A BLACK FRIDAY MIRACLE

Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County…

 
A Black Friday Miracle
 
Most people shop for clothes or toys on Black Friday. Marcella Corella bought a new car.
 
She took her father, Jubillo Corella, with her and went to Herschel Feinberg’s “Cars The Way They Ought to Be Emporium.” Herschel has been stockpiling out-of-print cars for years—Studebaker, Packard, Nash, Desoto, Hudson—cars that were built the right way, meaning they were built long ago, since anything manufactured a long time ago, according to old people, which Herschel is, is better than anything manufactured more recently. Reluctantly and sorrowfully, he has now begun to store new Mercurys, Pontiacs, Oldsmobiles, and Plymouths.
 
Since she was 2 years old, which was 48 years ago, Marcella has wanted a Hudson but felt it was too much car for her, so she settled for Hondas, since they also start with “H,” and with gasoline. Since she hit 50, though, she has decided she needs a grown-up car. She really wanted that Hudson, the same type her grandmother used to drive in stock-car races when she was a teen, but her father favored a Plymouth, since Herschel won’t sell you a car unless you can justify your choice historically.
 
“I know it’s not quite as grown-up,” he said, “but think of the historical implications. Think of Plymouth Rock.”
 
“Yes,” she countered, “but think of Hudson Bay and the importance of the fur trade.”
 
Herschel was satisfied and sold her the Hudson, a sparkling green Hornet. What with Herschel calling in all the mechanics to help him decide whether the settling of Plymouth Rock or the Hudson Bay fur trade had been more important to the development of American literature, especially when Yogi “Bear” Ypsilanti, the new Mercury mechanic, stuck the necessity of Desoto’s discoveries into the discussion, since he’s irritated because he always has to argue the issue of the planet Mercury v. the fluid mercury, the transaction took four hours. All this time, Marcella’s mother, Florella, and her friend, Antonina Giuliani, and her other friend, Rudolpho Randino, were waiting anxiously to see what car she came back with.
 
Marcella had driven half-way into the garage when her mother, Florella, waved her down.

 “Stop!” she cried. “We have to see this color in sunlight to determine whether it’s really green, if we can call it The Green Hornet.”

 
So Marcella stopped the car where it was and got out to help Florella and Antonina and Rudolpho admire it. Just then Mrs. Ipsophacto from next door came out. She had not seen Marcella for a long time and held out her arms for a hug. Marcella ran to her, forgetting that the garage door opener was in her pocket, and as they hugged, the opener got compressed between them, and the big heavy garage door began to come down on Marcella’s brand new old car.
 
“Stop it!” cried Rudolpho. “Stop the garage door!”
 
He ran to it and tried to push it back up but it kept descending.
 
“It doesn’t have one of those automatic stoppers,” screamed Marcella.
 
“Jump into it and back it out further,” shouted Jubillo, Marcella’s father.
 
“I can’t,” said Marcella, who is an English teacher. “If it’s distance, the word is ‘farther,’ so it would be wrong to back it out ‘further.’”
 
“Help Rudolpho push the door up,” yelled Antonina.
 
“I can’t,” said Mrs. Ipsophacto. “I hate his mother. She once insulted my baked persimmon brie.”
 
But suddenly the door stopped dead.
 
“It’s a Black Friday miracle,” shouted Florella.
 
“It’s a sign from God,” said Jubillo. “She prefers Hudsons.”
 
“I don’t think the smashed chipmunk in the track thinks it’s a miracle or a sign from God, either one,” observed Antonina.
 
***
Golden Persimmons are awarded to Mary Beth Connolly, Chris Rander, Jennifer Jackson, and Helen Karr McFarland, since the similarity between happenings 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/]
 
You can find John Robert McFarland’s tweets on Twitter @yooper1721.

