Category: Uncategorized

(Or is it Clemons?)

“Nyah nyah! Your name rhymes with lemons!” said the alarmingly irritating and pimply young lad.

“Doesn’t,” he said, smoking furiously on his pipe in spite of also being an irritatingly young lad sans pimples. For now. Also, even though he was twelve, he had a large white bushy mustache.

The other fellow balled up his fists. “…Does!” Was probably expecting a better class of retort, but found hisself resorting to what amounted to nursery-level exchanges.

With finality: “Does.” Twirling mustachios was a new and eminently satisfying activity. If he must say so hisself. And he did. The other boy looked like he was going to cry. Maybe he would. Sure enough, there went the waterworks.

Helped along by that stomp to his toes acourse.

He wandered off, leaving the crying boy to his dusty tears. He was going to write an international best seller, no doubt about it! Yessir, just as soon as he finished whitewashing this whale.

(Or was it?)

For a long time everyone assumed there was just one side to the story. Then the famed historian Heinrich Edsel Von Kroumhauyber proposed his, some might say infamous, doppelseitig or double-sided theory of stories.

Heinrich E. V. K. was showered with fame, fortune, adulation, etc., as only historians can be. He especially loved his appearance in Layrina Horsetaol’s 37th footnote*. The ecstasy!

Von Kroumhauyber died penniless in ruin a mere 17th months after the unveiling of his Theory.

After a hiatus of 74 years, Chuck Torp, a vague and mostly unnoticed autodidact and insurance salesman, scribbled out a counter-theory: the Polygonal Narratives Proposal.

Crickets!

By which I mean Chuck Torp had an infestation in his larder, in his garage, in his bedclothes. To his dismay, he discovered that his insurance didn’t cover crickets. Either literal or figurative. Also, no one was talking about his Proposal.

Chuck Torp took to hanging around outside weddings and accosting young, easily impressionable guests in order to bludgeon his ideas into their brains. He would figuratively just smash those ideas right up inside their skulls.

Fast-forward three weeks and Chuck Torp is leading a vast cult of failed historians, actuaries, and beekeepers. What fun!

Anyway, that went on for a while. Chuck Torp, now The Exalted Gruncle, sighed and remembered crickets.

*Until the 42nd footnote, that is: “…Von Kroumhauyber and his asinine breakfast habits are the folly of the age. One finds it impossible to parse any of his proclamations with bacon and orange marmalade crusted in his beard…” And so on for another three pages.

Until that ship-burning fiasco, Cortez was a pretty famous, one might say infamous, flip-flopper. The priest whispered to his cronies that it might have been the heat stroke or maybe all those people dying of that damnable fever. Whispered still that it was pretty weird that Cortez never took off his metal hat. Then went back to his constant scribbling in the book. The others stopped saying things to the priest. Except for Cortez, of course, who never stopped talking.

Had they still been in Spain, it might’ve even been funny. Just another blowhard soldier ranting incessantly over tapas and wine. But Cortez wasn’t drinking. And he spoke a little too often about his God-given purpose.

Many took comfort in all the heaps of gold. There was mountains of gold. At least, the locals said so.

Still, they were all pretty bummed about the boats.

On the planet Derginuuz fun was a serious business. We’re talking industrial, national levels of attention paid to this most serious of endeavors. Gantt charts (or the Derginuuzian equivalent), spreadsheets, tracking systems, etc etc.

The intergalactically renowned somber, gloomy, and downright melancholic Derginuuzian took their fun seriously as only the morbidly depressed can. Also, there was no opting out. This fun was mandatory!

You. Had. To. Have. FUN!

On the Derginuuzian-equivalent of Thursday, on the 13th day of Luupido, the largest nation on the continent of Spazadyp was preparing their third FUN for the decade.

The countdown began.

10!

Yupeet Gazx wept in anticipation for all the fun he would be having.

9!

Pyreut Hiffn prepared to scream with delight. (She’d been training for months.)

8! 7! 6!

Countless children and adolescents were admonished not to take the imminent fun for granted. Few listened to their elders.

5! 4! 3! 2!

Countless hushes fell over countless crowds.

1!

FUN!

(Or was there?)

There was a time, thought Carlos Rodrigo del Iglesias Jardinio (Cridge, for short–only his mother called him Carlos Rodrigo del Iglesias Jardinio and only then when she was really mad at him, like that time when he painted all the ducks purple and orange: only blue paint allowed!), when scores of people would have shown for any kind of soirée or garden party he might decide to throw, not to mention cocktail parties or brunches!

So the lack of guests, if not quite alarming, sure didn’t sit right. No, it didn’t sit right at all. Cridge spun a party favor bag around and around on his left index finger while the fingers on his other hand reached for a (his third!) delicious chocolate lavender macaroon.

Granted, his last party had ended somewhat poorly. The helium powered hyenas had, well, lead balloons came to mind, let’s just say.

Cridge sighed and reached for some pink lemonade (spiked, obvs, with his favorite brand of vodka).

