Where will all the idle clowns go?

Where will all the idle clowns go

When Ringling shuts down the big show?

There’s only one spot

Where clowns ought to squat --

Our Congress is so apropos!

A young man from Stockholm requested

A young man from Stockholm requested

Time off from his work to be rested

And ready for sex

With sev’ral subjects

Who in his physique were quite vested.


from a story by Dan Bilefsky

The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. The Daring Twosome. Eleven.

“Let me handle this” said Gullet the Ghoul. “The Toll Man can be rather obstreperous at times.”

Intimidated by Gullet’s use of the word ‘obstreperous,’ Tim stood silently by.

“Good evening, Master Toll Man” began Gullet smoothly, addressing the tall, gaunt, bearded figure -- who eyed them morosely. “We are here seeking passage out of the Bog of Sluggery, if you please.”

“Answer my riddle and you may pass. Answer wrong and you’ll eat grass” intoned the Toll Man.

The Toll Man lit a lantern, beckoning them silently to follow him into his stone cottage. All three sat down around a bare pegboard table. The Toll Man stared at Tim and Gullet without saying another word. Gullet tried smiling his wide smile. Tim only felt relief they were out of the clutches of the banksies and slabber bats. And he suddenly realized he was very hungry. He’d had nothing to eat since the Constable seized him back in Boogle Hollow.

The silence grew longer, and colder. Gullet twiddled with his black cravat. When you are invited into someone’s house, and then that someone remains silent, all the etiquette books say you, too, must remain silent until your host chooses to speak. But since Tim had never read an etiquette book, he finally spoke up.

“May we have something to eat before answering your riddle? I can pay with the King’s gold coin.”

“If you would feast before my riddle, I will fire up the griddle” the Toll Man said. He got up to start a fire in the fireplace -- which he did by snapping his fingers. Blue sparks flew from his fingertips to ignite a pile of sticks already laid down. He wasted no time hanging an iron griddle over the flames and cooking them bacon and eggs, and toasting slices of thick white bread. He gave them each a mug of pickle juice to drink.

“Do you have any moon cheese?” asked Gullet. He had not touched the bacon and eggs, and only sniffed at the toasted bread.

“Keeping moon cheese is quite hard -- I keep it out in the backyard.”

When the Toll Man brought in the moon cheese, Tim quickly understood why it was kept outside. It smelled so rotten it made his eyes water.

“Ah!” sighed Gullet. “That’s much better.” And he tucked into the stinky cheese with happy abandon.

As a boy, Tim had disliked riddles. They were too much like the math he had to do at school: “How many sides does a triangle have?” “What is the square root of 4?” “How many pints in a quart?” He never cared to remember the answers to such questions -- they made him yearn for his pole and hooks, and a quiet stream where he could dangle a worm in front of a fish. So he was not looking forward to answering the Toll Man’s riddle. A sudden thought occurred to him, and he acted on it immediately.

“Can I just pay you to pass through your gate without answering any riddles?” he asked the Toll Man, who was chewing a piece of toasted bread so slowly and determinedly that he looked like a cow at its cud.

“Silver and gold are naught to me . . . wait, what? You’ll pay me to let you through?” asked the Toll Man, breaking off his doleful rhyme.

“In the King’s good gold coin!” replied Tim.

Ten minutes later the massive iron gates were closing behind Tim as he looked out over the dim but beautiful rolling countryside ahead of him -- free of banksies and slabber bats and ghouls.

“Wait! Wait for me!” Tim heard from behind him. He turned to see Gullet the Ghoul wiggle through the massive iron gates just before they clanged shut.

“Can . . . can I go with you a ways?” Gullet asked Tim shyly. “I’ve never been outside the Bog before . . . I’m kind of curious to see what’s out here.” He looked down while he dug the toe of his shoe into the dirt.

And so was born the Daring Twosome of lullaby and legend.

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It has been brought to the Author's attention that occasionally a rather large and pretentious word is being thrown into the narrative of Tim Laughingstock. It has been suggested that this practice will discourage young children from attempting to read the story. The Author wishes to state that it is not his design to discourage any child from reading the story. Rather, the Author is hoping that the inclusion of long and difficult words will discourage parents from reading the story out loud to their children in that annoying sing-song voice they so often use when reading to their offspring. The Author considers that this would be a great benefit to the put-upon children of the world.