K9 KAPERS

 
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
 
K9 Kapers
  
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 Buddy Mutts Cafe, having borrowed Ernie the Barker from his grandchildren, Betsy and Johnny Kendy, since Buddy Mutts won’t let you in without a dog, with a copy of Michelle Bachman’s Facts About American History 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 Trooper Adam Wun came in, with Run Tin Can, his trooper dog, and slipped into the booth across from him.
 
Ernie, of course, barked, but when the German shepherd trooper dog gave him a haughty toss of the head and ignored him as insignificant, he went back to his roast-beef flavored cappuccino.
 
“How’s the dog sniffing training going?” asked Randall Nathan.
 
“Great, except for those old lady groupies who follow us around.”
 
“Why do they do that?”
 
“They want to see how the dogs find things, so they can teach their husbands to do the same thing to find all the things they lose.”
 
When you’ve been a pastor for fifty years, you know when someone wants a favor.
 
“Go ahead and ask it,” said Randall.
 
“Well, we’re having the field trials over at Sandwich Points, and I’d like for you to come.”
 
“Why in the world?”
 
“Well, it’s my turn to furnish the cadaver for the trials, and you come as close to qualifying as anybody I know.”
 
***
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.}

 

 

'Tis Better To Have Loved & Lost

 
Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:
 
‘TIS BETTER 2 HAVE LOVED & LOST
 
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 & Episcopal Ladies Tea House, or W&TBB&ELTH for short, with a copy of Michelle Bachman’s Facts About American History 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 Edie Whistle, the proprietress of The W&TBB&ELTH came over and slipped into the booth across from him.
 
“Oh, this is going to be bad. Here comes Malcolm Adroit. It’s Bessie Bandervilt’s funeral this morning, and that old coot is still in his old overalls. He’s going to embarrass himself no end, going to her funeral at The Talistic Funeral Home & Wedding Chapel. Fay Talistic is a real stickler for new overalls for funerals and weddings both.”
 
“He’s not going to her funeral,” said Rev. Nathan.
 
“He told you that?”
 
“No, but he figures since he chased after her all those years and mooned over her and she wouldn’t even give him the time of day, he’s not worthy.”
 
“What?” said Edie. “You a mind-reader now?”
 
“No, I’m an overall reader. Also Kate Roberts told me. She was going to take him, but he refuses to go.”
 
“Is that Good-Eye Roberts?”
 
“Yes, Edie, but we wouldn’t have to call her that to distinguish her from the other Kate Roberts if we would just stop calling the other one Bad-Eye.”
 
“Well, she’s got only one eye, and it’s bad, but no matter which eye, it’s up to you to do deal with him,” said Edie as she grabbed her silver pot of Earl Grey and hurried over to the Episcopal Ladies section.
 
Mal Adroit slipped into the seat she had vacated and sighed. “You hear about Bessie? Dead so young,” he said.
 
“She was ninety-six, Mal.”
 
“Yes, but she still had that girlish figure, and such a mind. She could recite the Sunday funnies from memory. From 1943 on. No wonder she never even noticed me. I loved her from afar.”
 
“That was mostly because afar was as close as she would let you get, Mal.”
 
“Yes, but yearning for her was my whole life. Now I have nothing to live for, because trying to get her to notice me was what kept me going.”
 
“Oh, she noticed you, Mal. A lot. She figured if someone like you could love her so much, even from afar, especially from afar, that life was worth living. That’s what kept her going all these years.”
 
“Gosh, Randy, how do you know that?”
 
“I know things other people don’t, Mal. It goes with the territory. Now you’d better go home and get into your good overalls before her funeral. I’ll tell Good Eye… uh, I mean, Kate, to come fetch you.”
 
“I’ll do it, Randy. My life has meaning again.”
 
As Mal Adroit hurried out, Edie Whistle sidled back over. “I never knew about Bessie thinking life was worth living because of Mal loving her from afar.”
 
“I didn’t either,” said The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, “until I remembered it just now. It was in the Sunday funnies back in 1943.”
 
***
 
A Golden Persimmon is awarded to Quentin Ryder, because the similarity between the activities in Periwinkle County and events in other places is rarely coincidental. Another Golden Persimmon is awarded to daughter Mary Beth for her birthday today.
 
