It’s a spin-off thread, folks!
And we’re off!
So um…Rue, what’s with the shovel? 
Look out! ::Kat yanks Lady Juliet out of the shovel’s path::
whoooosh
kangg
crash!
Oops, sorry there Lady Juliet. Good reflexes Kat. Man, there’s one lamp that won’t ever be the same…
My sh… my unexpected digging implement? You really want to know the story?
I was riding the train, enjoying the clickety-clickety of the guy across from me popping his dentures around in his mouth. At least he kept them in his mouth, but it was getting on my nerves. The sound was covering up the soothing clackety-clackety of the train on the tracks.
“Next stop Bedford Falls! Bedford Falls next stop!” the conductor announced. At least I assumed it was the conductor. He didn’t have a circuit travelling through him at the moment. But I guess he could have. If it was a “he”. It could have been a very ugly woman, I wasn’t going to check.
People got off the train and people got on. If six people got off at the first stop and 2/3 that many got on the second stop, where no one got off and there were twelve people per car, and we left Chicago at 6:30 travelling due south west and the train from Denver was stopped on its tracks for repairs, what was for lunch? Burritos.
Anyway, an old Indian (Native American, Indian. Like Tonto. Only he could speak really well. Not all choppy with a lot of grunts and bad syntax. Even though, I’m sure, Tonto was very smart and just another victim of Hollywood stereotypes.) got on the train. He sat right next to me. Even though there were scads of seats left, he sat right next to me. And he was carrying a sh… a digging implement. This digging implement.
Denture Guy perked up and asked “Whatta ya got a shovel fer, Chief?”
Whoosh, kannggg! The digging implement swung out and smashed him in the head. Denture Guy, not the old Indian. The old Indian was OK. He had the sh… digging implement. I just thought he was cheesed that Denture Guy was so rude. So I was really polite from there on.
When we got to the next stop, the old Indian got off the train. He left the digger propped against his seat. I grabbed it and a jolt shot through my arm. I figured I just imagined it.
“Hey! You forgot your shovel!” I yelled.
whoosh
kanggg
Er… sorry. It hardly got you, though. It probably won’t bruise. Much.
Back to my story…
“Hey! You forgot your digging implement!” I yelled.
I guess he didn’t hear me. He didn’t come back for it. He must have been told a funny joke right then. He was laughing. I’m sure that’s why he didn’t hear me. I’m sure that’s it.
Ever since that day, I’ve been forced to carry around this digger. It never leaves my hand. If I do happen to, say, drop it off a cliff, or, maybe, throw it in the ocean, it always comes back to me. And smacks me a good one in the head.
Now my life is a quest. I’m looking for the old Indian. And I’m going to smack him a good one. You just believe it.
Enough about me. Have you seen the Canadian?
Rue, you’re a strange man.
So. What about The Canadian?
See, here’s the thing. Though she lives in Canada, GingerOfTheNorth is originally from Iceland.
I can’t think of her as Canadian. Canadians are just warmly-dressed Americans with better health care, as far as I can see.
Icelanders, on the other hand, are exotic. Stunningly beautiful to a one. Intelligent. Overpoweringly self-confident.
GingerOfTheNorth is an Icelander.
Nope.
Nope. Although I am:
Wait. Why did I think you’re from Iceland, if you’re not?
'Cause you’re a Numpty.
My mom’s family is Icelandic. My dad’s is Irish. I would be the perfect, perky, Canadian blend.
Back to the story…
“Numpty! You drive where I tell you to drive! We must get to B’wana Bob before the Nazis!”
Wow, Ginger got excited there. Her temper is as hot as her flaming tresses. (Not that her head is on fire. It’s a metaphore. It means she has red hair.)
Pierre DuFaire guns the 1956 Citroen again. Off he races to B’wana Bob’s secret lair…
(Someone else has to take it from here. Or several someones. I don’t care. My head hurts.)
So you’re Icelandic by heritage, not by birth. Fine I still say:
…that you’re an Icelander, Numpty though I be.
B’wana Bob’s place isn’t that far of a drive. Why am I not there yet?
