice, but Claire Nathan saw through it, and when he was introduced as “The Round Mound of Rebound,” she laughed so hard she fell off her chair. She said, “It wasn’t all that funny, but when you’ve made enough persimmon pudding to deliver it to 300 people in nursing homes, you’re ready to laugh at something.”
When Charles learned that Betsy Kendy had been born in Auburn, AL, where he played college basketball, he pulled her onto the dance floor. Betsy is a willowy high school freshwoman, but her 5’7” and 110 looked quite scrawny compared to Charles’ 6’6” and 300. Naturally she was embarrassed and tried to get away, but Charles just tucked her under his arm and danced with her that way.
Then Betsy’s little brother, Johnny, challenged Santa to a game of H-O-R-S-E, and everyone went out into the parking lot to watch him demolish “Mr. Round Mound,” as Johnny called him, with a variety of layups that seemed to befuddle Sir Charles. He blamed it on jet lag.
“Well, little lady,” said Sir Charles to Betsy, “you’ll have quite a story to tell when school gets back in session.”
“If you think I’m going to tell anybody I still believe in Santa,” she said, “you’re crazy.”
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/]
{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 right when he said on Christmas eve that nothing was going to happen in Periwinkle County over the Christmas break. Except that Charles Barkley came to town. In his Santa suit.
It was a mistake. He was supposed to play Santa in Memphis, but Horned Frog Airlines naturally thought he was going to Memphjus, the seat of Periwinkle County, and thus booked him into The Buddy Holly Air Strip & Persimmon Juicery.
Cab Cataway, who drives for Lallo Cabs, looked at the Santa suit and took him directly to The Whistle and Thistle Biker Bar and Episcopal Ladies Tea House, since that was the venue for the community Christmas bash.
The Episcopal ladies were quite pleased when they heard that “Sir Charles” was there, assuming he was British nobility.
Not knowing he was in the wrong Memphjus, he did his Santa routine, in his Sir Charles voice, but Claire Nathan saw through it, and when he was introduced as “The Round Mound of Rebound,” she laughed so hard she fell off her chair. She said, “It wasn’t all that funny, but when you’ve made enough persimmon pudding to deliver it to 300 people in nursing homes, you’re ready to laugh at something.”
When Charles learned that Betsy Kendy had been born in Auburn, AL, where he played college basketball, he pulled her onto the dance floor. Betsy is a willowy high school freshwoman, but her 5’7” and 110 looked quite scrawny compared to Charles’ 6’6” and 300. Naturally she was embarrassed and tried to get away, but Charles just tucked her under his arm and danced with her that way.
Then Betsy’s little brother, Johnny, challenged Santa to a game of H-O-R-S-E, and everyone went out into the parking lot to watch him demolish “Mr. Round Mound,” as Johnny called him, with a variety of layups that seemed to befuddle Sir Charles. He blamed it on jet lag.
“Well, little lady,” said Sir Charles to Betsy, “you’ll have quite a story to tell when school gets back in session.”
“If you think I’m going to tell anybody I still believe in Santa,” she said, “you’re crazy.”
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/]
{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, January 4, 2011
Corny's Back in Town
There was muted excitement at the “Good to the Last Slop Coffee Bar and Wait Watchers Clinic.”
“Well, I see that Conrad Cornelius is back in town,” observed Pastor Patty, to no one in particular, since no one will sit with her since that Christmas eve sermon on birth control.
“Yeah, old Corny’s probably ready for a rest, just finishing his busy season,” responded Elder Bassett “Hound” Berry from the next table. Elder Berry is a Baptist, so wasn’t at Pastor Patty’s Christmas eve service.
“I hear people call him ‘Corny’ all the time,” said Pastor Patty. “I guess ‘Corny’ is short for Cornelius, eh?”
“No,” said Elder Berry. “He writes dialog for the bowl game parade commentators and coach interviews.”
“Well, I see that Conrad Cornelius is back in town,” observed Pastor Patty, to no one in particular, since no one will sit with her since that Christmas eve sermon on birth control.
“Yeah, old Corny’s probably ready for a rest, just finishing his busy season,” responded Elder Bassett “Hound” Berry from the next table. Elder Berry is a Baptist, so wasn’t at Pastor Patty’s Christmas eve service.
“I hear people call him ‘Corny’ all the time,” said Pastor Patty. “I guess ‘Corny’ is short for Cornelius, eh?”
“No,” said Elder Berry. “He writes dialog for the bowl game parade commentators and coach interviews.”
Monday, January 3, 2011
Kris Krindle
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
Jed Bozos, in his room in the basement of his parents’ house on Blue Bayou, invented a new electronic book reader especially for Christmas giving. He calls it the “Kris Krindle.” It will freeload any Christmas story ever published, in any language.
It does have a few glitches. It won’t load Christmas stories that include zombies, for instance.
“Whoever heard of a Christmas without zombies?” groused Jed’s mother, as she threw her new Kris Krindle into the trash can on Maine Street.
That was where Stephen King found it, since he lives on Maine Street when he comes to Periwinkle County for the winter Zombie Fest.
