Eleanor and Rose, and “The Case of the Fleaing Colors,” part 6

Part 6: Anticipation

“Fixing” Christmas

“None of the girls wants to get boy cooties,” my daughter said.

She was explaining why the girls were making the boys hold their sleeves instead of their hands when the boys in the 4th grade class and the girls in the same class performed a brief dance number as part of the class’s participation in the school Christmas show.

Their hands only touch briefly and for three, maybe four times, the teacher explained. Still, it had not stopped a fourth grade boy from writing a note to the teacher saying he didn’t want to participate because he could get girl cooties.

Christmas time is often about fixing things as well as getting or giving new things. And while some of the things being fixed aren’t trains or tricycles, doll houses or even decorations, they are still important to nine year olds.

Fortunately, I came upon a solution: gloves. They were already supposed wear scarfs as part of their costumes. What was more natural than gloves to go with the scarfs? I purchased six pairs of inexpensive bright pink gloves and proposed their use to the teacher. Each girl would wear a pair to practice and maybe even at the performance, insulating them from the dreaded “boy cooties.”

My daughter was immediately taken with the idea, and once the teacher approved, the problem was solved. Or, at least, I hope so. The performance is still a week away and who knows what viral debasement those young boys may yet let loose upon the world of girls. There mere existence is proof of an aberrant decline of fourth grade, if not all of humanity.

Unfortunately, the other challenge I’ve been asked to fix may not turn out as well.

I have taken a vow of silence — batteries not included.

I came home from work last night to find a stuffed dog in a striped winter scarf sitting on the sofa in the foyer. He held a note that read: “I need help please fix me!”

From what I can gather, his push button voice module was no longer working. How long had it been non function my daughter did not know. She possesses quite a collection of stuffed animals, ranging from finger puppet stuffed animals to a pink unicorn large enough to use as a pillow.

The dog could have recently gone mute. Or he could have taken a vow of silence many months back in protest to being ignored. The “you won’t speak to me, so I won’t speak to you either approach to communication.”

I have opened up the dog, inspected his battery cage, which appears to have a missing on/off switch, and I have followed the wires from the battery cage to what I believe is the voice module. It is inside a white sack sown snuggly around the module.

I have checked the batteries, tried jumping the connection to bypass the switch, and have even mostly freed the module from it sack in order to try to examine it.

It is a cramped space inside the bear and my fingers are not the type with tapered types. About as wide as they are long (from the base of the hand to the tip of the middle finger), they are more suited from tracing around to make hand turkeys than they are for operating in a confined, stuffed dog, chest cavity space.

I could slice the dog open, but I am not sure that would fix anything or make me any the wiser about the operation of the voice module.

I will take another look at the dog, but not tonight. He is still a viable stuffed dog, even if mute.

He may have to remain that way.

I guess I could always buy him a pair of gloves.

The blathering idiot and politics, part 2, mascot

Lydia walked up the blathering idiot and said, “We have a problem.”

The blathering idiot had been sitting quietly in a folding chair outside the small conference room in the storefront headquarters of the Pro-Accordion Party. Lydia had told him that his being selected the new PAP candidate was just a formality.

The simple formality had been going on for over two hours now, behind closed doors, with voices raised and what sounded like fists pounded every now and then.

The door was finally back open and Lydia was now standing and then sitting beside him, telling him there was a problem. This did not sound good for him going back this evening and impressing Zoey with his new-found status as candidate for high office, the highest office in the land, in fact.

“It’s like this,” Lydia said. “I didn’t anticipate that there would be a faction of the Pro-Accordion Party that believes we need to hold another nominating convention and nominate our new candidate that way.”

While he could understand the faction’s desires in this area, he also felt disappointed. I guess that showed on his face, because Lydia placed a hand on his arm as if cheer him up.

“The fight … I mean … discussion is not over yet.”

He nodded. He wasn’t sure if there was something he was meant to agree with.

“There is one thing you could do that would help and also bolster your chances of being the next candidate.”

“Name it.”