[“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 Girl With No Tattoo

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 Lost Chord Coffee & Music Repair Shop with an accordion 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 cowboy poet Bronc Ryder, the Poet Lariat of Periwinkle County, came in and slipped into the booth across from him.

 
“Apparently the thought of accordion music does not deter Bronc Ryder,” observed Dr. Nathan.
 
“Celestial places, no,” said Bronc. “I’m only afraid of bassoons, just like everybody else. I’ve writ a new country love song. Knew you’d want to hear it.”
 
Randall Nathan could not figure how Bronc figured that, but he sighed and waited while Bronc pulled a mouth bow from his saddle bag and got it in position at the side of his mouth and then gave it a twang and began to sing…
 
There is a girl so lovely, a girl so passing fair,
a girl with ripe and rosy cheeks, a girl with golden hair,
a girl who has a form divine, with a voice like morning dew,
but she’ll never get a man for she’s the girl with no tattoo.
 
She doesn’t have some neat barbed wire or the Chinese character for soup,
she doesn’t have a crucifix or the hangman’s loop,
her dermis doesn’t show a doggy’s face or a lightning bolt from God,
how will she ever get a man with no ink upon her bod?
 
Then he yodeled, How can she get a man if she has no cool tattoo?
 
She surely is a lesbian or maybe something worse,
perhaps she is a commie, or a writer of blank verse,
maybe she’s a Methodist or a Muslim or a Jew,
you can’t really hardly ever trust a girl with no tattoo.
 
You can’t know about her faith if it’s not written on her ass,
there’s no confession on her biceps when she goes to mass,
you don’t know if that rose is long stem or if she’s just getting older,
you can’t tell if she loves the flag unless it’s waving on her shoulder;
 
Yodeling again: How can we ever trust her; she’s the girl with no tattoo.
 
She doesn’t have a smokin’ Harley or a skull and crossbones flag,
tattooed upon love’s handle or where she’s gonna sag,
when she gets a little older and little children run in fear,
when they see the sloppy sloshing of her inky mug of beer.
 
Her beauty is so fraudulent, her beauty’s a mirage,
her family’s so ashamed of her she lives in the garage,
if you ever saw her, from the tenth floor you would leap,
they won’t let her out in public ‘cause her beauty’s not skin-deep.
 
Dr. Nathan cringed as Bronc yodled: They won’t let her out in day light ‘cause her beauty’s not skin-deep
 
They say it’s in the eye of the beholder, where beauty does reside,
even a girl who is a Yooper can be a blushing bride,
but it’s hard to see some beauty on skin where no one drew,
how can there be a spot of  comely on a girl with no tattoo?
                                                 
She claims that silver is quite lovely, and gold’s a pretty sight,
But they’re just so unreliable for they all come off at night,
ink surely is an art form, you’ve no soul without a tatt,
unless you’ve got Cupid on your buttocks you’re just Cassatt without the hat.
 
Jackson Pollock would have made it, but he didn’t have a tatt,
so would that Picasso guy, but his biceps were too flat,
to show a vase of flowers, or even “Mother,” dear,
instead his puny arms painted people strange and queer.
 
Rev. Nathan sighed, for he knew a yodel was due: She can’t write off depreciation for she has no art appreciation.
 
She doesn’t sport a dragon, she doesn’t have a dagger,
she wears no colored crucifix or a likeness of Mick Jagger,
she does not display Bugs Bunny or the near-sighted Mr. Magoo,
she’s the existential loser, the girl with no tattoo.
 
She is such a schlemiel, she is such a slob
She doesn’t have a dab of ink or even a little blob
Her victories are puny, they are so slight and tiny
for she has no inked-in puckered lips upon her undrawn heiny
 
Randall thought about groaning, but he was afraid Bronc would think he was joining him in his yodel: She might as well give up for she’s the girl with no tattoo
 
Her life’s so inefficient, her life surely blows,
when she wants to show you how she’s feeling, she  has to put on clothes.
It would be much more effective for her to tell you how she felt,
if she had a toothy crocodile forever on her pelt.
 