Later, he would put all this excess away. Later.

(Or was it coal dust?)

Trevor Meredith Van Woort had a peculiar twist in his brain whereby he perceived soap bubbles as tiny fruits, huckleberries and watermelons, say, and even sometimes vegetables.

There was one strange weekend in his 34th year when every time he washed his hands, he lathered up with clocks.

Needless to say, it certainly made bubble baths interesting!

Trevor Meredith Van Woort never spoke of it to friends and family, and though it wouldn’t be fair to say that he suffered in silence, he was often vaguely troubled by this curious flaw in the neuronal connections in his brain.

It was the morning of the “wildebeest” bubbles when Trevor Meredith Van Woort really started getting concerned…

(Or rather, what haven’t you done?)

Let’s say your name was Cornelius. No really. You are now Cornelius. Every day for your entire life that’s the word you’ve heard, consistently, more than any other. Cornelius. Cornelius. Cornelius. Cornelius!

Now let’s say you really like marmalade. It’s your favorite thing. More than chocolate. More than ice cream. Even more than gluten-free bread! More than bagels. More than kumquats. More than violets and pumpernickel. More than raging waterfalls. Even more than all the things you’d think would be your favorite thing. But, just, there’s something about marmalade.

Cornelius. Cornelius. Cornelius. Cornelius! Cornelius. Cornelius. Cornelius. Cornelius!

Well, Cornelius, you’ve got some brussel sprouts. Do you put marmalade on em? You sure do!
How about spam? Also, yes. Your best three-piece suit. Well, secretly, hell yes!

Cornelius. Cornelius. Cornelius. Cornelius! Cornelius. Cornelius. Cornelius. Cornelius! Cornelius. Cornelius. Cornelius. Cornelius!

That’s just the kind of person you are, Cornelius. You love marmalade. And now, you don’t even bother to hide it. And it’s marvelous.

(Or was it dangerous?)

Benjamin Franklin was the talk of Paris with his raccoon hat. Especially after it bit Mde. Portreleaux on the nose when he leaned down to kiss her hand. Such a furor! Such scandal! Benjamin Franklin was oblivious, because his French was a little rusty. (Using his trusty pocket French-English dictionary, he’d snowed John Adams and gotten this cushy, all-expenses paid trip to Paree!)

Granted, things were a little terrifying. Or would that be Terrifying? Still, Old Ben rode out the deadly dangers with aplomb (or at least obliviousness) and feasted on the pale shadow of French delicacies. (Anything was better than the oatmeal he constantly ate at home! Oh, also raccoons.)

(Or was it a cupola?)

Jean Rhys considered a minaret. Chiefly, she considered whether to rappel down it or not. Perhaps a gliding option would be more successful in this case.

Jean Rhys, international super spy, fashionista, and mildly successful novelist, considered her next moves. There were many options to choose from, but only one, presumably, that would leave her body free of the wrack and ruin that would certainly follow were she to choose incorrectly.

The wind picked up. She stowed her grappling hook gun/zip line and pulled two cords on either side. Wings snapped outward, and she leapt out into air.

Moments later, Jean Rhys stood in the uppermost floor of the sinisterly modern Geatzenvluegh Towers.

Some documents labeled ‘Antelope’ later, she shoved her gear into a furnace, and found her meandering way out of the building with the nighttime cleaning crew.

Makin’ it look easy, Rhys. Makin’ it look easy.

(But what about his ears?)

Sauron, former servant of Morgoth, etc etc, had a problem. He’d tried being a Necromancer for a while, but everyone had seen how well that worked out. Besides, he’d gotten super tired of zombies, turns out. Orcs were scintillating conversationalists by comparison. Also, Mirkwood had a serious mildew problem, and after a couple centuries there, he’d developed a serious mold allergy. And food? There were only so many ways to cook mushrooms.

Anyway, good riddance! Mordor had a delightfully dry and sunny clime. Well, the sun was up there somewhere above the volcanic ash and orcish industrial effluvia. So, yay?

After that wizard scoundrel’s tiresome meddling, Sauron vowed that he’d never be snuck up on again. Hence the All-Seeing Eye business. Only one, because he’d needed the other for things like pouring milk into his (evil) breakfast cereal and reading his ancient (and evil) esoteric tomes of forgotten yada yada.

Downside to the All-Seeing Eye: he’d forgotten to put in an off switch. Ugh. There was Elrond prancing around in his “magical” (magically gross, you mean!) glade. There was Gandalf incessantly smoking pipeweed and blowing those stupid smoke rings. There was Saruman trying to look secretly sinister in his bathroom mirror while trimming his nose hairs.

By Morgoth (cursed be his eternally vile name)! But the White Council were a dull bunch. It got so he couldn’t even enjoy an Orc ear sandwich in peace!

Sauron sighed, rattling the tea cups, at least. He stared at some rocks for a couple weeks.

Ah! Much better.

When he looked up, a couple hobbits were scrabbling up Mount Doom…