“We need a mascot,” she said.

“A what?”

“The other parties have mascots. One of them has a donkey. The other an elephant. We need an animal mascot. Other third parties that have tried to break into the election world have failed because they don’t have a mascot, an animal that people can readily identify with.”

“And if I find one—”

“Then I’m sure you will be the new candidate for the Pro-Accordion Party.”

The blathering idiot immediately headed out to find a mascot. But first he had to go to play golf. He had promised Xenia, Zoey’s daughter, a round, and since golf seemed to be a game the winners of the election were expected to play, he took it as a sign that he was destined for this highest office because he had, two weeks ago, scheduled this event. Or, rather, Xenia had scheduled it with him.

#

One of the holes at Sir Goony’s Go Karts and Minigolf. The snake is not the mascot.

Sir Goony’s Go Karts & Minigolf: Now Open Daily was bracketed by Prodigal Son Primary Care on one side and Exodus Chiropractic on the other. It was a slopping landscape of grass, concrete, fake grass, and fiberglass: rocket ship, Humpty Dumpty lokk-a-like, giant ape, and a very big, yellow, polka-dotted snake that arced above ground in a couple of different spots.

“So,” Xenia asked, “can this animal be dead or does it have to be alive?”

The question, coming suddenly, caused the blathering idiot to hit his ball too hard and it bounced around inside the small blue shelter, but did not go into the cup.

After thinking about a minute more, he said, “I don’t think they’ll be parading a live version animal around the campaign trail.”

He walked inside the structure and scrawled on the wall were the words: “Rich Folk Ain’t Bad if U Cook Them Right.”

Rich folk just can’t catch a break, except maybe in the kitchen. These missionaries of wealth and just like the missionaries of old who might have been eaten by the cannibals. But like the cannibals, the poor gotta eat somethin’.

“Well done,” he said to no one in particular.

Xenia stared at him for a moment, then moved up to take her shot.

At the next hole, the blathering idiot dropped his pencil. It rolled into the grass and as he bent over his shirt hiked up and his pants slumped down. He quickly straightened up and did his best to make sure Xenia didn’t see his red heart underwear.

She looked at him and cocked an eyebrow. “Are you ready for the tough campaign question?”

The question startled him again and he messed up his shot. The shot bolted into the fiberglass cave and ricocheted off the bumpy walls and one stalagmite. He had yet to break par on any of his holes. He hoped the tough question wouldn’t be about his golf game.

He turned and looked at this ten year old who was sometimes his ally in getting along with her mother and sometimes his general tormentor.

“And what question is that?”

“Do you wear boxers or briefs?”

“No.”

“Yes. Mom said that question was asked of guy who ran for this office.”

“Really?”

She nodded.

Zoey, Xenia’s mother, was not above a little bit of humor, but somehow this felt like a real, true question.

“And what did he say?” the blathering idiot asked.

Xenia shrugged her shoulders. “Mom didn’t say. I wasn’t supposed to be listening to the conversation anyways.”

The blathering idiot sighed.

“So, what would you say?”

The blathering idiot messed up his second attempt to get the ball in the hole in the cave. The hole was up a slight mound, like a big ant hill. Since it was a small cave and open at both ends, there was enough light. He never remembered seeing a hole like this on TV when they played golf.

He walked back out of the cave, past Xenia, but did not answer her question. What was next to his body was nobody’s business, up to and including even if he was going without any. Something he rarely did. This campaigning might be harder than he thought.

“You’re turn,” Xenia said.

It was then, as the blathering idiot came out of his deep thinking, and was pivoting to head back into the cave that he spied the mascot for the Pro-Accordion Party. It was standing right there beside, big eyes, sort of a cryptic smile on its face, and it even, already, had a red, white, and blue striped hat on its head.

(To be continued, more or less.)

The blathering idiot and politics, part 1, I guess

Maybe it was the full moon the night before … or maybe it was his girlfriend Zoey.