Ahhhh, my little chocolat, the REASON you are not yet at B’wana Bob’s is that the evil Dr. Captain Leftennant Dirk Dickley left a HUGE pile of boulders blocking the road. Why poor ole poopy Pierre DuFaire, he barely got the Citroen under control as he rounded the turn! ( Side note. It is killing me, lest you all think me an idiot, that because I use AOL to post here, I cannot use the Alt+140 to Alt+149 sequence, therefore the “o” in “Citroen” is missing it’s little dots. I know they’re missing. I’m so sorry.).
Pierre DuFaire whirled the Citroen with the missing dots around and in a spray of dirt they hurled back down the road again, from whence they came. Oh, poor Ginger, how she pines for her man, Manne. Slow fade…
…fade up on Manne. A studly fellow, broad across the beam and yet with two distinct eyebrows- a feature that attracted Ginger from the get-go. He sits in front of B’wana Bob’s Secret Lair, Pluperfect Non-Pariel Emporium and Plantain Shoppe. The sun beats down upon his sweet brow, but being the studly man Manne that he is, he just beats back twice as hard. He ruminates his future…
Poor Manne. All alone. Unwares of the danger that stalked his dear dear really awfully damned dear heart ** Ginger**, as she and her faithful yet slightly dimwitted driver Pierre DuFair sped down the dusty roadway, avoiding the trap laid by the evil Dr. Captain Leftennant Dirk Dickley.
Manne hardly noticed the scorpion crawling up his boot. Life was about to become compex for our friend Manne, and man’s man that Manne is, he might yet not escape the scorpion’s deadly prick…
To be continued. I’ve a touch of the vapors, I must rest, and marinate the chicken.
Cartooniverse
Dear Pierre DuFair, please tell me you’re not resting and marinating the chicken with your vapours.
Perhaps that’s why the dotless Citroen has that funky smell in the back seat.
How will sweet Ginger get to B’wana Bob’s secret lair?
Will manly Manne get pricked?
Will Pierre DuFair figure out his true feelings?
All this and more in the next exciting episode of… wait… This is the next episode… so here we go again with The Awakening… (and you just can’t have too many elipses…)
Great googly-mooglies! What is that ahead? Why, it’s the French Foreign Legion. At least a legion of Foreign Frenchies. Led by the dashing and dotting Major Lemuel Morse.
Major Morse reigns in his faithful camel Pourquoi and quickly dismounts. It looked like he fell off his camel and flipped over his (the camel’s) head, but in truth it was a speedy dismount. (Kids! Do not try this at home! You have to join the French Foreign Legion first.)
“Ginger, my luscious kumquat, what brings you out to this neck of the woods?”
“My driver. Have you met him? Pierre DuFair, this is Major Lemuel Morse. Lemuel, Pierre.”
“Hiya.”
“A pleasure. Any friend of Ginger’s, yadda yadda and rot.”
“Lemuel,”
“Yes my fiery beauty?”
“You have to get me to B’wana Bob’s.”
“In the mood for a red banana?”
“No. Nazis.”
“You’re in the mood for a Nazi?”
“No, the Nazis are closing in on Bob and I must warn him.”
“Have no fear! I will escort you directly to your destination. I and my men! Me and my men? No, I’ll stick with “I”. But I’d rather stick to you, all things’ considered. Men! Mount up! Now, get on your camels this time! Really! There’s a woman present! Show some decorum!”
“Oh Lemuel, I knew I could count on you.”
“Speak not of it. Quickly, to B’wana Bob’s. I feel like a red banana myself.”
“Squishy inside and a little slippery?”
“Now, Pierre…”
“Sorry Ginger.”
With the help of Major Morse, Ginger and Pierre arrived in a timely fashion to the Pluperfect Non-Pariel Emporium and Plantain Shoppe. It was 2:30 and they were wearing the latest culottes from Milan.
“Oh Manne…”
“Oh Ginger…”
“Oh brother.”
“Shut up Pierre.”
“Yes Ginger.”
“Manne, have you seen Bob?”
“Little fellow, bad moustache, walks with a limp?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“Not today. Why?”
“The Nazis are coming. We have to protect the Elephants. Do you hear a droning?”
That’s when they noticed the dirigible. (It’s like a blimp.)
-phew- Thanks Kat, I owe you one.
Very nice story about your digging implement (please don’t hit me, please don’t hit me. I need these brain cells to graduate from high school!). Captivating…purely captivating.
I wonder what happened to that Indian anyway…
[dramatic chords in background]
The Nazi’s are coming?! Oh, my!
