To an Athlete Lying Young

From A Shropshire Aunt*

The times you won the Tour de France,
We fanned the fire of your pants;
Man and boy heard you deny
The dope that brought you victor-y.

To-day the road your girlfriend came —
Though you’d not Google once her name
To find she neither lived nor died —
Will not permit your face to hide.

Smart lad, to put the truth away
From fields where myth holds greater sway!
For brightly though the laurel grows,
It’s slower than a puppet’s nose.

Those wars and murders, poisoned air,
Rough politics: we do not care!
Of you alone the public chatters,
Instead of weighty, vital matters!

So smile, before the spotlights fade,
And don the mantle that you’ve made!
O’erwhelm the papers! Command the news!
Consent to countless interviews!

Endure the late-night comic’s joke,
Until to Oprah you have spoke!
Forget that once you played a sport —
You’re on the nightly news report!

And though your honor is the cost,
Take heart, stout lad! All is not lost!
Just contemplate the question cruel:
Was’t you or we the bigger fool?

*NOTE: An obscure but terribly pertinent reference of which I am exceedingly proud. Check The Importance of Being Earnest if you don’t believe me.

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Them Grammar Lessen

An article in The New York Times regarding current trends in the teaching of biology in the U.S. leads me to wonder what would happen if a similar approach applied to other subjects in the classroom. To learn the answer, I needed only to sit in on a typical English class; what follows is my faithfully accurate transcription of the day’s lesson.

*

“All right, boys and girls, take out your books, please. Today we’re going to talk about English grammar. Now, before we go any more far, can any of you tell me why we study English grammar, even though we ain’t English?”

A hand goes up: “Because we’re required to by the federal government?”

“That’s right. But remembers, boys and girls, grammar is only a theory. Can anyhow tell me what a theory is?”

Another hand: “It’s just one person’s opinion.”

“That’s right. I know many of you growed up in homes what don’t believe in no grammar. I’m not going to told youse you got to use it. That is a choice for your parent to made. But grammar be one way of doing thing.”

Another hand: “My momma says I don’t have to ever use no grammar, so long as if I get home-schooled for my college educating.”

“Very good! Between you and I, college educating are going to probably be out-sourced in countries foreign, anyway, by the time what you all growed be.”

Another hand: “Miss Babbitt, what be ‘countries foreign’?”

“That don’t matter none, Cindy. They’s just places what Jesus don’t love so much. But you ain’t never gonna need to knowed about that, for what youse be American, what am the most betterest country ever.”

The children cheer, and the teacher continues: “That be whereto I are having faith that, when youse be growed, you could made you-self understanded to be, even what you grammar not ever use and up-mess syntax yours all. Counts what is which that God understanding can all times you.”

Another hand: “Sin tacks what be?”

“Restriction liberty of personal, cigarette tax like. Oppression big over speech of freedom is.”

Another hand: “Jesus hates sin, and Jesus hates taxes, so we should hate syntax, right?”

“Right exacted! Boys now girls and, be what participle a?”

Another hand: “Unimportant?”

“Plumb nearly. Other guess at participle be which?”

Another hand: “Boring?”

“Yes! You thunk good that once, Johnny.”

Another hand: “Miss Babbitt, didn’t Jesus use grammar?”

“Now where heared you that at?”

“Some of them older boys was talking after church.”

“You disappoint! Reporting at principal office, young lady! Names me wanted of them boys! Get now to marching gone!” The teacher pauses. “Boys now girls and, to learning how sentence diagram we be.”

A hand shoots up: “But Miss Babbitt, Preacher says diagrams is a sign of the Devil!”

The teacher reflects for a moment. “Pentagram, he maybe wanting to mean, but same difference. Closed your books, children: it be time to burn ’em.”

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The Grasshopper and the American Ants

There was once a Grasshopper who was possessed of the great gift of music. All through the warm summer months, and through the fall harvest, he played his merry songs for the ants who lived nearby. He played and played, while they worked and worked, gathering food and storing it.

Soon, winter’s chill fell upon the land, and the Grasshopper grew cold and hungry. Shivering, he went to the Ants and said, “Friends, I am in need! Will you please give me a portion of the food we have gathered, and a warm space where I might shelter myself from the wintry nights?”

“No damned way,” said the Ants. “We are eliminating government funding for the arts.”

“Come again?” said the astonished Grasshopper.

“Your music is non-essential, and in tough times, we must look first to our most important and immediate needs,” said the foreman of the ants, Number 6279-R, a big fellow with a broad, brown back.

“Non-essential?” the Grasshopper replied. “Do you honestly believe that you could have achieved the same results, had it not been for me? By playing my music while you worked, I eased your burdens. I helped you connect with your minds — and your souls — so that you didn’t turn into mindless drones, like those awful bees next door. I even played Katy Perry numbers for you morons!”

“What a giveaway! You’re an elitist!” exclaimed the crowd of ants, as if with one voice — but harmonizing, because the Grasshopper had trained them in choral music back in August.

“It’s true, he does know some catchy songs,” murmured one of the younger ants, Number 9762-W.

“Shut up,” answered his friend, Ant 5371-N.

“I spent years learning how to make music, and I paid almost everything I had, in order to take lessons to be an even better musician,” the Grasshopper went on. “And I had to take private lessons, because you already eliminated music education in public schools.”

“You should have studied accounting, too,” said Ant 4387-B. “As a backup.”

“Let private individuals give you food, if they are so inclined,” said the Ant Queen.

“Those other ants over by the hedge have got lots of funds,” suggested Ant 7321-P.

“It’s a freaking ant colony!” the Grasshopper cried. “We all rely on one another, whether you admit it or not.”

“Socialist,” grumbled Ant 6279-R.

“And if not for my art,” the Grasshopper continued, “you wouldn’t even know you were individuals!”

“You made your choices in life,” said wise old Ant 2198-A. “You were selfish and irresponsible, and now it is time to pay the price.”

“Selfish?” the Grasshopper said. He had begun to weep like the Drama Queen he so proudly was. “I was doing it all for you!”

“You can tell yourself that,” replied the Ant Queen. Then, turning to her guards, she said, “Throw out this malingerer! I am weary of him.”

And so the Grasshopper went out and got a job with a nest of spiders who specialized in web design, and he never played music again; one by one, the Ants were crushed the next day by a sadistic five-year-old human.

FINIS

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My 35 Years without Opera

Imagine, if you will, that when my godmother invited me to the opera on 15 May 1975, I said, “No thanks.” What would my life have been like? Here’s a sugestion ... submitted for your approval.

My name is Bill. That’s me, doing a little shopping at the supermarket on the way home from work. Middle-aged, heavy-set. No, not that guy, the other guy. Yeah. I’m the one in the grey overcoat. I know it’s mid-May, but the weather’s been so changeable, and you can’t be too careful. Especially in the frozen-food section.

I’m just picking up a few TV dinners for next week. I’m not surprised you didn’t notice me. Why would you? It’s been a long time since I thought I was anybody special. Not since I was in junior high, if you want to know.

