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.}
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
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.}
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)