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Restaurant Review: Demae, in Provo

Demae is a Japanese place at 82 West Center Street. As the sign above says, they offer sushi specials. So did I have sushi? Nope. Everyone else I saw in there was eating sushi, and obviously enjoying it. I alone was sushi-less. And why? No pertikerler reason, cousin. Jest cuz.

Instead I had broiled eel over plain white rice. It was covered in a sweet soy sauce and had the taste and texture of uncured fatback. Which I happen to like. It came with a dinky salad and a bowl of miso soup that was indistinguishable from chicken soup. Nothing to drink but water. The bill came to $15.05. 

The place is quiet and tastefully decorated with Japanese prints. If you want to impress someone with your catholic tastes and muscular wallet, this is the joint. I give it 3 Burps. There's really nothing wrong with the food I had or the place itself. It's just that I never can get full at a Japanese restaurant. Now, if you'll excuse me -- I'm going to go have some cookies and milk . . . 

demae-japanese.com 

The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. The Banksies. Ten.

Most nights are dark. This obvious fact, overstated throughout literature for many years past, oppressed Tim and Gullet as they made their way back onto the pebbled path. It was going to be very hard, if not impossible, to stay on the path without some method of lighting their way. An occasional glowfly flitted past them, shedding a feeble light, but there were not enough of them to be of any help. The horned moon hoarded her shabby beams. It was only the crunch of gravel and pebbles under their feet that guided the two further along the path to their destination -- the Toll Man.

A sudden warmth inside the breast pocket of his coat alerted Tim to the fact that his bag of King’s gold coins was acting strangely. It felt warm and was beginning to hum. When he opened the coin sack a pillar of yellow light shot out.

“I don’t know why the King’s coins are doing this” said Tim to Gullet, “but now we’ve got all the light we need.”

“Too much, maybe” said Gullet. “Attracting attention is likely to get us eaten up. Can you control that beam somehow?”

Tim fumbled with the sack until he was able to focus just a narrow beam along the pebbled path.

“That’s better!” said Gullet. “Now we’re as safe as a baby in a blanket.”

But of course they were not safe at all. For the gold coins were glowing and humming because they were approaching a nest of banksies. A banksie makes all precious metals, like gold, start to glow and hum. Banksies love gold so much that they will do anything to get their manicured little hands on it -- up to and including ambush and murder. This particular nest of banksies made a practice of cozening travelers by acting friendly and accommodating until they could pick their golden pockets and then push them down a schmoozle hole.     

“Hiya, pal!” the banksies called out as they surrounded Tim and Gullet. “Glad to see ya! You’re lookin’ good there, buddy. Take a load off yer feet. Just park it right here. We been waitin’ fer some classy good-lookin’ guys like you two to brighten up the place!”

The banksies are little people, like Gullet. A few of them gathered together are annoying, but hardly intimidating. But this nest contained hundreds of banksies, and they could smell the gold that Tim was carrying. They closed in on the two travelers, their dainty hands convulsively extended towards the gold, as they continued their inane chatter.

“Mind if we have a gander at that there bag of gold, pardner? Must be pretty dang heavy by now. We’d like to help you out, buddy boy. Put that heavy gold in our burrow while you two rest up with some home cookin’. Whaddya say there, chum? Stay the night, why dontcha? We got lots of room over by that schmoozle hole. Comfy beds. Soft pillows. Thunder mugs, if ya need ‘em. Just make yerself at home, why dontcha?”

“Get back, you pests!” shouted Tim at the banksies, slapping their greedy hands away.

“Not their hands -- don’t touch their hands!” cried Gullet, but it was too late.

Banksies are very proud of their hands -- they wash them in daisy water and rub them with spill oil to keep them soft and pink and wrinkle-free. Anyone who strikes at their hands is asking for woe.

Now deeply offended, the banksies abandoned all pretense of cordiality -- they snarled as they threw themselves on Tim to wrest the gold from his hands. Gullet hid himself under a paddle bush, silently enduring the spanking his backside immediately received from the leaves.

“This is the end of us both” Gullet whimpered.

Then came the slabber bats, attracted by all the noise. They swooped down to pick up a banksie or two for their midnight snack. The banksies retreated in panic back to their underground nest, leaving Tim exposed to the rest of the slabber bats -- who were now whipped into a feeding frenzy, ready to rip Tim from stem to stern.