Back then, I wanted to be a writer. But then — what’s the expression? “I put away the things of a child.” The older I got, the more pointless it seemed, really. Like studying French. Mother said why not study accounting, it’s so practical. So I did.

I’ve been with Consolidated Office Supplies for a long time. Hard to count the years: one day is just like any other. Now that so many offices are going “paperless,” though, we’ve had layoffs. I’m probably next. Nothing I can do about it.

I play a lot of video games. That’s my idea of excitement, I guess. There’s never anything good on TV. I don’t listen to much music. It’s just something in the background. Somebody else’s background, not mine. I see people getting excited about a song, and I just don’t understand what the big deal is. I don’t read much. Nothing really holds my interest, you know?

Funny to think that I ever wanted to write, or travel, or see a play. What made me want those things? I don’t remember. Maybe it was sex. Everything comes down to that, right? I tried dating a couple of actresses when I was in college. It never worked out. I live alone now.

That’s my story — no story at all, really.

This exercise was so depressing that it requires an antidote.
Fortunately, Marilyn Horne has provided one.

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Quantum & Quality

Being an Excerpt from an Unpublished Spy Novel
by an Anonymous Author

It was widely said of Jane Bond that the benefits of her otherwise admirable measure of beauty were useless to her, as she was nearly thirty, and her dowry much less than one hundred pounds, along with a large ball of string, which it had been her late father’s habit to collect, and to study, and which was much praised throughout the county. In her youth, long ago, Miss Bond had acquired such skills of sewing, painting, and dancing that might have won her a match, had her father not burdened her with considerable debts, a ready wit, and an instruction in French grammar, and ‘No man will take a bride who speaks her mind, particularly if he does not understand her when she speaks it,’ Mrs. Bond had warned them both, from the outset, to no avail. Among the other, gossiping ladies of Maidsworth, it was said further that Miss Bond had once enjoyed a round of whist with a man who was known to be in trade, the shame of which nearly exceeded its whispering report. Her reputation thus compromised, it seemed likely she must perforce remain unmarried; having failed to exact a promise from Mr. Woodcock, the new curate in Maidsworth, and having no other expectation but the management of her widowed mother and fourteen younger sisters, Miss Bond saw no recourse but to seek employment, suitable to a lady of good family and no property; either as governess to a country household, or as agent in His Majesty’s Secret Service.

‘Might we stroll a moment about the garden?’ Mr. Smallwood inquired; ‘for the closeness of the ballroom and the exertion of our last quadrille have made of cooler air a necessity for me, and perhaps for you, as well, I may venture.’

‘How I regret your words, sir, for I should have been content to take a glass of punch and to sit for a moment here, by the open window, though I am usually susceptible to any draught,’ Jane replied; ‘but I cannot accept even that engagement, nor any future one, in your company, Mr. Smallwood, now that you have spoken. It would be in any case improper for a gentleman to pose such a question, to an unmarried woman, with neither prospects nor chaperone. Yet more pressingly, I am no longer unaware of your true identity, and of the jeopardy in which your roguish impertinence must place me, not only to my reputation, but to my very life. For, in making this proposal, you have revealed yourself at last to be the greatest scoundrel of them all, Napoléon Bonaparte, on a reconnaissance mission in Britain, with a view to conquest of these shores. Confess yourself, sir!’

‘I fear I fail to apprehend how a single question of remarkable innocence can have led you to so astonishing a conclusion,’ Mr. Smallwood replied.

‘I have for no small time observed you, sir,’ Jane said, ‘and it has not escaped my attention that you are short of stature, as Mr. Bonaparte is known to be; and although you profess yourself to be a major in the Highland Guards, your uniform bears buttons of the Royal Navy; and whenever the ranks of corporal and general are mentioned in conversation, you answer. These are ranks, sir, that you have held in the French Army, under the name, I repeat, not of Smallwood but of Bonaparte.’

‘There are, I assure you, Miss Jane, explanations of a perfectly simple nature for each of the anomalies that you perceive, and these explanations I shall most happily supply,’ Mr. Smallwood said, ‘at your earliest convenience, of which you may inform me by letter.’

‘I shall be most interested to receive such explanations,’ Jane said; ‘and perhaps, too, you can explain how it is that you persist in addressing me as “Miss Jane,” when, as the eldest daughter of my father, I am properly addressed only as “Miss Bond,” which any true Englishman would know, but a Corsican would not; and why it is that you keep one hand always in the breast of your waistcoat, precisely as Mr. Bonaparte is known to do, from the many paintings of him that have been much on public view.’

At this, Mr. Smallwood smiled. ‘No such portrait has been circulated publicly on England’s shores, Miss Bond; for it is only in France that Napoléon is recognized as a great man,’ he said. ‘How is it possible that you, a simple country governess, may have observed such a painting? It is universally spoken of you that you are a keen observer, and yet your eyesight must be very good indeed, to see from a vantage in Maidsworth a painting that hangs in Paris.’

The colour mounted in Jane’s cheeks. ‘As I am obliged to provide instruction in French to my charges,’ she said, ‘it has long been my custom to consult any journal or newspaper in that language that should come my way, from the hand of a man who has travelled; and in such a publication, it is only natural that an engraving should — ’

‘I put it to you roundly that you are a member of His Majesty’s Secret Service,’ Mr. Smallwood responded; ‘or else you are a silly girl, given to elaborate fancies, and most especially when in the company of a handsome single man of six thousand a year; which fancies and, indeed, hysteria a Frenchman might observe are typical of the puritanical English virgins when confronted with the virile Latin sex; whereas any French girl would have surrendered herself to me already without a care; though as an English gentleman I shall of course let the matter lie unspoken. Nevertheless, you are either a spy or a fool. Which is it to be, Miss Bond?’

‘I would advise you to invade Egypt instead of Britain, sir,’ Jane said, ‘for you will find it an easier conquest, having few defenses and no Christian as its sovereign; and to decline the Directoire’s heedless strategy for my country, which has brought you to these shores.’

‘You cannot think that Napoléon Bonaparte would undertake such a mission of reconnaissance alone and unaided,’ Mr. Smallwood said; ‘and — if I were he — I would therefore be surrounded by stout arms, ready to leap to my aid at but a signal.’

‘Arms do not leap,’ said Jane; ‘your phrase is inelegant. This is further proof that you are a Frenchman; I am never mistaken in my impressions. But I hope that I may answer you, sir, in a tone of becoming modesty, by allowing that, if I were an English spy, at a country dancing party which I suspected to be attended by foreign persons of questionable intention, I would not do so without carrying a weapon; and that a pistol of discreet proportions, but no less deadly, must therefore be concealed somewhere about my person.’

‘A pistol carries but a single bullet, Miss Bond,’ said Mr. Smallwood.

‘Even a very small bullet may suffice to bring about the death of a man, whether he be English with an annual income of six thousand, or French with a battery of henchmen,’ Jane replied; ‘and if I were to remove from this earth so odious a menace to my Crown, and to die for it, I should nonetheless count myself happy.’

