The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. One.

                                               
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This story is dedicated to anyone who believes in Pixies -- and believes in them having to pay taxes just like the rest of us.
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                                            MAYOR HISSY THROWS A FIT

The village of Mountebank, in the kingdom of Generic (using a soft 'G' and pronounced "GEN-ah-rick, emphasis on the first sylable), has always possessed a Chamber of Merchants. The Chamber lured tourists to Mountebank so the merchants could pluck coins out of their pockets. But no tourist had set foot in Mountebank in over fifty years. The only road to the village became infested with lumdiddles, which nobody in their right senses wants to deal with. They are nasty creatures. So the merchants had no choice but to fleece each other, and the local villagers.

The president of the Chamber of Merchants is Tim Laughingstock when our story begins. It’s an hereditary office -- old Tom Laughingstock had been president before Tim, and grandfather Aloysius Laughingstock was president when the lumdiddles first showed up. Aloysius fought the lumdiddle invasion by getting the town council to start building a new road into town. Because it is known by every half wit and necromancer that lumdiddles are one road at a time creatures. The New Road, so called, was still under construction when Tim took over as president. The villagers were assessed a New Road tax each year; the money was duly counted by the town council; a staff party for the town council employees and their families was held, which lasted ten days; and then there was no money left to buy building materials or pay a road crew.

But a new mayor got elected and the town council found out too late that she was an honest nag. Council meetings became very unpleasant -- so unpleasant that many members stayed at home on Tuesday nights mending lard buckets instead of attending. When Mayor Hissy ran out of council members to call to account, she persecuted Tim Laughingstock in their stead.

Poor Tim was in his office, sitting at his desk, snoring gently after a good lunch of winking oysters poached in pimento wine, when the mayor burst in like a fireworks display to demand that Laughingstock take action.

“Either get the New Road built or clear the old road of lumdiddles!” she yelled at Tim, startling him into full wakefulness -- something that hadn’t occurred in nearly six years.

“I’m right on it” he replied automatically, waving a sheaf of papers in Mayor Hissy’s face. Waving papers is an artform that Tim is very good at -- it’s meant to placate angry officials.

“Very well” snorted the mayor, much placated. “Have the solution on my desk by sundown tomorrow or I’ll have the town council stop your salary and have your ears painted green!”

And she marched out like the Army of Prank.  

“No more salary? Green ears? Hecuba on a half shell! I’m a goner” thought Tim to himself.

He glanced helplessly around his office. On one wall was a flyblown calendar -- last year's calendar, featuring the luminous paintings of pill bottles and pickle jars by Kincaid Fez. On another wall hung a ragged poster announcing the opening of the Meagerscope bobbit factory in town -- two-hundred bobbit bibbers needed immediately. William Portal himself had come to Mountebank to open the factory. That was back in the days before the lumdiddles. Long before Mayor Hissy. The bobbit factory was now shuttered and padlocked -- nothing inside it but owl chuff and creeping chadwick.

In moments of great stress the president of the Chamber of Merchants always calls for his secretary, Miss Poodle. Miss Poodle has been the Chamber secretary for the past 75 years. She won’t retire until her pension kicks in at one hundred years.

Tim hit the gong by his desk and Miss Poodle came in very deliberately. She did everything very deliberately. She lost her taste for haste after the first 50 years as secretary.

“Miss Poodle” said Tim, “we must find a way to bring back the tourists so Mayor Hissy will not yell at me anymore. I want you to have a plan on my desk first thing tomorrow morning. That is all.”

Miss Poodle blinked several times. She didn’t move an inch.

“What do you want, Mr. Laughingstock?” she finally said.

“I said . . . oh, never mind what I said! I’ll have to come up with a plan or suffer the greening of my ears like any common snood sniffer!”

Miss Poodle blinked several more times, then turned around and left -- not like the Army of Prank; more like the Bog of Sluggery.

A man of simple tastes and direct action, Tim Laughingstock gathered up a sheaf of papers to cover his face while he resumed his siesta and dreamt about fishing.

