2018-03-29 / Features

Silly Social Scenes

A Wandering Minstrel (Aye)

BOB ISSUES STATEMENT REGARDING TROPICAL PARADISE – Your Columnist Ad-Hoc (AND the Worthy Editor) have received a blistering letter, writ of habeas cattus, and wallpaper-peeling press release from Miss Pomponia Brickbat, who styles herself “No’field’s Largest & Oldest Public Relations Firm.” (Having once [and believe Us, ONCE was enough!] seen Miss Brickbat through a spyglass, We can attest to the fact that she IS, in fact, the largest [weighing in at slightly more poundage than Chief Nylon, who, depending upon the time of day, breaks the scales at anywhere from 16 stone 10 to 21 stone 3] of the several firms of PR flacks infesting this town {of which Goslimem & Quickly is the worst}], and probably the oldest, for her rumored birth certificate indicates a natal year during the late, lamented McKinley administration). However, let THAT pass!
Said diatribe excoriates This Columnist, Our ancestors back to the late Dark Ages, Our future progeny (should there be any), and all of Our relatives including the Cousins German on both sides, as well as the Worthy Editor (double ditto for his having had “the appalling lack of wisdom, sense, compassion, integrity,” et cetera, et cetera, et cetera (you get the picture) to print the column. Only after several blazing paragraphs devoted to ad hominem attacks (which make entertaining reading if you’re the type who finds the NRA amusing) does the redoubtable Miss Brickbat arrive at THIS highly suspicious statement:
“Those stupid frogs at the Agence France-Presse are liars, slanderers and issuers of fake nooze! To say that Bob the World’s Smartest Cat was run out of the poorly administered, badly governed, incompetently run ‘Tropical Paradise of Bungo-Bungo’ is a vile canard! Bob was adored by All & Sundry on the island (a local tavern run by the one-legged Sumo wrestler ‘h’walahumiaeokii-ni-pappa-doc Smith). The Muscular Black Cat, famed around the world for his impeccable manners, aristocratic demeanor and suavity of manner (although, it must be admitted, that his Factotum-General, Chief Nylon, is somewhat peccable himself), was graciously, even eagerly, received into every home in Bungo-Bungo, from the smallest thatched hut to the most medium-sized thatched mansion.
“The intimation that Bob TWSC should have misbehaved in ANY manner WHATSOEVER is false, wrong, untrue, baseless and without foundation. Oh, perhaps there WAS a little dustup concerning the affections of one of the sloe-eyed Island lasses, with knives coming out and a Force-Ten brawl, but this was a simple misunderstanding, which was quickly (if not painlessly) resolved when Bob remembered an Urgent Appointment back in No’field and flagged down the French gunboat “Hors de Combat,” which bore the WSC and his Factotum-General to the seaplane base on Mungo-Mungo, whither the vacationers departed for home, seen off by a large and curiously demonstrative crowd of Bungo-Bungoans that followed the French vessel waving their ceremonial clubs.
“In the Name of Bob, we, Pomponia Brickbat (Miss), by Special Appointment Consulting Public Relationist to Bob TWSC, demand an immediate retraction, accompanied by a payment (in cash) of one hundred thousand dollars in small, unmarked bills.”
As might be expected by those who know him, the WE merely yawned ennuishly, made a paper airplane out of the letter, lit it from his glowing cigar, and sailed it off his porch, where it struck the lurking Public Relationist in the head, causing her towering beehive hairdo to burst into flame. Following the long-remembered instruction to “stop, drop and roll,” Miss Brickbat threw herself to the ground, where, having mistaken the bright red hairdo for a fire hydrant, a passing bull mastiff extinguished the flames.

FULL HOUSE AT LATEST GOMBC; FIRST TIME IN MONTHS! EXCITEMENT RUNS HIGH FOR FIRST 30 SECONDS! – The headline pretty much says it all: every eligible member of the Grumpy Old Men’s Breakfast Club was present and accounted for on Saturday last. Even The Torch, whose long absence occasioned concern that he had expired without telling anyone, showed up, which added considerably to the merriment and bonhomie. Even the lamentable XPCKN was present, having torn himself away from the bosom of the World’s Smartest Man, Warren Gamaliel Harding Bungthwacker, whilst the Person Formerly Known as the Visiting Fireman had returned from having settled his affairs in California (but without the banjo which had been such a fixture on his knee) to take up permanent resident in this dyspeptic, dystopic little burg.
While there was not a scintilla of scintillation in the conversation (the most obvious lack of which showed in the Ex Pet Casket King’s diagnosis of a pain in the Worthy Editor’s wrist as being carpal tunnel, with the recommendation that he seek immediate surgery, which roused the WE to wrath), what there was was provided by a discussion of the recently returned Perky’s vacation in Flawridda and his snap decision to purchase a motor home (on the instigation, he mumbled, of Missus Perky, who was enamored of the idea of driving their own comfy little house wherever they wished). Perky didn’t seem entirely convinced, especially when the XPCKN offered to go to Flawridda with him to bring back said motor home, and to bring his Roundabout Club songbook along for entertainment. This caused Perky to bolt from the table like a scalded cat, bringing breakfast to a close.

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