‘See here, Miss Bond, about the bush let us beat no more. You are outnumbered,’ Mr. Smallwood said; ‘and if I may say so, outwitted. I am indeed Napoléon Bonaparte, and though I find myself on hostile shores, my prospects are happier than yours. For you, Miss Bond, are my prisoner.’

Jane smiled now, and touched Mr. Smallwood lightly with her fan. ‘It is therefore incumbent upon you, Mr. Bonaparte,’ she said, ‘to do your worst.’

‘I shall, and with alacrity, Miss Bond,’ the imposter replied; ‘but prior to subjecting you to manifold tortures, of a violence and invention unthinkable to anyone but a Frenchman, I hope you will allow me to enlighten you on certain points of my plan for world domination.’

‘I can think of no more desirable an entertainment, sir, nor one more likely to improve the evening hours,’ Jane replied; ‘let us make haste to your carriage, and away.’

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Madison Airlines

Our Motto: The sky is not the limit.

Dear Valued Customer:

Our records indicate that you have flown with our airline one or more times during the past 37 years. Due to rising prices in fuel, as well as other factors affecting the economy in general and the airline industry in particular, we are now compelled to charge you the following additional fees for the trip(s) you took.

Safety Demonstration: $95
If you paid attention: $85
Oxygen mask: $250
If you used it: $1,250

One or more pieces checked luggage:

$50 per bag

One or more pieces carry-on luggage:

$25 per bag

Complimentary peanuts or pretzels:

$25 per bag

Cheery “Bye-bye” from crew:

$25 per Bye

Influenza virus you caught on board:

$500 per bug

Engrossing conversation with seatmate:

$5 per minute

Entertainment fee if she had pictures of her grandchildren:

$75 per photo

Entertainment fee if the pilot pointed out landmarks on left-hand side of the plane:

$750

Entertainment fee if you were seated on the right-hand side of the plane:

$685

Entertainment fee if you were seated in an emergency-exit row:

$750

Entertainment fee if you used an inflatable life-preserver or flotation device in the event of an emergency landing:

$750

Remember how we told you to exercise caution when opening overhead bins? Well, now we’re charging you an
Exercise fee:

$150

Time spent on tarmac awaiting departure:

$50 per minute

Time spent on tarmac awaiting arrival at gate:

$50 per minute

Pilot maintenance: $3,275

Takeoff fee:

$300

Landing fee:

$3,000

Additional fee if we used wheels (wear and tear):

$1,500

Additional fee if the plane had wings:

$30,000

Additional fee if it didn’t:

$300

Cabin-pressure:

$750 per unit of psi

In-flight magazine fee (Puzzle not filled in):

$45

In-flight magazine fee (Puzzle filled in):

$15

Cup fee for complimentary beverage of your choice:

$15

Napkin fee for complimentary beverage of your choice:

$10

Landfill fee for disposal of cup and napkin:

$150

Although these women retired in 1973, they (or we) must be paid.
Fee: $2,384.99
(Per attendant? Per flight? We haven’t decided yet.)

At present, we have chosen to waive additional fees for weight allowance (whereby you may be charged $5 per pound if you have ever met anyone weighing more than 150 pounds) and breathing ($75,000 if you’re still doing it; $25,000 if you are deceased). Market factors may require us to charge these fees, and many others, at a later time, without further warning to you or any liability on our part.

Your credit card will be billed automatically. It is our policy that you kindly remain seated with your seatbelt safely fastened and seat-backs and tray-tables in the upright and locked position, until we have come to a full and complete stop of thinking of ways to get more money out of you, and our flight accountants have cross-checked your remaining funds; at this time, our attorneys will give the sign that it is safe to get up and move around your home again.

There is no need for you to verify these charges, to calculate the total amount, or to take any action of any kind. However, if you would like to send us a couple of extra bucks, please do so. We appreciate your promptness, to avoid late fees.

We know you previously had a choice of carriers, and it was our pleasure to serve you on Madison Airlines. We hope you had an enjoyable stay(s) at your final destination(s), and we look forward to charging you again in the future.

Very truly yours,

William V. Madison
Chief Executive Officer
Madison Airlines

“Ranked #134 in Customer Satisfaction by J.D. Power & Associates, 1995”

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Umbrage Is Not Free

One of the latest models of Umbrage Meters

This morning I received an unexpected knock at the door and found an angry man waiting for me. He introduced himself as Mr. Humbert Shade, representing Perugia Fosca & Associates, a little-known yet powerful collection agency, and he’d come to receive payment or else to begin repossessing all my belongings. Now, I’m scrupulous in my bill-paying, and I asked what, exactly, I owed. Mr. Shade handed me an itemized list. “For nearly eight years, you’ve been taking umbrage, and a lot of it,” he said, “but you’ve never paid.”

As I ran down the list, I realized that umbrage is in fact one of the world’s most expensive commodities, currently priced at $5,443,967.04 per ounce; the human organism, being remarkably umbrage-inefficient, burns up umbrage at a rate of as much as 16 tons per minute. This explains why most people take umbrage instead of paying for it — at least until the collection agencies catch up with them. Starting during the Florida recount after the 2000 Presidential Elections, I’ve been taking massive quantities of umbrage, with the result that I’m now deeply in debt.

Umbrage was first developed in Italy during the late-Middle Ages; it is derived from a mixture of raw sienna and yellow ocher (though not, as is widely assumed, burnt umber) which is slowly burned in an extremely hot oven or kiln. The resulting hard cakes, like charcoal briquettes, can be ignited by circumstance, then smoked at leisure, though most people take it in the convenient pill form that is, paradoxically, hard for others to swallow. Umbrage is frequently washed down with large quantities of liquor, and most often while sitting on a high horse. The effects of umbrage, very strong at first, generally weaken until it is passed out of the system. Currently, umbrage is one of the principal products manufactured in Umbria, the region east of Tuscany in central Italy. With revenue declining and other industry failing in Umbria, umbrage producers have begun to clamp down on those people, like me, who take it regularly.

Among the key ingredients in household umbrage

“Because this is an election year in your country,” Mr. Shade explained, “we may be able to avert a severe recession in Umbria — but only if we can collect. If Americans continue to consume umbrage at such high rates without paying, we’re probably looking at the loss of a million jobs and a full-fledged region-wide depression.”

Perugia Fosca & Associates has lobbied to install umbrage meters in every American home, a request that is currently being studied by the Department of Homeland Security. If successful, the plan would mean that each home receives a monthly umbrage bill, much like those associated with other household commodities, such as water, electricity, and gas — too late, however, to facilitate billing for widespread umbrage consumption during the current presidential campaign.

“We had a rough time with you Americans,” Shade said, “because your President Bush gives umbrage — for free. Even in Europe, he’s still getting away with it. He has made it incredibly difficult for our bookkeepers to stay on top of billing.”

Mr. Shade informed me that there’s an umbrage meter in my home here in France. Hidden in a shadowy part of my pantry, it escaped my notice before now. Apparently my consumption of umbrage overwhelmed the device, because the meter was broken, its readout panel burned-out and unreadable, its wiring short-circuited, its valves blocked, and its pressure-regulator exploded. A thin wisp of smoke was still rising from the top.

