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.}

A Song Too Far

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 Cupid’s Bottomless Cup Coffee Shop and Romance Remainders Outlet" with a CD of "Newt’s Favorite Love Songs" 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 Roy A. Kuff, the country singing legend, came in and slipped into the booth across from him.

“I thought you were dead,” Randall Nathan said.

“No, I know I’m not. I looked me up on that ‘Who’s Dead and Who’s Not’ site on the Google. And since I ain’t dead, I’m gonna ask Miss Maserati Oxford, the famous game show guest, to marry me.”

“That sounds like a proper Valentine’s Day thing to do, but isn’t she too young for you? After all, you must be pretty old by now.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m along about 90 or thereabouts, according to the Google. She’s only 78. It’s a November-December romance. But those can work. Look at Newt and his next intern. I even wrote a song especially for Miss Maserati Oxford for Valentine’s Day.”

He tuned up his air guitar and began to sing.

“If you was a cockroach, I wouldn’t stomp on you. I’d let you eat my garbage until your face was blue, and that’s how much I’m loving you, hoo hoo hoooo.”

He yodeled on the last line. A pig got up and slowly walked away. Roy A. Kuff did not notice.

“If you was a hornet, I’d let you sting my nose. When it got real big and sneezy I’d give it to you like a rose, and that’s how much I’m loving you, de doodle doodle hoooo.”

Shingles the dog began to howl. Three-year-old Clara Wembley put her hands over his ears, which surprised everyone, since Clara still has not forgiven Shingles for stealing her blankie on Christmas eve of 2009 and thus her usual approach to Shingles’ troubles is schadenfreude. Roy A. Kuff did not notice.

“If you was a hooker I’d let you tow my truck, and when we got to the junkyard …”

At that point The Rev. Dr. Randall Nathan accidentally spilled his cup of Moose Drool Supreme right onto the strings of Roy A. Kuff’s air guitar. As he told Claire about it later, he said, “Even on Valentine’s Day, sometimes you just have to take a stand against romance.”

***
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.}