Maybe it was the full moon the night before, it being a blue moon, or maybe it was his girlfriend Zoey telling him he would never amount to anything, but the blathering idiot was out walking when came across a bumper sticker that read: “Pro-Accordion & I Vote!”

He saw one, then another, and another. It was the parking lot in front of a small storefront, but each of the cars had that bump sticker on it.

The blathering idiot looked up and in the store front window was a banner that said the same thing, and below it was a hand lettered signed that said: “Come join the party.”

It was the middle of the day, but the blathering idiot could use something to lift his spirits, and maybe a party would be it.

He opened the swinging front door. The bell above the door tinkled.

Everybody inside was hunched over his or her computer. There was one accordion in the room. It was up on top of a bookshelf.

A young woman with a clipboard trotted up to him. “Are you here to join the Accordion Party?”

She stepped even closer, the bottom of the clipboard pointed toward him. He surmised that either meant he was supposed to sign the paper on the clipboard or she was using it to shove him back toward the door.

“This is the Accordion Party?”

The blathering idiot saw them on several cars int he parking lot, and banner in the window proclaiming “Pro-Accordion and I Vote!”

“Pro-Accordion,” she said.

She pointed to the bottom of the sheet. “You need to sign here and print your name, address, and way to contact you there.”

“Why?”

“We have to keep track of our volunteers.”

“For the party?”

She nodded. The name tag on her turquoise blouse said: “Hi, my name is Lydia.”

“The accordion party?”

“The Pro-Accordion Party,” she said.

“There are no snacks?”

She shook her head.

“No music?”

“If we win.”

“Win?”

“The campaign.”

“Which one?” he asked.

“The big one.”

“Okay. Who’s your candidate?”

She sighed. “Our original candidate dropped out. Said he couldn’t fit it in around his busy schedule of playing weddings and polka dances, graduation parties and such.”

The blathering idiot had never heard of accordion music at a graduation party, but it had been a few years since he graduated and maybe things had changed.

“So, what are you going to do?”

“For a candidate?” she asked.

The blathering idiot nodded.

“We’re looking for one right now. Would you like to be it?”

He thought about that for a moment. Zoey had challenged him to do something.

“But I don’t know how to play the accordion,” he said.

“Doesn’t matter. You can learn as you go.”

“But I’ve never run for elected office before.”

She shrugged. “You can learn that, too, as you go.”

“Who will teach me?”

The young woman paused. She had large, wide set eyes and dark hair. “Probably, I will.”

If doing this made Zoey a little jealous, there might not be anything wrong with that, either.

“Okay,” he said, “I’m in.”

(To be continued, more or less.)

Workshop weekend: Saturday story: The blathering idiot and Spotted Dick

The blathering idiot darts up to a stocking clerk in a grocery store.

“You’re Spotted Dick, where is it?”

The male stocking clerk looks at him. “Come again?”

“Your Spotted Dick,” the blathering idiot said. “I need your Spotted Dick.”

“But I don’t have one.”

“One? One what?”

“Spotted dick, sir.”

“But you’ve advertised that you do.”

The clerk’s face turns red.

“I have not!”

“Yes, you have.”

“No I haven’t!”

“Yes, you have advertised that you have Spotted Dick.”

The clerk blushes. “That’s not what I advertised, sir.”

The blathering idiot stops, looks at the young man, a couple of small clusters of acne on his check and chin, and slowly realizes he may have been misunderstood.

He spots another clerk. This time a woman. He walks up to her. “Have you Spotted Dick?”

“Have you tried aisle nine?” she says and then quickly walks away.

Canned Spotted Dick; find it at your local grocery store. Just be careful whom you ask.

“Thank you.” The blathering idiot walks over to aisle nine. It is an aisle of coffee and tea and some drinks in pouches, but there is no Spotted Dick. He stomps up and down the aisle twice and is about the curse this store, the earth, even the universe itself when a woman walks by, Spotted Dick in her cart, near the top, the name in plain view.

His face lights up. He points at the can. “Madam, do you know what you have?!”

She looks him up and down. “It’s not what you think.”