I seized on this evidence as an opportunity, and I asked Mr. Shade whether it was possible that I’d been billed in error. “Since the meter is broken, perhaps I’ve taken far less umbrage than your records indicate,” I said.

The French are Europe’s leading consumers of umbrage.
Former Prime Minister Dominique de Villepin is shown here under its influence.

Shade was doubtful, but after a brief conversation we negotiated a payment schedule whereby, in the year 2124, I will have worked off the bulk of my debt. Shade then announced that he was ready to take his leave, for which he offered to pay with a piece of advice: “Next time — and I shouldn’t even be telling you this — try outrage. It burns faster than umbrage, but it’s renewable.” He told me that, in response to the New Yorker cover that depicts Barack and Michelle Obama as a Muslim and an armed revolutionary, respectively, many Americans were taking umbrage this week, whereas it would be cheaper to opt for outrage instead. “Just remember — if you do decide to go with outrage, you need a license.”

Exhausted by this encounter, I decided to take a nap, though I don’t know how I’ll ever manage to pay for it.

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All-Purpose Spam

I typically receive so many spam messages on so many subjects that I’ve often thought it a great shame that the senders can’t manage to cover more than one subject at a time: a little imagination on the authors’ part might lead to streamlined communication. You can imagine my delight, then, when I received the following message. This is a step in the right direction!

Dear Mr. or Mrs. wvm@wvm.net:

Permit me to introduce myself. I am Adelaide wvm, and I believe we may be related to one another through the family of my late husband, the Rev. Dr. Lucius wvm, rector of Our Lady of the Savannah Veldt Anglican Church and personal chaplain to our country’s very ruthless dictator, Eric Ungabunga Katunga, here in the well-known celebrated African nation of Republic of Poontango.

As you know, President Katunga was overthrown in a violent coup three weeks ago. I am sure it is reported in all the headlines of your North American newspapers and the CNN. For many years President Katunga had pilfered the coffers of the Poontango citizenship, amassing a great personal fortune. The Poontango citizenship, knowing of close bounds between the bloodthirsty dictator and his chaplain, wrongly believed that my husband had gained possession of the President’s bank-account information in a secret location in a neutral allied European nation of Switzerland. I regret to inform you that your cousin, Dr. Lucius wvm was therefore seized and innocently executed.

Your cousin’s last words to me before his shocking untimely death were, “Find my relatives in North America. Contact my cousin, wvm@wvm.net, and enlist his aid in transferring my private funds out of their secret location in the Switzerland, so that you will be able to flee Poontango with our thirteen children, all of whom are named after wvm personally as you know. Be sure to offer him a full 20 percent of the estimated 5 billions dollars value of my personal fortune, which as you know was obtained legally through the sale of top-quality pharmaceuticals by mail from the Canada. And be sure tell him that if he acts now, you will offer, at no further obligation, the secret to penis enhancement without plastic surgery.” Then, with the sigh, he dead in my arms.

At first I did not know how to find you, but when I read in the Poontangoville Times-Herald that you are the winner by forfeit of the national Netherlands Lottery in the amount of over 2.2 Million Euros, I contact you immediately. As a widow still in her prime of the life, and considered nubile and Eastern European by her many admirers, I find it instinctive to reach out to you, and I remind you that we are cousins only by marriage.

I have spoken with our family solicitor and dogsbody in London, who informs me that transfer of funds cannot be made to me directly, because the Revolutionary People’s Guard Army of Poontango is watching my every move. Although like all nubile Eastern European girls, I do like to be watched and I do have the special webcam set up for this purpose, this is different kind of watching. My life is in the jeopardy.

However, if you will simply relay to me the necessary information for your bank account, including your Social Security Number, date of the birth, and mother’s maiden name, then my late husband’s moneys, as well as your full and complete Internal Revenue Service refund of 2006 can be wired electronically to the deposit in your account, at the famous and respected First Bank of Oregon Credit Union. I would be most pleased for then to come to America, where, you give me the remaining moneys, after first deducing the aforementioned 20 percent as compensation for your travail.

There is no risk whatever to you in the legality of this perfectly transaction, that goes on of this type everyday. I, Adelaide wvm, give you my assurances as well that your personal account data will not be tampered, neither will I refinance the mortgage on your second home at low, low rates without your express permission by the e-mail, which as you know is completely secure and cannot be viewed by strangers without your knowledge, no matter how often they attempt to input fraudulent login from abroad to your respectable MasterCard account.

Please do not delay. Time is of essence, and every minutes count. Besides the jeopardy I have stated previously above, I am without a man for many weeks now. As a result, I am extremely horny but I refuse to engage even in the girl-on-girl action under my celebrated stage name of Milfa Sluttski until such time as I am relocated to North America and can begin to seek a trustworthy husband who will pleasure me all night with non-surgically enhanced girth and longueur, which will be necessary because as stated above my late husband your cousin Lucius wvm was a black man of the African varieties.

So please hurry. I am waiting to hear from you NOW.

Sincerely,
ADELAIDE wvm, MRS. LUCIUS (deceased)

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The Foster Children of Whósits

The recent publication in France of J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Children of Húrin leads me to consider the possibility that this beloved author is more productive in death than he was in life.

When I was a boy, I dawdled over the first several pages of The Hobbit until — I’m not sure what chapter marked the turning point — I began to read like a child possessed. Hobbits, wizards, dwarves, dragons: suddenly, I had an entirely new cosmology, a framework for my dreams, vivid and exciting. I couldn’t wait to read more. I blasted through The Lord of the Rings, pausing only to cry over the fight with the Balrog. I devoured the minor works that were then available, Farmer Giles of Ham and Smith of Wootton Major, and just as I was finishing up, Tolkien died, in 1973. I was disconsolate, because that meant there would be no more stories.

Oh, me of little faith! For Tolkien’s son Christopher leapt into the fray, gathering up unpublished writings, editing them, and publishing them. Most appear to be exceedingly dull, I must say, every bit as much as any “real world” lexicon and many a pre-medieval history would be, and none sparked my interest. I realize that this is seditious talk in many places on the Internet, and punishable by death — but my intellectual admiration for Tolkien père’s posthumously released linguistic scholarship and imaginative synthesis of mythologies does not require me to profess enjoyment of his prose style (or somebody’s) or even of his borrowed plots. Put the blame on me, if you like, but the magic was gone, the bond between author and reader broken, and I moved on.

Christopher Tolkien, bless him, did not. Every few years, he binds together some more scraps of his father’s writing, and out comes a new book. Did J.R.R. Tolkien actually intend for other people to see this stuff? The question is moot, since we’re seeing it now, wherever we look. We can find more material on Middle Earth at the bookstore than on most African nations, and just when we think Christopher has published every single word his father ever committed to paper, and the stories all are ended, we find that we were wrong.

That’s why I’m proud to announce that, after great effort, and by means I cannot possibly divulge, I have obtained the manuscript of a forthcoming Tolkien book, The Foster Children of Whósits, and I provide a truly tantalizing excerpt here.

Scenically!