Republican Lawmakers

Republican lawmakers find

That they’re in a terrible bind --

When visiting home

The strongest syndrome

Is that ev’ry Main Street is mined.

Clown Decor

An interesting tidbit is making the rounds online today about a house for sale in Brantford, Ontario. It’s a small and undistinguished brick bungalow -- except for the fact that it is filled with over 1500 clown statues, paintings, and photos, according to WCTI12 News.  The elderly couple selling the house says that they began collecting clown memorabilia as a way to modify the man’s drinking habits. Whenever he wanted a bottle a beer he would buy a clown knick-knack instead. That guy sure had a powerful thirst. And a tough wife.

If you’re thinking of moving to Canada -- and who isn’t these days? -- you might want to take a quick gander at the place on Vimeo. By the way, all the clown bric-a-brac will be boxed and stored in the crawl space underneath the home when the current owners move out. They’re not taking it with them, but leaving it for the new owners to think about whenever they hear a crazed chuckle in the middle of the night.

The story is gaining traction on the internet, threatening to go viral, so I’m beginning to ponder clown decor -- specifically, how do clowns decorate their own homes?

When I resided on the Ringling ‘Iron Lung’ train car my dinky roomette, while cherished for the crucial privacy it provided, was hardly big enough to swing a cat in. And cat-swinging was all the rage back then. So there was little scope for decorating. I recall taping up some postcards, such as a photo of a jackalope from Arizona, and a studio still of Laurel & Hardy riding a tandem bicycle. But other than that I was content to simply watch the scenery through my roomette window. I was lucky; my double-paned window was still crystal clear. Many of the other clowns had windows where moisture had gotten between the panes of glass and fogged the whole thing up until you couldn’t see squat out of them. Granted, when the train was parked at a railyard my picture window decor was usually a pile of creosote railroad ties and rusting storage tanks -- but when the train was on the move I enjoyed a stimulating panorama of the American countryside. Everything from rolling fields of wheat to raw mountain gorges to placid riverbanks. And hundreds of small towns, when the train slowed down so much that I could read individual store signs on Main Street while crowds gathered on the asphalt pavement to gawk at our passing. I listened to the train gong’s strident call, reminding me of the church bells in Minneapolis that used to wake me up on Sunday mornings as a child.

The first real apartment I had of my own was in Williston, North Dakota, when I was on hiatus from the circus and working as a radio news director. At the time I was all mixed up about girls -- or rather, mixed up WITH girls -- trying to figure out which ones to date and then marry, and which ones to date and just have a fun time with. So I didn’t bother decorating my basement apartment with anything -- let alone circus stuff. The only thing I put up was a free calendar from Main Street Drug, showing a different prairie flower for each month.

When I married Amy we bought our first home within a year, up in Bottineau, North Dakota. From the get go Amy wanted nothing but religious and family photos and decorations. Since I had my library of circus books, I didn’t contest her resolve. Marriage is all about picking your fights. Over the years a visitor would never know I had had anything to do with the circus by the decor of our homes.

At this point let me say that I’ve been in the homes of some of my old circus pals, and they have uniformly brightened up their abodes with tastefully appointed circus-themed items that gave color and zest to their surroundings. And for the most part they managed to do it on a very slim budget -- getting most of their clown decorations at flea markets or from a cheap bid on eBay.  It made me wonder just what I could do if I had my own place.

Well, now I do have my very own apartment at the PHCA Valley Villas. And, as you can see, I’ve made an attempt to bring in a clown motif. But alas, I have the taste of an Ostrogoth. It’s all just a jumble of cheap and chipped gew gaws that my kids will undoubtedly throw away as soon as I’m pushing up daisies. And I keep adding more items, now that I’m comfortable using Amazon.com. My latest acquisition is a Bozo 3-D Bop Bag. As soon as I can blow it up I’m putting it in the bathroom, right next to the guest towels. I have also been looking at some porcelain Lladro clown figurines -- but since they cost in the neighborhood of 500 bucks a piece I think I’ll wait until I win the Lotto before sprucing up the joint with ‘em.

