Saturday, February 28, 2009

Milk?



(A Mighty Wizard depicted above)

Woody, Rossaroni and Little Lord Turnipsaroy had arrived at their usual gathering spot beneath the ancient oak near the ruined stables beside the rotted remains of the old church spire nearby the mystic stone slabs, remnants of an even more ancient race, the druids. As was there custom, one of the trio was to tell a true story of the distant past in hopes of inspiring that night's adventure.

Rossaroni, the most garrulous, befitting his ancestry, spun a tale for the other two as follows:

“There before us stands the house of the great wizard Crestoloon, Your Majesty,” said the pimple faced page.

“Excellent.”

Sitting at the top the hill was a rather smallish, pink split-level. The king had expected something more along the lines of an imposing castle, or even a menacing hovel.

“I suppose even wizards have to keep with the times,” the king muttered, and he led his party of courtiers and knights to the door. The door was lime green, and ornately carved with a relief of a wizard battling creatures that looked to be half-man, half-wolverine, with some bat thrown in.

“Ugh,” groaned Jeremy the page boy, rolling his eyes at the overdone door. The king ignored him and squinted at the handwritten sign taped to the door.

“Doorbell broken, knock loudly.” He grasped the beard of the brass demon head that served as the knocker and gave three hard raps of the door. Knock-Knock-Knock

The door swung open to reveal an old man with a long white beard and a bald head. He was dressed in a purple robe with white stars and matching slippers that curved up at the toes to a point.

“What’s up Kingy?” The wizard’s thick eyebrows rose with his greeting.

“I have come seeking assistance,” intoned the king in his most royal voice. “My kingdom is beset by the hordes of the evil Count Krishnack; only with your aid can we defeat him. Mind if we step in?”

“Well, uh, now is not really the best time,” said Crestoloon, glancing back into his home. “Perhaps some other time.” And with that he attempted to shut the door, but the king’s foot was in the way.

“Nonsense, Crestoloon,” said the king in rather a haughty tone. “Now is the only time.” The king, who was shorter but far wider that the old wizard, pushed through into the house, followed closely by Jeremy the page boy, leaving the knights and courtiers in the front yard.

They strode to the living room, followed closely by Crestoloon, who was shuffling along, all the while wringing his hands.

“We need to buckle down and put our heads together if we want to defeat, OH!” The king had cut himself off in midsentence, for there sitting on the sofa with a cup of coffee halfway to his lips was evil Count Krishnack!

“Well, this is awkward,” muttered Crestoloon.


Woody spoke, pausing a minute in awe after the story was concluded, "Do you really think that this could be true and that old musty keepe on the outside of town belonged to the mighty wizard Crestoloon? Maybe we'll find the secret to defeating the town bullies there!"

"Or maybe not and maybe, just maybe Rossaroni is full of baloney as per usual!" exclaimed Little Lord Turnipsaroy, "Remember the last time he had us off on a wild goose chase after Wyverns!"

Sunday, February 22, 2009

I Don't Like Reggae .... I Love It!


Lord Rocksteady stumbled out of the "Drawn and Quartered" Pub at closing time that chilly London night. An unusual early September snowfall had given the entirely seedy neighborhood a cloak of respectability.

There he came face to face with Cecil Tophat III.

He was amazed at what he saw.

Thursday, February 19, 2009

At-sa Mighty-a Spicy Meat-a-ball Mrs Rossaroni! A Lance and Dirk Adventure


It was a clean, brightly lit room, illuminated by Saint-themed candles. Saint Rita, Saint Agnes and St. Louis cast their watchful, hand-painted eyes across the small dining room where a young Italian lad sat carefully eating his penne carbonara.

"Your carbonara is simply delicious!" the boy exclaimed through an unruly mop of shiny black hair that tended to hang over his face.

"Why-a thank-a you, little one" the Dowager replied, patting the boy on his head. "And, a-aftera dinner, I getta you da nice-a candy, maybe da Tree Musketeers Bar - they seem-a safe - I giva them to da trick-or-treaters and they-a no die."

"Why that's certainly a positive sign" Rossaroni thought for a moment, a bit incredulous even at his age, and again thanked his dowager aunt.

He continued. "Aunt Rossaroni, I truly enjoyed this dinner but, I really must head back to the orphanage now. The mistress simply insists we are safely tucked in no later than 9 o'clock of the evening .. on the dot! Which reminds me could I borrow five bob til next Tuesday?"

He batted his large brown eyes, extra cute street ragamuffin style.

"Oh, my of course you can, here you can-a have-a 10 bob because you such-a good-a eater!"

With that, the young Rossaroni made his way down the long, treacherous flight of apartment stairs in the ancient brownstone edifice located on the wrong side of the Shrewsbury tracks. Five minutes later, he was in the foyer where he bade farewell to the concierge who wasn't really the concierge. The concierge had died so his wife was now the concierge.