THE LAY OF SIR DRISTAN

PART XXVII: THE TAKING OF CLÅRITÍN

In the days of Benadril the Grey-Coloured did the mighty hero Dristan Postnasal, son of Whósits, ride forth in search of Clåritín the Fair. Long did he ride his bright-maned steed Excedrin, out westwards from the east, never turning northwards, never turning southwards, towards the Bridge at Runnynose, over the Gorge of Sinús-on-Fection, where Daquil, called Nyquilsbane, did vanquish the giants Süfedrin and Südafed in arméd combat lasting forty years and three nights and ten minutes, as the poets do tell to those with time to listen.

Having crossed that bridge, did Dristan smite it in twain, then burn it, vowing never to return until he come back with Clåritín. Many nights then did Dristan wander in the Forest of Mucus Clogging, which the Hobbits do call Snotgurgle, and the Dwarves do call Kleenek’s Katárr. [1]

At last came he to the Mountains of Zxwëriuófvsfsdh, in the Kingdom of Gfsdijøïér, where Lord Gibberic ruled in his Court at Ufgiufodsf, or, as the Old Ones called it, Ydfuiosefouiog, or possibly Yssdfdfiuiuofdfgg, as in some variant editions, though some scholars did debate this muchly, on long, dark nights in the Third Age, when there was nothing better to do. [2] And since Dristan could not pronounce the freaking names to begin with, he suffered much to ask his way of strangers, who lived in that land.

In time did Dristan come to Gibberic’s Helm (or Heim). [3] And long did he stop there. For each morn did Gibberic the King clasp him to his arms, whilst he did scrape him from his boot, and flick him from his fingernail, and seek out the favour of his boon jollity muchly and greatly. And each night by the great fire in the Great Hall, next to the other hall, by the Great Kitchen, but far from the Great Stables, Great Gibberic served up a bounteous feast of victuals and of viands, and the mead did flow like wine, whilst he did speak in the tongue of the North People, who dwelt in the Lands to the East, for they were much confused. [4]

‘My son,’ quoth Gibberic, ‘thou art not my son, but the son of Whósits, son of Whåtsits, slayer of Thingamajim, that was no stranger and yet no friend to this realm, and that was a cousin on my mother’s side, as well. But back to you, for still thou art like unto a son unto me. Son and no son art thou, yet more son than some sons, whom I could name, who are less son than thou art son to me, and who never write.

Fairly!

‘Many moons hast thou ridden through this land, riding and riding in search of Clåritín the Fair, for far is Fair Clåritín, full far. Yea, likewise, oft have I heard that Clåritín be full and furry, and yet be she far fairer than those who are not fair at all, and yet still somewhat fairer than those who are a little bit fair, or far fuller, or very furry. That be not so great a thing as to be truly pretty, but better far than to be unfair, or even outright homely, or heimly, as the case may be.’ [5]

And now the quothing of King Gibberic did rend the rafters and flood the flooring of the Great Hall of this, his Court at Ufgiufodsf (or possibly Yssdfdfiuiuofdfgg); and a mysterious shade did seem to fall across his aged eyes as he did shout: ‘Therefore, heedest thou this my warning, my son who art not my son!’

And Dristan, who had been dozing all the whilst, now did look up into the aged and mysteriously shaded eyes of Lord Gibberic; and the old man’s words did seem to rise towards the sky as in runes of purest flame yet obscurest dialect and rather poor handwriting.

Quoth Gibberic: ‘Take two at bedtime, get rest, and drink plenty of fluids!’ Then did Gibberic clutch at Dristan’s kirtle, and jerk at his jerkin, and beat at his boot, whilst he did fall downwardsly, and speak did he these fatal words, also, as well. ‘Mark thee this! If thou dost drink solids, sorry wilt thou be.’ [6]

Kingly!

And then did Gibberic fall still, until there was no life left in him, and the bucket did he kick, whilst it seemed to some who saw him that a ghost did he give upwards, and the tale is told in many lands and throughout many ages that the farm bought he, and there Lord Gibberic to this very day doth push the daisies, in a verily upwards direction.

And so Dristan rode he on. [7] The road went ever on and on and on, [8] yet light was Dristan’s heart as he rode and rode, and he sang and sang.

O, these are the things to do today!
Pick up at cleaner’s, High Street,
One grey suit, one blue suit,
Five shirts bravely folded,
And Mummy’s bluest gown!
Hey, nonny-nonny! Ho!
Derry-down!

Then on to market!
Two dozen eggs and one pound butter,
Sacks of sugar, five pounds flour,
And twenty-score men at arms and ten-score Elvish archers,
With catapults and flame-throwers and gigantic elephants! [9]
Heigh-ho, nonny!
Derry-down!

For I am the Son of Whósits,
Son of Whåtsits,
Slayer of Thingamajim, or -jame,
And all do know my fame!
Ho! Derry-nonny!
Do not forget the Cleaning! [10]

Onwardsly!

NOTES:

[1] This tale is recounted in The Season of Colden Floo, very similar to the account of The Sons of Kontak Kapsul of Tyme Release, recounted in The Elder Edda, based on a tale in The Much Elder Edda, based in turn on an idea by Richard Wagner, whoever he was.

[2] The Elvenfolk spoke too of another realm, called in Quenya Yddfasillillil, or in Sindarin Ydssillig, but it is probably not where Gibberic dwelt. I mention it just to be on the safe side. Which is near Cheapside, past Bayside and to the west side of Woodside, beyond the Golden Land of the — oh, never mind.

[3] Or possibly Herm, or maybe even Haym. “Home” is right out.

[4] See The Rigamarolion.

[5] Those critics who fault my father for the paucity of female characters in his work must surely be blushing for shame right about now, even if Clåritín never makes an appearance in the present narrative.

[6] He’s right, you know. See Beadle Bakshi of Rankinbass.

[7] On a horse, I mean, for the bicycle invented was not until the Fifth Age, at least. See Part LXVIX of Farmer Ham of Rye, and its sequel, The Battle for Mustered’s Hold.

[8] And on and on and on and on, according to Cartrey Humpington’s A Concise Concordance to The Chronicle of the Road That Went Ever On and On and On (and On), available for £32.50 in a plain brown wrapper at reputable bookmongers.

[9] The handwriting isn’t terribly clear at this point, but I was sure there was a battle in here, somewhere. An additional verse, to be published next year in a separate volume, speaks of the Chemist’s Shop, and the need for Ointment. This is typical of manuscripts of the Second Age.

[10] The Lay of Sir Dristan ends here. No one knows why, nor know they wherefore, nor for what cause or reason do they know. I promise, I looked all through my father’s desk, and there’s really nothing left but a postcard I sent him once from Brighton on holiday.

APPENDIX: THE LAY OF SIR ASDFGHJKL

The following, very similar tale, though manifestly much shorter, was greatly revered by the Children of Qwertyuiop, in the Third-and-Three-Quarters Age. It is appended here in its original, untranslated Qwertyuiopish dialect (similar in certain respects to that spoken by Gibberic), for its intrinsic scholarly value, although possibly my father was simply trying to replace his typewriter ribbon.