“The bag -- open the bag for light!” cried Gullet from under the paddle bush. Tim threw open his bag of gold coins so the light spilled everywhere in great golden beams, which temporarily blinded the bats and sent them winging away in confusion. Gullet crawled out from his bush to urge Tim to hurry away.

“Those bats will be back in a minute” he said, helping Tim pick up the gold coins that had fallen out of the bag during the scuffle with the banksies. “All we have to do is go past the Stoney Broke and we’ll be at the Toll Man’s gate. Hurry up!”

The distant beat of leathery wings told Tim and Gullet the slabber bats were on their way back. Heedless of what the bright light might attract, they ran past the Stoney Broke -- a ruined watch tower -- and down the sloping path until they came up to a massive iron gate, where a tall and gaunt figure motioned for them to stop. They had reached the Toll Man at last!

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SPONSORED CONTENT

Carrying around a bag of gold is a pretty sure way of inviting trouble. In the past, people had little choice but to put their gold coins under their straw mattresses or carry them around in a heavy leather pouch. That bred thieves and robbers, not to mention banksies. But nowadays there’s a better way to keep your gold coins snug as a slug in a jug -- you can deposit your gold in a Savings Institution! Rack and Rune Savings and Loan Company will be happy to keep your gold reserves in our theft-proof vault. Nobody gets their hands on your money once it’s deposited with us -- not even you! Your gold will be prudently invested in such bonanzas as pepper mines and owl pie factories. Just remember, a dinkum saved is better than two in the bush!    

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Grauman's Chinese Theater

At Grauman’s they use wet cement

Time’s massacre to circumvent.

The hands and the feet

Of stardom’s elite

Will last til the sun’s rays are spent.

The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. The Pebbled Path. Nine.

The sun was setting as Gullet took Tim off the hummock onto a narrow pebbled path that led through the Bog of Sluggery.

“We should get to the Toll Man just about midnight” Gullet told Tim. “Until then if we stay on the path we should be safe from the more ambitious predators.” Gullet did not sound too sure of himself.

“Who is the Toll Man?” asked Tim.

“Oh, he is the only one who can let us out onto a civilized road from the Bog” said Gullet. “Without his help we’ll be going in circles and sink into the murky mud before you can whistle up a shoelace.”

They hurried along the path as it grew dimmer and dimmer. Up ahead a herd of loggerheads slowly butted each other in the head, blocking the way.

“Fidgey widkins!” cried Gullet in dismay. “They’ll be at that for hours. We’ll have to take our chances and detour around them.”

Looking apprehensive and seeming to shrink even smaller than he was, Gullet delicately stepped off the path, motioning Tim to follow him. They tiptoed through some sandpaper grass and nearly fell into a schmoozle hole. They could hear the schmoozle breathing stentoriously at the inky bottom of it. Then a triggernoma tree made a grab for them with its waving branches covered with sticky sap. It snatched Tim’s green felt hat right off his head. Tim decided he wouldn’t fight the tree for it, and they kept going around the loggerheads -- who could be heard bellowing in the thickening darkness.

Slabber bats flew overhead, cheeping irritably while they looked for their first hors d'oeuvre of the night.

“Look out!” cried Tim, but it was too late. Something white and steaming rose up from the quivering ground to engulf Gullet like a giant overly affectionate marshmallow.

“Glurg!” hollered Gullet. “Don’t stop -- run! It’s an albino bumperstucker! There’s no escape -- I’m a goner . . . “    

Tim stood rooted to the spot in terror, but then his new-found hero heart started beating like a military drum. Marching up to the white bumperstucker, Tim gave it a kick. Which did absolutely no good. In fact, it nearly caused Tim to be sucked in along with Gullet. Backing up a few paces Tim nervously ran his hands up and down his coat, desperately trying to think of some way to save Gullet.

“The lumdiddle flasks!” he said to himself. “I wonder if they’re any good in a situation like this?”

No sooner said than done -- Tim took out a flask, uncorked it, and threw it at the bumperstucker as it began to sink back into the ground with Gullet still feebly struggling inside it. The flask stuck to the bumperstucker upside down. The pimento wine came dribbling out, as did the lumdiddle -- which immediately began boring its way inside the white monster.

Gurgling and murgling, as if it were being tickled, the albino bumperstucker split wide apart like a milkweed pod and Gullet came scrambling out. Covered in white goo, he scrambled away from the shaking white blob, which, indeed, was being tickled to death by the now wide awake lumdiddle. The two creatures sank together into the ground, to battle things out, no doubt, to the bitter end.