Be that as it may, Rossaroni planned a detour this fine evening. He was to meet his best chums: from the good side of the tracks it was the young Lord Turnips and from Kraut-Town, it was young Woody with his funny accent and even more amusing lederhosen. Woody and Turnips had gotten it into their heads to explore the forbidden ruins of the truly ancient keepe on the outskirts of town. He would share with them the details of his evening feast. Hopefully Woody would still have some leftover leberkase. And, with any luck, Turnips would have gotten over his obsession with railway track gauge standardization.

Everything was going to plan as long as Cecil Tophat III and his gang of cretins didn't show up! Or even worse, the Dunkirk Boys Massive.

Sunday, February 15, 2009

Rocksteady at Court



"Frederick Rocksteady Rushing, Pater familias of 26 children and loving husband to your lovely child bride, after your countless good acts in service to Lord Charles Townshend, also known as Lord . . . 'Turnips', and your singularly brilliant repair of the royal household's wireless network, and your finding the glitch in the software of the Q device and recovering Prince Albert from near certain death, I offer the thanks of the British Empire, its peoples, the royal titles and lands of your beloved Kingston, and this gift card for your family to stay for free at Legoland."

Rocksteady Rushing was gobsmacked at his fortune but he realized that the reason he fled Jamaica in the first place was the utter lawlessness of the place. He started to interrupt the royal personage, as he opened his mouth Prime Minister Disraeli shot him a withering look which bade him quiet. And given Disraeli's desire to cut Rockstady off before he made a spectacle, the wily minister passed a note to the Queen.

"And since I have installed you as Viscount Kingston you shall require the services of some of the Empire's finest troops to bring order to your fair island. I offer you the services of 3 battalions of the Royal Gurkha Rifles, 5 battalions of the Royal Horse Artillery, 3 battalions of the Queens Own Rifles, and the 22nd Armored Brigade."

Minister Disraeli made a small sound and whispered to her that the latter unit did not yet exist.

The queen mildly miffed that her whim had been contravened stiffened and continued.

"We shall substitute the 22nd Armored Brigade with the Royal Dragoon Guards which I believe are just back from the Sudan. As soon as those lads are rested and ready we will provide them to you."

Freddie Rushing could not believe his luck to have come all the way from the worst cesspool in Jamaica to be here in Windsor being received by the royal court and soon to be installed as the power in his homeland. He owed it all to being good at math. To having taken those tough classes, having worked complicated theorems in the dirt in the back of his shanty, and having stumbled across Lord Turnips as he surveyed his Jamaican land holdings that day when Lord Turnips could not figure out how to provide a 20% tip on restaurant check. That simple service to the great Lord Turnips had turned around the lives of all 29 members of his family.

"your humble servant ma am. Would the i gaan fe bed i fe continue massagin' your feet?"

Wednesday, February 11, 2009

Dem, d'ventures o' Rocksteady Rushing



Freddie Rocksteady Rushing, aka Rudeboy, aka Lord Rocksteady was just back from the dockyards where, following a tough day of work computing tallies of various fruits and produce, he and his mates had already had a fight with the a motley assortment of hooligans and street thugs. He eased into the wraught iron chair in the corner of his corrugated tin roofed shanty in the most fashionable part of Trenchtown. He looked around. He had many mouths to feed. He knew he had to leave Kingston and Jamaica behind if ever he was to make a better life for his kin.

He looked on his ever expanding brood of children and his beloved wife and came to the sad realization that he would never be able to perform complex assessments of information architecture frameworks, optimize logical models, be part of complex multi-agency taskforces, or do capability decompositions working as a tallyman here in what had to be the most violent corner of the Caribbean.

He knew his faith in Jah was being put to the test when he received a cable signed by Lord Turnips Townshend the mysterious agrarian from England.

Hey, i-man have gotten a telegram from Lord Turnips. dat English bobo he wants
i-man fe come help de young Stuart mit his tall divisions.


He contemplated the gangs who had tried to extort money from him just today, including:
  • Dunkerk Boys Massive
  • Truman Arms Posse
  • 8 Ball Posse
  • The Gucci Gang
  • 98 Posse
  • Du Rag Posse (a.k.a. The Dus)
  • Much Love Crew

    Hey wife, pack dem bags and get de children fit. i-man are goin' fe england
    fe teach lord stuart fe do de tall division. Jah be praised.
  • Tuesday, February 10, 2009

    Mit Dem Schnitzel in der Grossen Stadt! A Lance and Dirk Adventure


    Meanwhile, in another part of town, a recent transplant from the German state of Wuttemberg, was merrily strolling down the street lunch satchel in hand. He whistled a happy teutonic tune and waved aufwiedersehen to him mother.