Ffksjdfi ousdf dsfsdfoi. Dfgks dafoi sdg dfsd fiousddf werio uer qwerty. This is a sample of the work of this machine. Frfwfgdfjk weror twuerk jljfd ewiow er iogjklkl gdas fdouifio uwt wereiow! Euewtu dfkdf ewro riue w ruio. Dffdkjl weriuoe wruio wer wer iro er tytyew rtuio lkjljlkj cmsvm vcxn. Thd qauick borwn fox jmps over the lazy orcs. Fjk jdsfjk xcvm, jdsfiof! Oe rwu oierw io! Ggkgk jfgdjkl %%%## diofsdi! Z!

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Dear Applicant

Each year at this time, it is the sad responsibility of the Committee on Undergraduate Admissions to crush the dreams of thousands of young people like yourself.

That’s right, Einstein, you didn’t get in.

In the unlikely event that you don’t kill yourself on the spot, you will doubtless look back on this as the worst day of your life. Yet it is only the first step in a long march toward desperation, the beginning of your ordeal. You are henceforward an outcast, a pariah. We would like to tell you that things will look up, eventually. But come on. Be realistic.

This is what truly qualified scholars look like. Notice that they have their backs to you.

And from now on, intelligent people like these will talk about you behind your back. In fact, that’s what they’re doing here. It’s a seminar on how stupid you are. We’re sorry to have to tell you this. Really.

Exacerbating* your misery is the realization that, even as you’re crying your eyes out, we’re all drinking champagne and celebrating the last time we’ll ever deal with you again. (*That’s an SAT word. Remember the SAT? That’s the test you needed to ace in order to attend the College. Too bad you were stoned that morning.)

It may be some comfort to you to consider that at least you’re only getting a form letter — cranked out by a database in order to ruin the greatest number of young people in the most efficient manner. “At least,” you will tell yourself, “the Committee on Undergraduate Admissions never writes personal letters.”

Ordinarily, you would be right. But in your case, we felt compelled to make an exception.

You see these doors? Majestic, aren’t they? They are closed to you.

Frankly, we found your application overwhelming. And not in a good way. We thought we’d never get to the end of it. Mainly because you kept sending us more shit. Bad enough that your transcripts and teacher recommendations revealed you as a grade-grubbing suck-up (though we were surprised the grades weren’t better, considering what a little toady you are). But then the updates started to flow in.

What made you think we would care whether you placed All-State in marching band? Marching band? You might as well letter in hacky-sack. We didn’t really want to know that you’d been named recording secretary (a post somewhat less distinguished than hall monitor) of the Young Future Indicted Businesspersons of Corporate America Association. Or voted Senior Most Likely to Injure Himself. Or elected President of “Str8 Talk, the speech club for students who aren’t gay, lesbian or transgendered.”

And we certainly didn’t want to see your prize-winning essay on Ethan Frome. Trust us, there is nothing we don’t already know about that book.

Your life will never look like this.

Our initial and lingering negative impressions were compounded when we finally met you. The sophomore who gave you your campus tour was embarrassed by your repeated inquiries, in lecture and dining halls, and in the library stacks, whether “people ever do it here,” and she was bored by your rambling explanation why you feel this University needs a Department of Madonna Studies.

When it came time for your one-on-one interview with Bob Mathers, Class of ’57 — let’s just say he was already recommending a rejection before you offered to sleep with him, in exchange for a good review.

We are trying to build a community of minds here, buster, and not simply taking your parents’ life savings in exchange for room and board and a piece of high-quality deckle-edged vellum (suitable for framing) at the end of four years. We really mean that.

Regardless of whether they are on Spring Break, have Gone Wild, or are blind drunk, women like these will be forever out of your league.

So how could we possibly permit you to return to the College? During your Prospective Student Stay-Over Weekend, you drove the whole dorm crazy by acting out Monty Python routines, refusing to let anyone else join in or even to say “Ni.” You interrupted an art-history lecture on Classical and Hellenistic Statuary by singing “Milkshake” and “Sexyback” at what we sincerely hope was the top of your lungs. You asked the Dean of Students to buy you a bottle of vodka, and you threatened him with an egg-beater if he didn’t comply. You set fire to the laundry room. You stole the iPod of one of your roommates, and as for the other one, we’ve been told that services will be held on Thursday.

We could go on, but we are tired of thinking of you. It is time to heave your application file into the recycling bin. So be off!

Sincerely,

The Committee on Undergraduate Admissions

P.S. April Fool! We were just jerking your chain a little. Eventually, you had to know that the pressure of sending out acceptance and rejection letters this time of year would get to us. But seriously, you’ve been admitted to the Class of 2012. We’re looking forward to seeing you in the fall. Send us a check.

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The Boushe Legacy

A brainstorming session, aboard Air Force One:
Laura Bush examines the latest draft of the anonymous screenplay.

As presidential administrations wind to a close, it is not uncommon for White House staffers to start thinking about future employment. Many seek jobs in television, usually as commentators (e.g. George Stephanopoulos), consultants, or producers (e.g. Dee Dee Myers). Sometimes, staffers write memoirs and even thriller novels, then try to sell the film rights.

This week, the William Morris Agency released excerpts from an anonymous, soon-to-be-completed screenplay. Although White House Press Secretary Dana Perino declined to comment on speculation that the author was George Bush, she admitted under questioning that the President hopes for a speedy end to the Hollywood writers’ strike, and that First Lady Laura Bush’s background as a librarian makes her “uniquely qualified as a proofreader and script doctor.” Moreover, she said, “This President has long believed that a percentage of the box office is preferable to a percentage of the profits, because too many in Hollywood subscribe to questionable accounting practices and fuzzy math.”

A few sample scenes from the screenplay, The Boushe Legacy, follow.

Seen 3
The Interogation Room, night.
Its real dark, see?

BOUSHE, a tall, hansom man in excelent fizical condition, enters.

BOUSHE
Alright, Thomas. Its yore turn to anser the questions now.

HELEN TOMAS, a fat ugly old broad who looks like she may be Islamic, is bound and tied to a chair.

HELEN TOMAS
I wont tell you anything, you basterd. Do yore worst.

BOUSHE
I dont think I half to do my worst, because I dont torture. Everything I’m going to do to you is perfecly legal.

He takes a wet warshcloth and puts it on her face.

Starring Matt Damon
as George “Gorgeous” Boushe

HELEN TOMAS
What are you going to do to me?

BOUSHE
What, are you bored? Get it? What-are-bored! Heh-heh-heh-heh.

HELEN TOMAS
I am sudenly charmed by your manliness. Lets sleep together.

BOUSHE
No, I wont do that. Tell me what the terrorists is learning.

HELEN TOMAS
I dont no anything.

BOUSHE
I always suspect as much.

HELEN TOMAS
But its true. I was just a front for the operation.

BOUSHE
Dont play cute with me, Tomas, it wont work. You are either with us or you are against us. And besides, you got to have a cute face if you want to play cute. Heh heh heh heh. Where are they?

HELEN TOMAS
Alright, I will tell you everything. Just dont hurt me. The terrorists are in Soddy Arabia.