Truth be told, I much prefer decorating my apartment with maps. I have some excellent Michelin maps of Thailand, Mexico, and Scandinavia on my walls. They are real beauties, and keep me occupied tracing highways and railroads for hours on end.

I wonder if any of my faithful readers would like to share a view of their own circus/clown decor? I’ll be happy to post any photos here on my blog. You can email them to me at torkythai911@gmail.com

Never Argue with a Cop --

Their reply is apt to be shocking . . . 

Dan Heyman

After persisting in his questions for nearly a minute, Mr. Heyman was pulled to the side by officers of the West Virginia Division of Protective Services, also known as the Capitol Police, handcuffed and charged with a misdemeanor count of willful disruption of governmental processes. He spent eight hours in a local jail before the news service posted a $5,000 bail for his release.
from the NYTimes

Reporters, beware of Tom Price!

He doesn’t take queries too nice.

Dan Heyman found out

About Price’s clout --

By spending the night with jail lice.

Do Not Spurn at Anything the Hand of God Begins

“Wo unto him that spurneth at the doings of the Lord; yea, wo unto him that shall deny the Christ and his works!”

Do not spurn at anything the hand of God begins.

Otherwise you’re left behind with nothing but your sins.

To understand His reasons is beyond most mortal men.

But prophets can interpret with a pure and simple ken.

Never doubt the sorrow unbelievers will endure

Because the Gospel record they would choose to full abjure.

Email to a friend

I’ve got a sink full of dirty dishes, so naturally I’m putting off doing them by emailing you completely inconsequential items from my inconsequential life today.

I don’t know how you wake up in the mornings now but I am usually so stiff and brittle I could be mistaken for a bag of pretzel rods. Which, by the way, is what I keep on hand for when company comes calling -- along with lots of bottled spring water in the fridge. Nobody drinks tap water anymore and I won’t go to the expense of getting organic tidbits for all the fussy eaters in my family -- they can have a pretzel rod or go jump in the lake.  Anywho, when I get up I’m barely a viable organism until I have a glass of oj. Then my tongue rehydrates and I can go splash water on my face until I feel sensations in my brain that indicate the thought process is coming online. By then it is usually almost time to go to the Rec Center for water aerobics. I’ve decided to treat the daily class there as required therapy for me -- for my unsteady legs and my unsteady mind. If I didn’t go I’d wind up in my apartment all day and all night and turn into some kind of horrid hermit who smells like sweaty socks and stale sardine cans.

And by the way, I eat about five cans of sardines a week -- usually for a late breakfast.

I’ve been dissatisfied with my morning prayers lately. I seem to be giving a speech instead of talking to God on a friendly and reverent basis. I blame this tendency on the fact that I never had any kind of a conversation with my own dad. So I don’t really know how to talk to the Father above. I’m afraid my kids don’t want to talk to me on a serious level ever -- I’m just some silly old fellow who is good for a laugh and nothing else. So they never come to me for advice or comfort or just to pass the time of day. My fault, I guess. Anywho, so I have been trying to imagine what I would like to talk to my earthly dad about if he were approachable, and then try talking about these same things to the Man Upstairs. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn’t. But at least it puts my brain in gear for the rest of the day.

I’m tapering off eating at the Senior Center for lunch. The food is okay as long as I don’t eat any breakfast and so am starving by noon, but what I am finding difficult is the feeling of exhaustion that comes over me around 10am every morning -- if I can’t lay down for an hour I get sick for the rest of the day. There’s no place to take a nap at the Senior Center -- if you try to lay down on one of the comfy couches a security guard comes by to tell you to wake up and sit up. The crumbs. So I try to be home by 10 am so I can fall asleep or at least rest in my recliner. Then I feel much better for the rest of the day.