    “Aufwiedersehen Mutti!”

    “Be careful Voody! Und don’t gif avay your lunch like you did yesterday.”

    “Ok momma, I vill be werry careful zis time!”

    “Oh, and don’t get schmutz on your new lederhosen.”

    But by that time young Woody had already turned the corner directly in the Top Hat gang led by that villainous and terribly rude rascal, Cecil Tophat III. Cecil was an upperclass snob who prided himself on extorting lunches, treats and loose change from his classmates.

    “Fork over the schnitzel Kraut”

    “Yeah, fork over the sausages too” exclaimed the Schott, one of Cecil’s most loyal henchmen.

    “And the Fastnachtskuchle” added DeBock , another loathsome example of Shrewsbury’s finest.

    “Vell, ok but my mozer vill get werry werry angry wiz you and I shall also tell my best friend in ze whole vide word, der Rossaroni – he vill fix your vagon und gut!”

    “We idn’t afraid of da likes o’ him – he’s another foreigner like you!” Schott chimed in.

    Slowly, the gang bore down on the poor German lad and his lunch and his lederhosen.

    Monday, February 9, 2009

    The Mystery of the Crumbling Keepe! A Lance and Dirk Adventure


    It was ordinary day; ending as did any number of other weekdays in the Turnips household - Young master Turnips engaged in a futile struggle with Miss Crumpwidget’s mathematics homework. Tonight was long division – 16 problems! “Drat these confounded figures!” he thought to himself, “I should much rather be on an imaginary patrol in the deepest Congo with my two best friends Woody and Rossaroni.”

    Presently, however, the gas lamps fluttered announcing the arrival of Mr. and Mrs. Turnips. But, before either could say a word, Turnips was pleading for succor.

    “Dear father, may engage my two comrades in arms, young master Woody and the young Italian lad Rossaroni in spirited youthful adventure this Saturday? Please Please?”

    “Why my boy, I don’t see why not as long as you’ve practiced your music … remember the membership exam for the Fellowship of the Lute is but a fortnight away.”

    “Oh yes father I will practice most diligently!”

    “In that case I suppose we consent” agreed his mother, “now get a good night’s sleep and finish up Ms. Crumpwidget’s homework or you’ll never get into Cambridge.”

    Turnips was terribly excited for the adventure he planned was more than the usual play-acting patrol in Africa. This time he had another objective in mind – the crumbling Keepe on the edge of the moor. He’d heard many a story about the old ruin and he was certain a mystery required solving.

    And hopefully, the three friends would avoid the attention of the local bully gang, the Sixguns.

    Tuesday, February 3, 2009

    The Old Bamboo, The Old Bamboo









    A tribute to Lord Woodpecker-Smyth (or at least my perception of how he is during his more lucid moments). I perceive him to don his straw boater, grab his bam-boo cane, and sing elaborate productions with several anonymous dancers singing behind him during client meetings.





    A gentleman's got a walking stick.
    A seaman's got a gaff.
    And the merry men of Robin Hood
    They used a quarterstaff.
    On the Spanish plains inside their canes
    They hide their ruddy swords.
    But we make do with an old bam-boo
    And everyone applauds!
    1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - Hey!
    Me ol' bam-boo, me ol' bam-boo
    You'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo.
    You can have me hat or me bum-ber-shoo
    But you'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo.

    Chorus:
    When punting on the beautiful Thames

    Caractacus:
    You use a sturdy pole.

    Chorus:
    To protect their fair complexion

    Caractacus:
    Ladies use a parasol.

    Chorus:
    It's useful in the underbrush

    Caractacus:
    To have a hefty spear.

    Chorus:
    Right!

    All:
    But what we do with an old bam-boo
    Makes everybody cheer!
    1 - 2 - 3 - HO!
    Me ol' bam-boo, me ol' bam-boo
    You'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo
    You can have me hat or me bum-ber-shoo
    But you'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo
    'Ere we go, mate . . .

    Caractacus:
    A flyer in an air-e-o-plane

    Chorus:
    He steers it with a stick

    Caractacus:
    He does?

    Caractacus:
    A collier in the pits o' Wales

    Chorus:
    He leans upon his pick

    Caractacus:
    That's right!

    All:
    Now every wheel of an automobile
    Revolves around a shaft (HEY!)
    But what we do with an old bam-boo
    Makes every one go daft.
    And 1 - 2
    Me ol' bam-boo, me ol' bam-boo
    You'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo.
    You can have me hat or me bum-ber-shoo
    But you'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo.
    (Dance break)
    1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 - 7 - HEY!
    And a 1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - and a 5 and a 6 and a 7 HO!
    Me ol' bam-boo, me ol' bam-boo
    You'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo.
    You can have me hat or me bum-ber-shoo
    But you'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo.
    You'd better never bother with me ol' bam-boo!