BOUSHE
That is a lie and you no it. Dont you no the old saying, fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice — you just should not try to fool people.

He pores water on the warshcloth and she thinks she is drownding.

HELEN TOMAS
Alright, alright, its true, they are not in Soddy Arabia, they are in Iran.

BOUSHE
I thought as much.

HELEN TOMAS
Now let me go, please.

BOUSHE
(Shooting her dead)
Now you are free to go. Heh heh.

He turns to his ASSISTANT.

BOUSHE
Now its time to take out the garbage. And be sure to destroy the evidents.

Starring Ernest Borgnine as Helen Tomas

Seen 19
The Oval Office, day time.

THE PRESIDENT
Boushe, the press has gotten a hold on the story and now the public is upset about your methods. You caint be such a maverick. You have got to go by the book.

BOUSHE shoots the book.

THE PRESIDENT
Well you do get results. Maybe I misunderstimated you. Okay, do it yore way, but the secretary will disavo – The secretary will say he doesnt no anything about what you are doing.

BOUSHE
I like it better that way.

Seen 54
A glamoro – glamo – A real fancy hotel room.

BOUSHE is laying on top of the bed, reading the Bible. It is very late, probly nine thirty, maybe ten oclock at night. When a SEXY GIRL wearing only a negli – her underware comes walks in the door, BOUSHE jumps off the bed and points a gun at her.

SEXY GIRL
I want to sleep with you. I here you will leave no behind alone, and I have a real nice one.

BOUSHE
Who are you?

SEXY GIRL
I will not use protection, because that would be wrong, but I promise I do not have aids and I will raise our basterd child to be a Christian in the eyes of the Lord.

BOUSHE
No, abstinen – abstain – No, I am a super spy and I do not have sex with unmarried ladies unless they are my wife.

SEXY LADY
I understand, and I think yore unyeelding principals are amirable. I will now do what ever you tell me.

BOUSHE
Would you like to join me in prayer?

SEXY LADY
Yes, I believe so.

BOUSHE shoots her dead.

BOUSHE
I am sorry to do that, Condy, but you had it coming. Heh heh.

Starring Halle Berry as Condy

Seen 32
The Oval Office, day time.

THE PRESIDENT
Super spy agent Boushe, I have a classaf – a class of – I have a top secret mission for you. You have to go to Iran to save Dick Chenny, becos he is so dum, he went and got himself took hostidge.

BOUSHE
Yes, I will go. And by the way, here is my plan to fix the econimy and education and make tax cuts permament. Now I will go destroy the terrorists over there, so that they dont come over here.

THE PRESIDENT
Boushe, you are my hero. I new I could trust you with this mission.

BOUSHE
Mission acompli – Its as good as done, sir.

THE PRESIDENT
When you come back, I will make you the President. And by the way, I am your father.

BOUSHE
I am better than you.

THE PRESIDENT
Yes I no. I am not half the man you are. You are so tuff.

BOUSHE
Okay, good bye.

Starring Clint Eastwood as the President

Seen 845
The terrorists hide out, which is over in Iran. And its night.

CHENNY is all tied up and he is crying like a little girl. He is such a wuss.

BOUSHE
Do not be scared, I am here to rescue you.

CHENNY
You are my hero.

BOUSHE
Shut up, you are so dum.

CHENNY
Yes, you always no what to do. I will shut up now.

In comes the AYATOLLA and AL GORE.

AL GORE
Not so fast, Agent Boushe.

AYATOLLA
Yes, not so fast. I have a nucular weapon, and I will use it on you.

CHENNY
Oh, no, what are we gonna do now?

BOUSHE shoots the AYATOLLA and AL GORE until they are dead. Then he dismannel – Then he turns off the nucular weapon.

CHENNY
You have saved the day.

BOUSHE
Yes, I no that. You do not have to tell me that. I am a super spy, and I no every thing. I am the greatest.

And featuring Joe Pesci as Chenny

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Maximus and Minimus of the Year XL

Best Chariot Race: IVth race, Circus Maximus, Ides of Martius
(Artist’s rendering)

Friends, Romans, countrymen! Lend us your ears! With the celebration of another Saturnalia, it is time to take stock of the CCCLXV ¼ days just past, and as we do every Julian year, your devoted staff of Acta Diurna scribes have reflected upon the best and the worst of the memorable names, dates, and orgies.

He, Claudius.

BEST EMPEROR
There was no contest in this category, really. And we are quite certain that we would arrive at the same decision even if we did not face being thrown to the lions at the first sign of the Emperor’s displeasure. For how we all marvel at Tiberius Claudius Nero and his ability to govern us all so impeccably — and still find time to write all those fascinating histories and memoirs! We must remember to buy a copy of his latest, The Etruscans. It’s been a good year overall for the Emperor, who was recently declared a god in Britain — there’s a feather in your cap! Or it would be, if the Emperor actually wore a cap. (He still prefers wreaths. And very handsome they are.)

Livia: Don’t touch the figs

WORST EMPRESS
A much tougher call, as the Palatine was rocked this year by II still-growing scandals. The Dowager Livia is believed to have poisoned roughly half her own family. Will this affect her campaign to be declared a goddess? Entrail-readers say it’s too soon to say. Meanwhile, as if problems with his grandmother weren’t bad enough, our Beloved Emperor had to contend with the pubic spectacle (yes, you read that right) of his wife, Messalina. Is there anyone (besides the Emperor himself) she hasn’t had sex with?

Messalina: Next!

BEST POLITICAL ASSASSINATION
In a crowded year, with many fine candidates to look back on, we opt for the brutal murder of Blutus Blutarscinus Belusinus, whose opponents in the Senate glutted him on food and drink ceaselessly for VII days upon the Lupercal, then burst him like a pimple. Sure, poison and daggers are quick and discreet, but sometimes it’s the big, splashy death that really conveys your message.

The late Senator Blutus

BEST GLADIATOR
Drusillus of Tarsus was a sentimental favorite of ours — until he lost his arm in combat and had to be retired. We like to think that there’s a little bit of Drusillus in every one of the lions fighting in the arena today. And, come to think of it, there is.

BEST GRAMMARIAN
We were going to award a prize to Romulus Romule Romuli, but he declined it.

BEST SIBYL
Diophobe of Cumae sees all things, past and present! And she says that stola hemlines will go higher next season.

In Judea, so-called “Jesusians” “debate” “theology”

STRANGEST INTERNATIONAL NEWS
Those crazy Jews! They’re still arguing about some eccentric rabbi whom Pontius Pilate crucified several years ago. Is that kosher? (And if it is, what does it mean?) Meanwhile, Diophobe predicts that Isis Worship will be the next big trend in our temples.

Trimalchion’s Feast: They’ll be talking about this one for years

BEST ORGY
No question — it’s the party at Trimalchion’s house. Started on the calends of Junius and still going strong! CCLVI guests! Musicians! Dancing girls! We’ve lost track of the roast oxen and heaping piles of hummingbird tongues! What a blowout! (Speaking of which, Trimalchion renovated his vomitorium, just in time for the party, and it looks fabulous.)