“I know what it is.”

“It’s not disgusting or lewd.”

“Where … did … you … find it? I must have it.”

“It’s the last can and you can’t have it.”

“It’s the last can and I can’t have it?”

“That’s right.”

“No it’s not. It’s the last can and I can have it.” He reaches forward, snatches it out of her cart, and runs to the front of the store. He hears the woman wailing and sobbing, screaming to anybody and everybody that somebody has her Spotted Dick.

The blathering idiot is almost out of the store when he is stopped by an off duty police officer working as a security guard. The blathering idiot has his Spotted Dick firmly clutched in his hands. He told the checkout clerk he didn’t need a bag. Zoey was waiting. It was all she wanted to patch things up between them. It was British, she said, and she wanted to help celebrate the Olympics. She showed him the ad and off he dashed to the store, barely getting his clothes on.

“Sir, I need to see some ID,” the security guard says.

“What?” the blathering idiot asks. “I paid for it fair and square.”

The guard nods. “I’m sure you did, but I still need to see some ID. I’m afraid I am going to have to cite you.”

“For what?”

The guard looks down at what the blathering idiot has clutched in his hand. Then he looks down below that. “Sir, your fly is open and several people have spotted … have seen your spotted….”

Writing tip Wednesday: Getting lost in a good story

What are you writing with your seconds of each day of your life?

Each second a moment you can get lost in a good story or poem, writing or reading it.

Workshop weekend: Sunday story: “Virtuosity”

I was somewhen gliding over Virtuosity when I woke up from my copy/paste coma. I was ten thousand bar stools above pay dirt, but the drinks had stopped coming long before the last sequence of route rot procedures was done. I tried to perk up with three quick and awful coffees and a Hershey’s kiss left over from my last intrusion into the real world, but it wasn’t helping much. The coffee was a tannic acid man’s dream, bitter and beyond redemption no matter how I tried to doll it up. And the kiss, well, I am a sucker for chocolate, even old chocolate, but this kiss had seen its last sweet pucker long ago, maybe even in a candy gallery far far away.

She walked into my room the way all sycophants do these days – with an air of predestination. She sat down in the old overstuffed chair next to the old overstuffed couch I was crouched on. She placed her legs in just such a position that a trigonometry professor would’ve been had pressed to explain, and it was all I could do to keep my eyes from triangulating on them. They were her best feature, but the rest of her was at least suborbital as well. She dressed in clothes with sharp angles, some of which would probably frighten an armadillo. Her lips were as full and shiny as a waxing moon and her hair gleamed as if it were a source of light all its own. In short, she was as textured as the night, and just as dangerous.

She dragged out a smoke and was about to light it.

“Not in here.” My head was a series of dots and dashes in binary world, and lighting up wasn’t going to help.

She pouted and then put them away. “The boss sent me.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

She looked perplexed, lost in the great heartland of non-sequitors, a trollop with a message trying to make connections with polarized plugs in a non-polarized world.

“The boss says—”

“I know what the boss says. He says it every time he sends one of you floozies down my rat hole with a message, and every time he promises me my freedom and every time he finds a way to wriggle out of following through. Tell Lucy, Charlie ain’t kickin’ at the ball no more.”

She looked even more nonplussed. I could just imagine one big minus sign stretched above her pretty little head, like a halo dancing black hole mambo with an event horizon. One day enough neurons might come burrowing out, Steven Hawking style, to make a moment of enlightenment, but age and propriety would keep me from waiting that long. After all, it’s not polite to stare indefinitely at a glacier, no matter how easy on the eyes.

[Editor's note: not sure what to do with this. If I should pursue it or let it go. if you have read it, any thoughts or comments? is this an interesting beginning? Thank you for stopping by.]

Workshop Weekend: Roadmap for this blog

In case you’re wondering, and even if you aren’t, I would like to take a few moments and explain the new layout I am adopting for this blog. I have decided to make at least every work day specific to something. For example, Monday morning writing joke will be a joke focused on writing or about writing. It might also be a limerick (though nothing too naughty) or pun, which is something I have a weakness for.