“Hmm,” mused the King of horror, [not to be confused with Hugh Hefner]. Then he discovered another glitch. The reader can “adjust” the stories so they come out any way shehe wants them to. Now every Christmas story in the world, regardless of language, includes a writer who is trapped in a shiny out-of-the-way hotel that is hosting a prom in a field of corn and…
May all your 2011 zombies be vetetarians,
A wish from the folks of Periwinkle County
[“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.}
Jed Bozos, in his room in the basement of his parents’ house on Blue Bayou, invented a new electronic book reader especially for Christmas giving. He calls it the “Kris Krindle.” It will freeload any Christmas story ever published, in any language.
It does have a few glitches. It won’t load Christmas stories that include zombies, for instance.
“Whoever heard of a Christmas without zombies?” groused Jed’s mother, as she threw her new Kris Krindle into the trash can on Maine Street.
That was where Stephen King found it, since he lives on Maine Street when he comes to Periwinkle County for the winter Zombie Fest.
“Hmm,” mused the King of horror, [not to be confused with Hugh Hefner]. Then he discovered another glitch. The reader can “adjust” the stories so they come out any way shehe wants them to. Now every Christmas story in the world, regardless of language, includes a writer who is trapped in a shiny out-of-the-way hotel that is hosting a prom in a field of corn and…
May all your 2011 zombies be vetetarians,
A wish from the folks of Periwinkle County
[“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, January 2, 2011
New Rears Day Dilemma
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
Prof. Ben “Seymour” Bottoms had a dilemma.
His nephew, Bart “Soggy” Bottoms, was playing tight end in “The Super Suds Persimmon Bowl Brought to You by Dos Morons Beer” at “Somali Pirates-They’re Not Just for Somalia Anymore- Stadium,” for Prairie Valley College of Miming and Mooning, the founders of the college having felt that the best approach to life consisted of keeping your mouth shut and studying the planets, and it would have been easy enough to get tickets and go, since the “Somali Pirates-They’re Not Just for Somalia Anymore- Stadium” is just up the road in Capitul City, and PVCMM “doesn’t travel well,” as bowl sponsors put it, so there would be plenty of tickets available, even though the exclusive dealer of tickets was “Ticket Servant,” which charges twice the face value of a ticket as a “service charge,” but his niece, Iris “Itchy” Bottoms, is the “Pewter Girl” baton twirler, the less base metals having already been claimed for baton twirlers at other colleges, for “The Marching Millies” of “Three Mille Island University, “mille” being the Frenchy word for “thousand,” according to some sources, and the Millies were marching at “The Chipsahoy Casino Lost Chance Bowl Brought to You By Rabbit Car Wax-We’re a Lot Faster Than a Turtle” at “Pea Party Stadium” in Das Kapital City, which is down on the “Gulf Oil Coast, Brought to You by BP,” and Seymour doesn’t really like Itchy’s mother, his sister-in-law, Sunny, who isn’t, but Das Kapital City is a lot warmer on New Year’s Day, or “New Rear’s Day,” as the Bottoms clan always calls it, than Capitul City, so he did the logical thing.
He stayed home and watched both games on split-screen of his 99 inch “big bottom” TV, as his wife, Kate Bates, calls it, under a sun lamp, and declared it “the best New Rear’s Day ever.”
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
Prof. Ben “Seymour” Bottoms had a dilemma.
His nephew, Bart “Soggy” Bottoms, was playing tight end in “The Super Suds Persimmon Bowl Brought to You by Dos Morons Beer” at “Somali Pirates-They’re Not Just for Somalia Anymore- Stadium,” for Prairie Valley College of Miming and Mooning, the founders of the college having felt that the best approach to life consisted of keeping your mouth shut and studying the planets, and it would have been easy enough to get tickets and go, since the “Somali Pirates-They’re Not Just for Somalia Anymore- Stadium” is just up the road in Capitul City, and PVCMM “doesn’t travel well,” as bowl sponsors put it, so there would be plenty of tickets available, even though the exclusive dealer of tickets was “Ticket Servant,” which charges twice the face value of a ticket as a “service charge,” but his niece, Iris “Itchy” Bottoms, is the “Pewter Girl” baton twirler, the less base metals having already been claimed for baton twirlers at other colleges, for “The Marching Millies” of “Three Mille Island University, “mille” being the Frenchy word for “thousand,” according to some sources, and the Millies were marching at “The Chipsahoy Casino Lost Chance Bowl Brought to You By Rabbit Car Wax-We’re a Lot Faster Than a Turtle” at “Pea Party Stadium” in Das Kapital City, which is down on the “Gulf Oil Coast, Brought to You by BP,” and Seymour doesn’t really like Itchy’s mother, his sister-in-law, Sunny, who isn’t, but Das Kapital City is a lot warmer on New Year’s Day, or “New Rear’s Day,” as the Bottoms clan always calls it, than Capitul City, so he did the logical thing.
He stayed home and watched both games on split-screen of his 99 inch “big bottom” TV, as his wife, Kate Bates, calls it, under a sun lamp, and declared it “the best New Rear’s Day ever.”
[“Christ in Winter,” reflections on faith for people in the winter of their years, can be found at http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/]
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