“You saved me!” gasped Gullet. “Why would you do that, when I wanted to eat you?”

“I need you to guide me out of here” Tim said simply. “And something has gotten into my heart that won’t let me run away anymore” he thought silently to himself.

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SPONSORED CONTENT.

PETM (People for the Ethical Treatment of Monsters) doesn’t believe a good story needs to show any violence towards those misunderstood creatures that are sometimes labeled as ‘monsters.’ In the above scene, it is hinted that the lumdiddle is cruelly boring a hole into the albino bumperstucker -- and that they will both perish in great pain. An alternative scenario could have shown the bumperstucker rising up from the wet ground to greet the protagonists and offer to protect them from any further danger -- all in the name of Being Helpful. This would show the albino bumperstucker in a better light, and spare the tender feelings of anyone reading this story who might feel sorry for the bumperstucker when it is tortured by the lumdiddle. We would ask that as you continue to read this story you ask yourself: Is This Monster’s Demise Really Necessary?” And if you feel it is not, please stop reading this story and boycott any further stories by this author until he can earn the MAPT (Monsters Are People Too) Seal of Approval from us. Thank you.

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Household Debt Makes a Comeback in the U.S.

The Federal Reserve Bank of New York said Wednesday that total household debt had reached a new peak — $12.7 trillion — in the first three months of the year, another milestone in the long, slow recovery of the United States economy.
from the NYTimes 

There was a young couple from Trent

Who got into debt cuz they spent

So much on lattes

That now they must raise

Quadruple the money they spent.

The Local Hardware Store

When praise I wish to stoutly pour,

Twill be local hardware store.

They know my name and what I need

And get it with amazing speed.

No waiting round or getting lost

Or worrying about the cost.

They know just how a thing is made

And summers they serve lemonade.

Welcomed to just sit and yammer,

Looking for a ball peen-hammer.

A local merchant I can trust --

As wonderful as fresh sawdust.

No box store can this shop replace,

Where commerce is a welcome grace.

The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. The Bog of Sluggery. Eight.

Now there are bogs, and there are bogs. Most bogs are rather pleasant and peaceful places, though soggy. They are filled with tall grasses and waving cattails; frogs and turtles splash about in a carefree fashion; the muskrat industriously ferries baby ducks on its back when mother duck has a canasta party; and there are bright marsh flowers that scent the air with aldehyde and muguet. The circulating waters are clean and pure, having been filtered for centuries through peat moss and lignite. Tall and majestic cypress and willow poke through the clammy ground to give shade and shelter to many varieties of wild fowl -- such as the rufous button bird, the towheaded meeble, and the stilted motto. It is a welcoming region, where children can frolic barefoot in complete safety while gathering indigenous candyweed and honeyberries to bring home for the family larder.

But some bogs have a chip on their shoulders.

The Bog of Sluggery is one of these other types of bog, the kind of place you never want to be stranded in after dark -- and really don’t want to visit during the day, either. It is stagnant and fetid, with layer after layer of dead and decaying matter at the bottom of the water. And sometimes the dead things forget they are dead and rise up when the moon glowers down on them, to shamble about in hoary confusion. Instead of frogs and turtles, there are snakes and alligators. A gelid scum covers the muddy ground, discouraging the growth of anything but spiked hornwood and pouting toadstools. The dead trees shelter no birds -- only disgusting slabber bats. Strange pulsating lights drift about at night, smelling of wet ashes.

This is the terrible place Tim Laughingstock found himself involuntarily deposited as the guards and Constable slowly pulled away on their raft, leaving him stranded on a slippery hummock full of barking worms and daddy longlegs. He had with him only his two flasks of pickled lumdiddles and his bag of King's gold coins -- for although the guards and the Constable were implacable when Tim begged for mercy, they were also rigidly honest and never gave a thought to depriving the poor exile of his gold -- much good would it do him in the Bog of Sluggery, where he'd probably be dead by nightfall anyway.

Tim felt very sorry for himself. He had set out from Mountebank with such keen expectations, and now he was marooned in a dismal bog -- an outcast and a failure. He sniffed mightily to keep his tears of disappointment and fear from turning into an embarrassing cascade. His misery kept him from noticing a little man dressed all in black come strolling up behind him.