Next: CarToonsday will be a cartoon, usually based in some way around writing, but not always.

Writing Tip Wednesday will have writing tips. It could also have recommendations of writing books to try, or information about writing conferences, or agents looking for new clients.

Haiku to you Thursday will be a haiku. At least for as long as I can write what I consider to be good quality ones. Sometimes I’m sure I’ll spit out a clunker, but sometimes you have to fail in order to succeed.

At times, the roadmap might be under construction.

Freeform Friday will be another poem, maybe not a haiku but something else, or writing such as a Blathering idiot installment, The Devil’s Dictionary, an essay. Maybe even something I haven’t tried before. Could even be another cartoon. (As if one a week is not enough.)

Story Saturday will be a part of a story. Something I am working on. Could also be a Found Story (photo with piece of writing about the photo). Could even be a whole story, if short enough. Or I may write something about my struggles to write stories, though I am sure that would get old and boring quickly.

Sunday? I may just take off. Or take off Saturday and make it Story Sunday. Or the whole weekend could be titled Workshop Weekend.

I have noticed on weekends there are usually fewer visitors to my blog. People are off doing other things, I assume. Plus a day off won’t hurt. I have a regular job, family obligations, and am working on a novel and short stories as well. On my days off, I aim for between 300 and 400 words of new writing on my stories or novel. So doing that and a blog entry can be tough. I might also skip a day here and there if I don’t have something that fits that day’s theme.

Certainly, comments and suggestions are welcome. And visits, too. The more the better. I aim to keep humor and wit of one stripe or another going on this blog. You may not be rolling in the floor laughing and sometimes you might even be rolling your eyes and groaning at the puns, but at least you’re not having to pay for the self-inflicted humor wound.

Last, but not least, thank you to all who have visited my blog and especially so to those who have linked up to receive notification when I post something new. I do appreciate it. Very much. Part of the reason for trying to more regularize the format is so that you know what’s coming.

The blathering idiot and Internet dating

The blathering idiot and Zoey had decided to see other people. Well, Zoey had announced she was going to see other people. The blathering idiot saw other people every day, but that was not what Zoey meant. Reluctantly, he tried getting dates. Less than reluctantly, the women refused, some politely, some derisively, some laughing so hard they had tears streaming down their cheeks and nothing else to say. And those that did say something polite usually said that it was not about him, but about her.

Eventually, the blathering idiot turned to dating web sites such as “Oui, Hook U Up,” or OHUUP for short. Their tag line was: “We put the We back in Oui.”

For several weeks he logged in, and talked with several women, exchanging e-mails, photos, even details of things liked and things he wanted to do and try. But he was not able to get a date. At the last minute, they would have a reason why they couldn’t meet, even for coffee or a soda.

But they did keep suggesting he sign up for the Platinum Oui for a Week Club, guaranteed to get him Oui more attention.

He didn’t have the extra money for the POW Club.

He was feeling down, wondering what he was doing wrong, when he ran across Xenia at the downtown library. She was there with some of her friends and somebody other than her mother Zoey watching over them.

She asked how he was. He told her.

“Mom’s meeting some guy she met online.”

The blathering idiot nodded.

“Though I think she really misses you.”

In some ways, he missed Xenia more than Zoey.

“I think those web sites are bogus.”

He nodded.

“I have a friend whose dad tried several of them. He told my mom he was about to fly over to Russia to meet one he had chatted with online. But he began to wonder and after chatting with a few other women from the same site realized he had been talking to some sort of computer program.”

“Really?”

Xenia nodded.

“Said he was embarrassed to admit it, but didn’t want her making the same mistake. Said he thought about reporting them, but then looked at ‘that legal stuff’ he called it on the site and it said something about using staff members and bots to enhance customer satisfaction.”

Some things are a (key) stoke of luck and some things are a (key) stroke of genius, and then some things are a (key) stroke too far.

When the blathering idiot got back to his computer, he logged into the web site, found his inbox had sixteen “oui notes” waiting for him.