A CONTEMPORARY EDITORIAL NOTE: Well, it does seem as if year-end thumb-sucking “Best & Worst” and “Top Ten Trends” rundowns have been going on since the dawn of time, and each year there are more and more and more of them. You can’t pick up a paper without the artificial nostalgia rubbing off on your fingers. These articles do have one asset: they make me look forward to February.

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The Caroling Club

These things don’t just happen by themselves, you know.

Are we all bundled up and ready to go? Everybody have mittens? You can’t carol if you don’t wear mittens! Good. We’ve spent such a long time planning this, and I wouldn’t want anything to go wrong. Since the blizzard is so bad, I guess I’m not sorry that you voted unanimously to reject my proposal that we rent Victorian costumes for this evening. I’m sure they’d have been warm enough, but we probably would have risked getting them wet and spoiled, and you know the costume-rental company would charge us extra for that. And after what happened last year, when I spent four months sewing those cute little von Trapp Family outfits for everybody — well, I’m not going through that again.

Does everybody remember our caroling route? We’re going to turn left onto Elm Street, and we cover the west side first, then the east side. Then onto Maple Avenue — and again, that’s Maple Avenue, not Mapletree Court — north first, then south. Then we are completely silent while crossing Elm again, because we don’t want to spoil the mood. Then it’s on to Hickory Street, but only the west side, because the people on the east side asked us not to come this year. But this way, we won’t have to double back, and we’ll go straight on to the band shell at Runnybrook Park. Then we cross the park and stop off at the old folks’ home and —

Yes, I know it’s a long route this year, and I know the Weather Service is predicting another five inches tonight. That’s why I brought this special industrial-strength artificial pine garland. Just hold onto it, and you won’t get lost. And it will look very cute, too. I am sorry, but it’s precisely during a blizzard that people really need holiday cheer. That’s what the Caroling Club is here for: holiday cheer. We can warm up for a few minutes while we’re singing at at the old folks’ home. And there will be hot cocoa and tasty cookies for everyone when we get to Mrs. Peavy’s house. No, we are not taking another vote on this. It is decided.

So is everybody ready? Let’s get started — except for you, Suzy. I thought I made it clear: you cannot come waltzing in here at the last minute and expect to go caroling. The Caroling Club has standards. You do not meet our standards. We have been rehearsing for two months, Suzy. It’s not just the words and the caroling route that we’ve been practicing, it’s the four-part harmonies. It’s the gestures. It’s the wholesome smiling. It’s the whole Caroling Club attitude. You do not have the Caroling Club attitude.

Caroling Club, Christmas 2006: A good time was had by all.
Need I remind you?

And Danny Guller, I don’t mean to practice discrimination, but you ought to have the good sense to figure it out for yourself: Jewish people do not go Christmas caroling. Just go home. This has nothing to do with you personally, it has to do with your people. Your people don’t sing about Christmas. They just don’t. And if you mention Irving Berlin to me one more time, I promise you, I am going to scream.

And Johnny, what are you doing here? I told you last year that you couldn’t come this year. Members of the Caroling Club do not pee in the yards of the people we are singing to. I know you say it was an accident, but we in the Caroling Club do not have accidents. We think about these things before we leave the house. I cannot emphasize too much: we have standards in the Caroling Club.

Yes, I know that Mr. Loomis isn’t here this evening. I’m very sorry about that. He says he wouldn’t be able to play his French horn in the snow anyway. His lip tends to stick to the mouthpiece. I know that will make some of our carols a little thin-sounding, especially “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen,” but I’ve written out some new arrangements that you can study on the way to Elm Street. Margery, will you pass these out for me? Thank you.

Mr. Loomis is not a quitter. That’s a very mean thing to say, Tommy. I’m sure he would be here if he could, but his mother passed away last night.

What do you mean, his mother passed away last year, too? That can’t be right.

Look, it’s not as if anybody’s forcing you to come caroling. They are? Well that’s no reason to take it out on me. I’ve put a lot of time and effort into planning this. The least you can do is show a little cooperation.

All right, we really need to get going now. Big smiles, everybody! Hold onto the garland! Here we go!

Wait, everybody — Elm Street is that way!

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Eine Liebesgeschichte

Taking U.S.-German Tie Personally: Unusual Warmth Between Bush and Merkel Seen Driving Recent Thaw
By Craig Whitlock
Washington Post Foreign Service
Wednesday, December 12, 2007; Page A24
BERLIN -- Diplomats here are still buzzing over a relationship that almost nobody would have dared predict a few years ago. President Bush's current best friend in Europe, if not the world, may be a German: Chancellor Angela Merkel. Bush and Merkel talk so much that German officials say they can scarcely keep track of their phone calls, video conferences and face-to-face meetings.

Oh, sure, that’s what people say. They call it “diplomacy.” They call it “alliance.” They call it “politics.” But nobody knows what we really feel for one another. It’s like the hunger you feel after mountain-biking for three hours, that hunger that can’t be satisfied with just a bag of chips. You need the whole meal. It’s that need to see each other again, to touch each other, to be together.

I was the first to feel it. Angela resisted at first. But she came to see that I was sincere — and what’s more, she knows now that I really measure up as a lover.

Heh-heh-heh-heh.

You see, you have to know how to handle a woman. And I’m the Handler in Chief. You start with a look, a wink, a little smile. Let her know you’re interested. Then you got to invade. Stand just a little too close. Get right into her personal space. She’ll start to get the message.

Then you gotta really handle her. Maybe you put your hand on top of hers. Then when the moment is right, you kinda put your arm around her. Or maybe give her a little shoulder rub. Women like that kinda thing. They like for a man to pay attention to them. And that’s what I do. I’m the Payer Attentioner.

Of course, you can’t rush ’em. But Merkels come to those who wait, you know? See, most women are afraid somebody’ll call ’em a slut or something, if they show you they’re interested. They gotta play hard to get. But see, not to brag or anything, but I have experience. I knew what would happen. She got me alone, and she was all over me.

Patented Seduction Technique:
Never take ‘Nein’ for an answer

I’d never been with a German woman before. They’re hot, boy. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s from being around all that sausage all the time. But they talk kinda funny. Like Angela. Her name isn’t Angela, it’s ANGLE-uh. Well, sometimes you gotta humor a woman, you know.

Sure, nobody expected this thing to happen between us. And that’s why nobody suspects it. You can’t suspect what you don’t expect. Lucky thing, too. You ever see Laura mad? And people say I’m the mean drunk! And Condi would take it pretty hard, if she found out she’s not my only “special workout buddy.” It’s hard, trying to keep so many women happy. But it comes with the job. It’s what you call Executive Privilege. If you know what I mean. Heh-heh-heh.

Sure, the world is going to heck in a handbasket. And I understand how people could get discouraged about the war and the — other stuff — but it doesn’t bother me. So — you know, Psych 101 ain’t working. I feel good. I feel — I’m relevant — to a lot of hot babes. You want to know how I can sleep so soundly at night? Heck, you’d be worn out, too!

Most of my friends are okay with it, too.

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