Today I thought i would do some more circus memoir writing but when I began planning out a story for my blog I just couldn’t face another circus story -- my own memories are starting to bore me to death. So instead I concentrated on my poetry today, composing three decent pieces based on reporter’s stories in the NYT. I sent the poems to the reporters before putting them up on my blog and all 3 emailed with a complimentary thank you. So that made me feel pretty good. At least I haven’t lost my touch. Then I decided, what the heck, I’ll say another prayer because I was falling into a daydream where the New York Times offers me a thousand dollars a week to write poems for them -- so I can pay off my past medical bills, get all the medical procedures done that I can’t afford right now and that will make me feel more healthy and alive, and get a car again so I can drive around like a normal human being, polluting Utah Valley and making a nuisance of myself with my kids by visiting them all the time. I had a good conversation with God about that; just stating simply and directly that I would really appreciate an editor from the NYT or Wall Street Journal calling me and offering me a vast amount of money for the privilege of printing and posting my poetry. I got no definite feeling one way or the other after I finished praying, but it felt good to get that off my chest. When I am called to account on the Day of Judgement I’ll just point out that I wanted to support myself and pay my bills on time and be of use to my family, and I prayed for help, but couldn’t get any celestial cooperation to be recognized as an accomplished writer of light verse -- and whose fault is that, hmmm? Why give a man some genius if you don’t give him the opportunity to make money with it? It’s only a torture without recognition and remuneration.

I made a good Polish soup for lunch, with lots of sausage, navy beans, potatoes, and sauerkraut -- which I spilled all over myself while watching a David Attenborough animal special on Netflix. And I had just finished doing my laundry -- so now I’ll have to do another batch tomorrow. It costs me a dollar-fifty to wash and dry one load.

I spent an hour watching Ray Walston in My Favorite Martian on YouTube as the evening deepened. How wonderful to think back to those long moronic evenings in front of the TV set, with the whole family watching inane fluff like The Beverly Hillbillies or Green Acres or My Mother the Car. If I got into my pajamas and brushed my teeth without being reminded too many times my mom would reward me with a bowl of chocolate ice cream, which I would let melt until I could literally drink it out of the bowl. That’s how I liked it.

Now I’ve got a DVD from the Provo Library I’m watching -- something called City of Bones. It’s a horror, sci fi, theological mashup that I’m only watching because my mind is closing down for the night and there’s lots of monsters in it. Put enough monsters in a movie and I can usually stay awake until almost 9:30 pm.

Well, dammit, I was hoping the pixies would come while I was writing this and do up the dishes, but the little pishers didn’t show up so I’m going to have to do them. I can’t stand leaving dirty dishes in the sink overnight. It gives me the creeps. So I’ll do a half-arsed job of washing and rinsing them. Oh, and I’ll brush my teeth. Maybe gargle with a little apple cider vinegar. Joom used to complain about my breath so much when I wanted to kiss her that I started gargling with white vinegar before each makeout session, and now I’ve switched to apple cider vinegar just because I have a big bottle of it handy in the pantry. Oh yeah, and I’ve got to take some papaya enzyme pills too -- they help with the morning bm.

So that’s my day -- take it or leave it. How was your day?

James B Comey

There once was a fellow named Comey

Who kept stirring things until foamy.

The President said

Let’s off with his head!

I guess he has heard of Salome.

Data Rape

There are no secrets nowadays --

Our data’s spread like mayonnaise.

The moment you go on Facebook

There’s someone else will take a look.

The world will know your ev’ry tweet,

While Reddit is just indiscreet.

If you would like some privacy

Then be a cyber absentee.

Since otherwise there’s no escape

From automatic data rape!

Christian Governor in Indonesia Found Guilty of Blasphemy Against Islam, Goes to Jail

JAKARTA, Indonesia — An Indonesian court found the Christian governor of the country’s capital, Jakarta, guilty of blasphemy against Islam on Tuesday, sentencing him to two years in prison in a case widely seen as a test of religious tolerance and free speech.

From the NYTimes

The Governor there in Jakarta

Is finding the place a real Sparta.

Not being Islamic

Is not very comic --

And don’t ask about Magna Carta!