Instead of reading them, he pulled up that “legal stuff” and though it was dull and at times difficult reading, he did find a section that read:

“OHUUP may, in its sole discretion, cause or allow you to be contacted by one or more Super Oui Profiles (“SOP”, “SOPs”) as a part of its “SOP” feature. A SOP may represent a person employed by OHUUP or an affiliate of OHUUP or an automated digital actor created by OHUUP. Nothing contained in an SOP is intended to describe or resemble any real person, and is included on the Website only for the personal enjoyment or entertainment of Users.

“Furthermore, SOPs are used to enhance your online experience, by (for example) stimulating communications with other Users, by introducing you to new or existing features of the Service, or by encouraging active participation on the Website. SOPs may also be used to monitor User activities and communications to ensure compliance with these Terms. In the event that the User responds to a communication from a SOP, the User may, but is not guaranteed to, receive one or more additional communications from such SOPs. Any communication between you and a SOP is for your personal enjoyment or entertainment….”

There was more, but he had read enough.

Another oui note showed up. And another. He glanced at them. Then he realized there must be some mistake. Something was amiss, or not really a miss. Somehow, he was mistakenly getting some woman’s “oui notes.” In this case, the blathering idiot decided, it was a not a bot her, but a bot him.

The Kibitzer and The Kidd, part 8

[Editor's note: Parts 1 - 7 of The Kibitzer and the Kidd are available by clicking on "Kidd" or "Kibitzer" in the tag section. This is science fiction western with more than dollop of humor and satire.]

888888

The Kibitzer couldn’t help himself. The flames were everywhere. Smoke embraced the air and made it suffocating.

He didn’t believe in the devil or demons – other than the ones you create or marry into – but the unholiness of the air made him wonder if there wasn’t something otherworldly afoot.

Then there was the quote running through his head, the one where the fat comedian turns to the skinny one with the big chin and doofus grin, and says, “This is a fine mess you’ve gotten use into.”

At a time of impending death, one shouldn’t be thinking of comedy, especially when you couldn’t remember the names of the comedians, especially the one with big chin and the doofus grin.

He heard voices beyond the flames, or at least thought he did. One voice kept yelling over and over: “Swallow the lozenges!”

The Kibitzer wasn’t sure what to make of the voice. The fire was loud and crackling. He never realized how much noise a fire made. If there was a hell and there were people in it and it was composed of fire, the people would not be able to talk to each other. Would not be able to listen to their own thoughts.

He felt for the lozenges. They were in a paper sack in his shirt pocket, but they felt soft, like warmed candle wax. Not yet liquid, but would soon be.

A new wall of flames sprouted up around him, forcing him to run further into the stable.

“Trust the lozenges.”

It sounded like a woman’s voice.

He heard the whinnying of a horse. The Kibitzer glanced around. He thought he had freed all the animals, except himself.

“Trust the lozenges.”

This time the words came with an image. It was the comedian with the doofus grin. The fat comedian with the small bowler hat standing next to him was breathing fire at him, smoke spewing out of the comedian’s ears. But the skinny comedian kept the same big grin.

The lozenges felt very soft when he touched his pocket.

Flames were everywhere. The air was hot, smoky, and unbreathable. But he was still breathing. Sweat flowed off the end of his nose.

The Kibitzer reached for the lozenges. Nobody was going to rescue him. Not now. Not ever. Not even the Kidd.

He heard the whinny again. Louder this time. Followed by kicking.

He had the lozenges out. They were oozing out of their wax paper wrappers and onto his fingers. The liquid was warm, but he could not feel its warmth.

He brought his fingers up to his lips.

The wall in front of him exploded inward, toward him. A part of the wall hit him, knocking him backwards, toward the wall of flames.

He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t feel. He wasn’t sure he had swallowed. And as he started passing out, he heard the fat comedian say, “Well, Kibbey, this is another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”

Except the comedian wasn’t talking to him, unless he was a … duacorn?

(To be continued.)