2017-04-20 / Features

Silly Social Scenes

A Wand'ring Minstrel (Nye)

XPCKN FINDS HIMSELF A TRIBE & HUGE THEOLOGICAL DEBATE RAGES – The Ex-Pet Casket King, having seen his myth of Whompanoag ancestry exploded by his DNA report, resorted to his favorite source of wildly inaccurate disinformation, Wackypedia, reported to the GOM at breakfast Saturday the astounding news that the Nelandersthals, his most remote ancestors, were descended from one of the Eleven Lost Tribes of Israel.

    Immediately there was choking and gagging around the table; the first to find voice was the Worthy Editor: “You’re wrong,” he screamed, spraying scrambled egg everywhere, “there were only TEN Lost Tribes! That’s what the Bible says!”

    Smugly, the stubby little man replied loftily, “Nope; Wackypedia said there were eleven, that the Sons of Nelander were them and that they went northwest until they reached Europe – that’s what the Alt-Bible says.”

    “The ‘Alt-Bible,” a church-going Anabaptist sitting at the table gasped incredulously, dropping his fork; “Did you say ‘Alt-Bible’?”

    “Right here,” the XPCKN rejoined, whipping out a sheaf of papers and jabbing a finger at a page; “Dimbart Alt-News Network quotes a reliable source who has access to many secret scrolls dug up in a landfill outside Newark, New Jersey (‘NEW ARK,’ the Ex interjected parenthetically, ‘NEW ARK, as in the New Ark of the Alt-Covenant, which was NO accident!’), that when the other Lost Tribes threw Nelander out because he ate roast pork for Passover, the tribe took the next camel train north to Europe, where the family bred with the Branchless Davidians and the Croatia-Magnons and were the ancestors of ALL Europeans.”

    A Babel of voices rose in protest at this, but the XPCKN was not to be dissuaded, and the wrangling went on until the cows came home, which occurred promptly at 8:59 a.m., whereat the combatants dispersed.

    LATEST DEVELOPMENTS IN BOBSEARCH – When we left the MacCardunkins last time, Vegan had succeeded in shooting down Vladimir Putrid’s jet with the Claidheamh-mor, his unlikely anti-aircraft weapon, with the result that the obnoxious Russky was dangling from a Wicki-Wacki tree in the MacCardunkin compound. Vegan and Putrid screamed imprecations at each other as Elfreida-Alice continued taking potshots at the Russky with her ancestral muskets, the effect of which was to break off twigs and branches and drop the dangling dictator ever closer to the ground – and to Fang-of-Falkirk, the savage 218-pound Scottish wolfhound baying and snapping at the base of the tree, the cause of no small degree of anxiety for the repulsive Russky.

    Having proved the efficacy of his unusual weapon as an antidote to low-flying hostile aircraft, Vegan was suddenly in the position of the dog that chased cars: now that he’d caught his prey, WHAT was he going to do with it? Persuading his ferocious spouse to cease firing, Vegan, who had not heard Putrid scream out his name or that he wanted to be taken to the equally repulsive President Dumpster, the World-Famous Scottish Bar-Maker drew his mate aside for a consultation, where a difference of opinion soon emerged. Advised by Elfreida-Alice as to the identity of their unwelcome guest (her hearing being more acute than Vegan’s), The MacCardunkin, head of his ancient clan, was all for skinning the Russky, filling his hide with straw and standing the dummy up in the garden to ward off crows. Elfreida-Alice, always the practical one, forcibly demurred, suggesting instead that they continue to have more sport with Putrid until he dropped to within reach of Fang’s fangs, whereupon they would call off the Hound from Hell, load the demented dictator with chains, and immure him in the old chicken coop until a ransom was paid. The bar-making business having fallen off of late, Vegan was receptive to the idea, and so it fell out that the once-powerful Putrid was reduced to the status of prisoner-of-peace (there being no Actual State of War) and resident of a chicken coop that had not been cleaned out since The Flood of ‘27.

    As the MacCardunkins secured their prisoner, Her Majesty’s Airship, the HMQEtheSecond, was making its majestic way toward the Western East Roxbury Dirigible Docking Station, Absinthe Shop, Yoga Studio & Goat Farm, G. & E-A. MacCardunkin, Props. In the comfy cabin of that great gasbag sat a gasbag of only slightly smaller dimensions, Sir Aethelred-the-Unready Kumquat-Picklethwacker, Head of WC-1, poring over code books, Kabbalahistic scrolls, 19th-Century crosswords from the Times of London, and the Official Chart of Ranks of the United States Coast Guard. Having determined (purely by sheer dumb luck) that the key to the disappearance of The World’s Smartest Cat (and, of far, far lesser importance, the simultaneous vanishment of Bob’s factotum, Chief W.C. Nylon), Sir Aethelred scoured the texts before him in search of The Key to the Mystery . . .

    . . . as the ineluctable Wasabi wobbled northwesteward in search of the Mysterious OAK LEAF, which words were imprinted on one small, elusive cell in his brain, a cell that stubbornly refused to unite with others to give him the answer – but was the Wild Man discouraged? Not in the least!

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