She wastes time every morning as she puts stuff on,
so she has to get up early at the breaking of the dawn,
why does she feel she has to look like life’s a full buffet,
doesn’t she know it’s more efficacious to wear the same thing every day?
 
A crowd had begun to gather, and Carrie Okie joined Bronc on the yodel: She’s very nunchalant for she’s not in the habit.
 
If she were Amish they would shun her far and near,
she’d be volcanoized by Aztecs at the dawning of the year,
mad dogs and Englishmen would shove her into the freezing rain,
and even Dead Antelope hoboes would throw her unmarked hide from off the train. [1]
 
I must be a loser, I must be a nerd,
I’m surely the most pathetic man in this strange inky world,
I must be a crazy man who’s brain has gone coo-coo,
for I am the skin-deep lover of the girl with no tattoo.
 
Yodel ledde hee, you should pity me, yodel layhee.
 
“Whadda ya think,  Rev. Randy?”
 
“You were right; it’s truly a country love song,” said Dr. Nathan.
 
***
1] Dead Antelope is a town in Periwinkle County, and also in my basement, where grandson Joe is mayor and chief engineer, and where the Dead Antelope Days Festival is celebrated each November at the opening of deer season in the UP.
 
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.}

But Dust

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 Buddy Mutts Café, run by The Brothers Jim, who are not brothers to each other but are brothers to other people, where you are not allowed in unless you have a dog with you, Faintly, the fainting goat, sitting beside him, since The Brothers Jim are too busy ignoring each other to notice if a dog is a goat, with a copy of The Affordable Care Act 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, a copy of The Affordable Care Act itself being more abhorrent than the results it might bring, since no one wants actually to read it, for fear it will make them change what they think about it, when Abner Eration came in and slipped into the booth across from him.
 
“Apparently Ab Eration is not frightened by The Affordable Care Act,” observed Dr. Nathan.
 
“Fecal matter, no,” said Ab Eration. “I can make up my mind without knowing any facts. Didn’t see you at church yesterday, Rev.”
 
“I don’t go in the summer.”
 
“How come?”
 
“Morning sickness and but dust.”
 
“But dust?”
 
“Yes. Pastor Patty was giving the prayer one morning, and she said, O Lord, we are but dust. Four-year-old Clara Wembley piped up in full voice, which is the only voice Clara uses, and said, Mommy, what is butt dust? Well, you can understand that no one heard anything else that morning, but it got me to thinking about but dust. When you’ve been in the church as long as I have, you get covered with it. We could pray about it, but it probably wouldn’t do any good. We could help the poor, but they wouldn’t appreciate it. We could give money to the homeless shelter, but we need it for our church kitchen. We could vote, but it won’t make any difference. After a while, you’re just covered with but dust. Most church people have thick coatings of it. It gives you Sunday morning sickness. Takes a whole summer of mornings hanging around with fainting goats in the coffee shop to get rid of it.”
 
“I wondered about the goat,” said Ab Eration.
 
“It’s a scape goat, bred to get so excited at the sight of a wolf that they’d faint. That way the other goats could e-scape while the wolves devoured the sacrificial lamb, which was actually a goat. They are dying out, though.”
 
“How come?”
 
“Every time a male fainting goat sees a female, he gets so excited he faints.”
 
“I think you’re throwing but dust my way, Rev,” said Ab.
 
“Then you’d better have another cup of kindness,” said The Rev. Dr. Nathan, (Retard), pointing at the Buddy Mutts menu board.
 