“Good day to you, delicious man!” said the little fellow in black.

Startled, Tim whipped around to face the little man -- wondering sullenly if this was the bog creature slated to do him in and leave his bones moldering on the ground. But Tim had been brought up to always return a polite greeting with one of his own -- even when stranded in a scummy bog.

“Um, good day to you . . . little man” he replied. “I hope this day finds you well.”

“Why, thank you!” replied the little man, smiling and revealing a set of enormous white teeth. “I believe today will be a good day, and tonight may even be better! What brings you out into the middle of our bog, might I inquire?”

TIm squatted down, the better to talk to this mannikin.

“I’m afraid I am a victim of unjust accusations, and have been sent here for the rest of my life as punishment.”

The little man dressed all in black wagged his head back and forth in concern, and clucked his tongue.

“I am sorry to hear of your misfortune. I hope I may offer you my condolences and my company while you are here.”

Tim’s spirits perked up at hearing this. Perhaps this strange little man could help him get out of this awful place!

“I am most obliged, stranger, for your offer of companionship. My name is Tim Laughingstock.”

“And my name” said the little man dressed all in black, “is Gullet the Ghoul.” He gave another gigantic grin.

Tim quickly stood up and backed away.

“You are Gullet the Ghoul, is that what you said?” Tim asked, beginning to feel queasy.

The little man in black stepped forward, still smiling his disconcerting smile.

“Yes, that is correct. And it will be my pleasure to accompany you during your exile, your brief exile, until you are killed by a flock of slabber bats or bitten by a poisonous slither worm or just starve to death. At which point, once you start to decompose, I will sit down and enjoy a delicious meal. My, but you look tender and fairly marbled with fat!”  The little man pulled out a silver fork, knife, and spoon, and began polishing them with the loose end of his black cravat.

“But, but . . . you’re not going to try to kill me?” Tim quavered.

Gullet the Ghoul looked very offended.

“Certainly not! I am not a violent creature. Not in the least! I perform a very important but very peaceable function here in the bog. When something, or someone, dies I take care of the remains.

“Oh” said Tim, despair growing on him like the onset of a sudden chill. “So you aren’t going to help me escape from this place? You really aren’t going to be my friend at all, are you?”

“I’m going to watch you die and then I’m going to eat you up” replied Gullet complacently.

Tim stood very still at hearing this, while his heart beat very fast. And then something wonderful blossomed inside of him. Something that happens to men and women when they have been beaten down and abused until they look up to find a Bright Spirit holding their hand. They experience an inner tempering that steels them to attempt great things. This is how heroes and heroines are made. Right then and there Tim started growing into the hero of this story.

He reached down to grab Gullet by his black cravat and pulled him up until he was face to face with a very grim Tim.

“So you think you’re going to wait around until I starve, eh?” said Tim menacingly. “Well, let me tell you, Master Gullet the Ghoul, that I am not going to starve as long as I have YOU to feast on!”  Tim grabbed Gullet’s silver utensils before letting go of his cravat. Gullet dropped to the ground, and stayed there -- looking up at Tim with dawning fear and respect.

“Now, now, Master Laughingstock. You wouldn’t really do me in just for a meal -- would you? I’m rather scrawny and, and . . . just think of the rotten things I’ve been feeding off of for years! I must taste very nasty by now . . . “

Tim kneeled down to address Gullet the Ghoul.

“Don’t worry, my little snack. I’ll have a roaring fire going to roast you until you’re crisp and sweet.” Tim unwound Gullet’s cravat and quickly tied him up with it. Then he scrounged around for sticks and twigs, heaping them up next to Gullet.

“You have some excellent wood around here for a bonfire” Tim told the ghoul cheerfully.

Ghouls are sneaky and putrid creatures, but they also have a strong feeling for survival and know when the jig is up.

“Master Laughingstock -- may I call you Tim?” began Gullet in the friendliest tones he could muster. “Tim, I’m thinking that you and I got off on the wrong foot today. Why, a big strong man like you must have very important business to conduct in the outside world. It would be wrong of me to detain you here in this backwater bog. After due consideration, I’ve decided that, um, I would be most happy to guide you out of here -- completely safe and sound and free of charge. What do you say to that, Tim?”

Heroes don’t hold grudges and are humble enough to accept help quickly when it is offered. Tim untied Gullet the Ghoul and offered him a hand up.