***
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.}

Ask a Curmudgeon

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 Daily Waffle Pancake and Political Positions Center with 8 &1/2 sets of used false teeth 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, as an homage to Federico Fellini’s film, 8 ½, because Claire hates 8 ½ so much that whenever she wants to go out in the evening, all he has to do is suggest they go to the Snider Art Cineplex, where 8 ½ is always showing, which causes her to suggest that they stay home and eat Wilbur Bluenfronter fair-trade popcorn and watch Big Bang Theory reruns instead, the false teeth having been borrowed from Pastor Patty, who is collecting them for a dental mission trip to England, which happens to correspond with the dates of the London Olympics, where she hopes to see the slow boat turning competition on the Thames, when Ray D’Eaux, the host of Ask a Curmudgeon on Radio Free Periwinkle came in and slipped into the booth across from him.
 
“Apparently radio hosts are not deterred by used false teeth,” mused Dr. Nathan.
 
“Nether world, no,” said Ray D’Eaux. “We’re used to the chattering classes.”
 
He placed a glowing red light on the table and announced, “We’re on the air. Our first question today: If a curmudgeon meets an old woman on the path while walking, what is the minimal acceptable number of syllables in greeting? What say you, Dr. Nathan?”
 
“Two,” said Randall.
 
“I thought you’d say one syllable, Rev. Can’t you just say ho? That’s a distance word, like Onward, ho.”
 
“It is not wise to say Onward, ho, to an old woman as she walks,” observed the (Retard) preacher.
 
“This seems to be an important topic for curmudgeons and other social malcontents,” said Ray D’Eaux, “because there’s a follow-up question: In meeting said old woman on the path, how many lines of banal conversation about the weather are acceptable before going back to glowering? And should there be an even number of moronically obvious observations, or does the person who initiated the exchange get the last banality?”
 
“A curmudgeon never initiates conversation,” observed Randall, “but if said old woman initiates conversation with Hot, isn’t it? it is acceptable to counter with But we need rain. If she says, They need it more in Colorado, you may say So true. By that time you should be far enough past her that you can pretend you are hard of hearing and simply ignore But it’s a great day, anyway, because… “
 
“I’m afraid that’s all the time we have today,” said Ray D’Eaux, turning off the red light. “I’m sure curmudgeons throughout Periwinkle Nation were helped by your keen observations, Rev. Nathan.”
 
“I know one who was,” thought Randall. “I really liked those answers, since I was the one who sent in those questions.”
 
***
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.}
 

Down in Silicon Valley

Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:

DOWN IN THE [silicon] VALLEY

 
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 Starplucks Coffee Shop and Naked Chicken Emporium with a rattlesnake named Lefty 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 Bronc Ryder, the cowboy poet, came in and slipped into the booth across from him.

 “Apparently the Poet Lariat of Periwinkle County is not deterred by rattle snakes,” observed Randall.

 
“Excrement, no,” said Bronc Ryder. “Me and Lefty go back a long ways. You sung Down in the Valley lately, Randy preacher?”
 
“I’d prefer Preacher Randy if you must combine my title with my first name, and no, I have not sung Down in the Valley recently. It’s not in the hymnal at The Methodist.”
 
“That’s because everbody’s got one of them infernal dish-washing machines anymore. Down in the Valley’s a song you learn when you’re doing the dishes with your sister. Not a single child has learned that song since them dish machines was invented, nor talked to their sister, neither. But I’ve got a remedy.”
 
He put his Jon Kay mouth bow up to the corner of his face and began to pluck its single string as he sang:
 
“In silicon valley, valley so sweet, power up your iPad, see every Tweet. See every tweet, dear, see every tweet. Shouldn’t you be hearing instead of seeing a tweet?”
 
Silas Beria, the dishwasher, came out from the kitchen to listen. Bronc Ryder continued to pluck and sing.
 
“If you don’t love me, throw my name to the wind, but please forever be my two hundred thirteenth Facebook friend. My two-thirteen friend, dear, my two-thirteen friend, please be forever my true Facebook friend.”
 
Lefty began to rattle, but Bronc kept singing.
 
“Rose loves a Kindle, Violet loves Nook, everbody on YouTube knows you got so drunk you shook. Knows you got drunk, dear, so drunk you you shook. Everbody on YouTube knows you got by your lover forsook.”
 
“While the facts of your version are probably accurate,” said the old preacher, “that’s a rather tortured rhyme.”
 
Bronc paid him no mind but did put in a yodel before he continued. “Yodel-lay-hee-hoo, cows in FarmVille moo.”
 
“Build me a firewall, keep Nigerian princes out, if you’re ever on Skype, dear, then give me a shout.” Si Beria and Abby Rhode, the waitress, apparently liked to Skype, for they sang along on the chorus. “Meet me on Skype, dear, meet me on Skype, meet me on Skype so I won’t have to type.”
 
“Text me a message, use your opposable thumbs, then buy me a gross of Rollaids and Tums.”
 
By this time even Professor Ben “Seymour” Butts was singing along.
 
“Rollaids and Tums, dear, Rollaids and Tums, buy me a gross of Rollaids and Tums.”
 
“Google her picture, Google her name. They’ll put up your image in the FBI hall of fame.”
 
Four-year-old Clara Wembley was riding by on Shingles, the dog, wearing spurs since she still has not forgiven him for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve of 2009. She suspects there is an informant in her pre-school, so when she heard the FBI mentioned, she rode in under the swinging doors. To be inconspicuous she sang along on the chorus.
 
“FBI hall of fame, dear, FBI hall of fame, they’ll put up your image in the FBI hall of fame.”
 
“Mail me a message, by old-fashioned email. Send it in care of the Palo Alto jail.”
 
Even The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan, (Retard), joined in on the chorus.
 
“The Palo Alto jail, dear, the Palo Alto jail, send it in care of the Palo Alto jail.”
 
“Hey, Lefty just bit himself,” exclaimed Bronc Ryder.
 
“I’m afraid,” sighed the preacher, “that he felt suicide was the only option.”
 
***
A golden persimmon is awarded to Jon Kay [www.traditionalartsindiana.org], and to Mary Virginia Lindquist, dishwashing sister singer, 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.}

Pox on a Biscuit

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 Good to the Last Meme Coffee Shop and Paradigm Shift Center with four-year-old Clara Wembley beside 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, Clara’s pre-school teachers not requiring her presence except when it is time for her mother to pick her up, when Dominic Inoe and Elizabeth Rall came in and slipped into the booth across from them.

"What the hell do you think Dom Inoe and Libby Rall want?” Clara asked Dr. Nathan in as quiet a voice as she can muster.

“Hey, why the stage whisper?” asked Libby.

“It was really more like sotto voce,” said Randall.

“They look more like Sacco and Vanzetti,” said Clara, who is familiar with such people because her pre-school teachers, who have doctorates in history and so work in child care, often accuse her of anarchism.

“We need your opinion, Randy preacher,” said Dom Inoe.

“If you must use title and given name together,” said Dr. Nathan, “I prefer Preacher Randy.”

“Irrelevant,” said Libby Rall. “We need a tie breaker. Last night at the Quadrennial Theory Debate at the Persimmon Palace, Dom Inoe espoused his usual theory that any change always leads to a succession of worser things, like if you have public TV that will lead to Sesame Street and that will lead to Communism and then nobody will work.”

“And Libby Rall,” said Dom Inoe, “espoused her usual theory that change always leads to something better, like if you develop plastic bottles eventually you’ll have squeezable pancake batter and women won’t have to cook and they can be on reality shows and send their children to pre-school.”

“But why do you need my opinion?” asked Rev. Nathan.

“The judges couldn’t decide between our theories,” said Dom.

“Yeah, they said they couldn’t decide until anonymous people made 60 second TV documentaries pointing out the flaws in each other’s theories,” said Libby.

“That sounds like one of those shrimp shows on TV I’m not allowed to watch,” said Clara.

“I believe she refers to prawnography,” said the retard preacher. “Clara sometimes gets her diphthongs confused.”

“Hey, you won’t catch me wearing one of those things,” said Clara.

“Perhaps,” said Randall, “neither theory is right. Perhaps each action is discrete, leading to nothing else, and should be judged on its own merits rather than what it might lead to.”

“That’s crazy,” said Libby.

“Yeah,” said Dom. “You follow that theory and we’ll end up with a half-black president.”

“Or a Mormon one,” said Libby.

“Either one would be a disaster,” they said together.

“I suspect your theories are in for a severe challenge,” said Pastor Nathan.

“Why are grown-ups even allowed in those debates?” asked Clara. “Pox on a biscuit.”

“Isn’t that pax vobiscum,” asked Libby and Dom.

“No, I think Clara’s analysis is correct,” said Randall.

Clara raised her hand. “Pox on a biscuit to you all,” she intoned.

***

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 Frozen Chosen Race

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 Instalube Coffee Shop & Car Spa, with a copy of The Hundred Best Persimmon Pork Rind Recipes 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 Hyman Perbole, the rabbi of the synagogue of Memphjus, the seat of Periwinkle County, came in and slipped into the booth across from him.

“Oy,” said Hy Perbole. “I feel just like Joshua after he fit the battle of Geritol.”

“I thought that was Jericho where he… uh, fit,” said Randall.

“Oy, vey,” said Hy. “After a battle like that, he needed Geritol, just like me.”

“You’ve had a battle?”

“The worst type of battle, even worse than the synagogue finance committee. It was the Frozen Chosen Race, and it was your nephew, Daniel, who did us in.”

“Oh, yes, I recall that St. John the Catholic Baptist Church challenged the synagogue to a race around Frozen Lake to see who would be the chosen people for the coming year. Daniel said something about running in the race. But I thought he was on your team.”

“Oy, so did we. We didn’t have twelve runners, to represent the twelve tribes of Israel, to counter St. John the Catholic Baptist’s twelve disciples of you know who, but we needed only eleven, because we had to keep one spot open for Elijah in case he showed up to run, but we still had only ten, but your Daniel had a yarmulke from when he sang Sunrise, Sunset at a wedding, which sort of makes him an honorary, and he said he would run for us, representing the tribe of Dan, of course, and we believed him.”

“Didn’t he show up to run?” asked Randall.

“Oy, vey, did he ever run. 40 times around the lake we ran.”

“Oh, to represent the 40 days Israel wandered in the wilderness? Or the 40 days Noah was on the arc?”

“No, we’re American, God bless us. The 40 times around the Frozen Lake represented the 40 days Joseph “The Brigand” Olds wandered in the town of Hope’s Promise looking for a Taco Bell. That’s in the Book of Norman. And your nephew, Daniel, ran so fast that he won the race for us, even though the rest of us ran so slow that we finished in places 14 through 25, counting Elijah, who was dead last. The St. John the Catholic Baptists finished 2 through 13. We’re the damned by God chosen people again for another year, and who wants to be the chosen people? You know what that means—chosen for more suffering. And it’s all your nephew’s fault.”

“Maybe he didn’t understand that he was supposed to run slowly so you could avoid being the chosen people again,” said Randall.

“Oy, vey, it wasn’t really his fault,” said Rabbi Hy Perbole. “We didn’t know his parents were African missionaries and he was raised in Kenya. You know how those people run. Well, at least it should be a help if he runs for president.”

***
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/]

The Worship # Pew

Periwinkle Chronicles, tales of the citizens of Periwinkle [because all the other colors were already taken] County:

THE WORSHIP # CHURCH

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 Starclucks Coffee Shop & Chicken Hatchery ©, with a feather war bonnet, a tomahawk, and a toupee on the table, 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 Chip came in and slipped into the booth across from him.

“Where’s your smart phone?” asked Randall. “How will you call on your members if you can’t click Like on their Facebook pages?” [Pastor Chip’s virtual church appeared in the Jan. 30 post at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/]

“Oh, we’re well beyond the virtual church concept,” said Pastor Chip. “That is so yesterday.”

“Does that mean it didn’t go well?”

“Well, yes, that, too, but I got a chance to buy the local franchise for the Worship # Pew ™, and you can’t pass up a chance like that.”

“That must have cost a lot of money.”

“Yes, but I got it by selling the naming rights. We’re officially the Butt Light Weight Loss Plan Worship # Church.” ™

“Is the Worship # Pew  like the Sleep Number Bed? ©”

“Exactly. You just turn the dial to your Personal Awesome Worship Number, or PAWN ©. You can just sit in your pew and dial up on the screen the particular sort of worship you want. Everybody looks at the same screen, but they see only their particular worship service.”

“Isn’t that the same thing as sitting home and watching the kind of worship you like on TV?” asked Randall.

“No, because being part of a worship # pew church creates community ® since we’re all in the same place, even though we’re seeing different worship. Everybody is satisfied without being challenged. People come to church for comfort, not challenge. This way commie libs and intolerant fundies get to worship together without ever having the same experience. Nobody likes that, either. The Worship # Pew motto is Cheap Grace is Expensive ©.”

Randall picked up the tomahawk and wondered where the Apaches were when you really needed them.

“You ought to come and give the worship # pew worship a chance, Dr. Nathan,” said Pastor Chip. “I’ll bet we’ve got your #.”

“Do you have 3.14?” asked The Rev. Dr. Nathan. “I think the only way I can swallow expensive cheap grace is if I have pi with it.”

***
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.}

Chaos Theory

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 Buddy Mutts Café, with three-year-old Clara Wembley at his side, since they won’t let you into Buddy Mutts without a dog, and in the process of borrowing Shingles from the Wembleys, he had somehow acquired Clara, since she still has not forgiven Shingles for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve of 2009, and doesn’t let him out of her sight, for fear that some good thing might happen to him, and also because the presence of Clara and Shingles would keep anyone from sitting with him, since everyone in Periwinkle County knows that where Clara and Shingles are, some good thing is not likely to happen, and if someone sat with him, he would lose points in the Hermudgeon of the Year competition, hermudgeon being a conflation of hermit and curmudgeon, when Ella Phant, the chairwoman of the PC GOP came in with her dog Flipflop, which has one fuchsia eye and one azure eye, and slipped into the booth across from him.

“Big day for you tomorrow,” said Randall, “what with the presidential primary, and all.”

“Yes, and we have to get the Santorum theory proved by tomorrow so everyone will know how to vote,” said Ella Phant. “That’s why Tippi Kanew, and Tyler, too, her son, are here to set up the dominoes.”

Just then Tippi Kanew, and Tyler, too, came in and started setting up a row of dominoes on the floor.

“The Santorum theory says that if you give people more freedom it always leads to something worse,” explained Ella Phant. “For instance, if gay marriage becomes legal, it will lead to legalized marriage with animals, just like one domino falls and hits the next one in line and eventually they all go down.”

“I thought marriage to animals was already legal,” said Gladys Freely, from the next booth, watching her husband, Moose, slurp his coffee.

“But Dean Ray Davis of The College of Arminianism over at Hope’s Promise University in Crimson County says that the domino theory works in the other direction, that if you give people more freedom, better things always happen,” said Randall.

Just then Bessie Bandervilt passed by the window, wearing her fur hat, the one with the taxidermied form of Sampson, her late squirrel companion, on her head. Shingles saw it and bolted for the door, right through the middle of all the dominoes Tippi Kanew, and Tyler, too, had set up on the floor, causing them to start falling in all directions at once.

“I think Shingles just disproved the domino theory, Clara, and proved chaos theory,” said The Rev. Dr. Nathan.

“I thought chaos theory is something in science, not that there’s anything right with that,” said Ella Phant.

“No, it’s about humans,” said Randall. “Give people freedom, or take it away, either way, it leads to chaos. People aren’t any more able to handle freedom than a dead squirrel.”

“We should turn freedom over to the dogs then,” said Clara, looking out the window. “Shingles is handling that dead squirrel pretty well.”
***
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.}