<thinksn…uh, B’wana Bob strides stridently across the floor of his palatial loft apartment checking the readiness of his implements. [li]Food…Check! []Weapons…Check! []Tire pump…Check! []Check book…Check! []Something to dig with…Oh-oh[/li]
If only my trust side-kick were here, he’d be able to help me out. Damn, what am I paying that guy for anyway?
Hmm, last months pay-stubs…it would seem I’ve not been paying him. Well.
[sub]Intersting Nazi-related tid-bit:
Mother ts was born in Holland during the German retreat. They were, literally, pounding on the door, demanding to be let in so that they could rip down the curtains to make bandages for their wounded.
The maid would not let them in and she (my mother) was born without incident.[/sub]
The dotless Citroen has a funky smell because SOMEONE ( and we needn’t mention who, now need we?? ) left their pet Burmese Python in the back seat last weekend, where it whelped a litter of little SMELLY Burmese Pythons. Here. Have some Saddle Soap and hot water. You’re gonna need it, yer highness.
Now. Where are we? Ahhhhh, yes…
Major Morse, Ginger and Pierre stood gaping at what was left of the Pluperfect Non-Pariel Emporium and Plantain Shoppe. Apparently it had been overrun by Nazis, Infidels, Visigoths and a crowd from a Wheezer concert that had gotten lost outside of Nice and found their way to the Shoppe.
" Oh dear me, Major".
" Ginger, we will rebuild"
" God, those Burmese Pythons really smell"
" Shut UP, Pierre ! "
" Sorry, M’Lady (grumble, grumble)".
They set to, calling out now and again for B’wana Bob and his adoring yet fairly banal wife Flourette. ( She came from bad stock. Apparently they used to water down the Red, and sell it as white zinfandel to tourists. Very bad family, came to no good end at all ).
There was much pandemonium when one of Bob’s shoes was found in the hearth. When Ginger pointed out Bob’s fondness for falling asleep with his feet near the fireplace, everyone settled down a wee bit.
Just as Ginger was becoming winded, her eyes spied a sight so enthralling, so moving, so exhiliarating, so completely engulfing that she stopped in her tracks. Luckily, no train was approaching. There he was. Her specimen. Her man, Manne. Stripped to the waist and not a damned bit of fat on the man, he strode up the rise with surety. Clutched in each hand was a suckling pig, recently killed.
" Oh, Manne! How I’ve longed for your touch."
" Ahhh, Ginger. I’ve brought you something."
" Is that pork?"
" Shut UP, Pierre!!! Don’t you have to change the frammisher on the Citroen or SOMETHING??? "
" I’ll just take those sucklings from you, Manne, and dress them and prep them for dinner. Nothing like pork. The white meat".
" That’s, ’ The OTHER white meat, you ninny !’ “.
" Right. Gimme the swine”.
Whilst Pierre DuFair built a bonfire and prepared the sucklings, Manne and Ginger retired to the sitting parlour for some serious talk.
" Oh, Ginger. The months have been kind to you. You’re filled with the glow of youth and vivacity !"
" It’s the eczema, darling…"
" Ahhh, yes. How is the creme?.."
" FINE, it’s working FINE. Look Manne, can we talk about something else besides my skin?"
" Uh, yes honey. Shall we be touring through Lausanne-Ouchy this year on our way up to Basel?"
" Of course. Papa will be expecting us for the traditional annual WeinerSchniztelGrubenSchaffhausenTickenn Festival. We dare not disappoint him"
After a fine dinner of suckling pig, new potatoes, fresh asparagus in a dill, cream and ginger sauce over Basmati Rice, the two snuggled in for some spooning.
Pierre DuFair was left to clean up the mess from the recent hatchings of the Burmese Pythons in the back seat of the dotless Citroen.
" Why me? Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. Why me?"
The sun set on the bucolic scene, and not one of them could have dreamt of the stunning changes the new dawn would bring…
“Hi, I’m Dawn. Here’s 95¢.”
“Thanks, I’m Pierre.”
“You should drink more.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Is this your place? It looks like it’s been looted. Or lucred. Or cashed. Cashed like a bad check. Yup, that’s what this place looks like.”
“Run away with me! I love you completely!”
“OK.”
And Pierre fired up the Citroen. He and Dawn hopped in and sped away.
A man walked up the road. Actually he walked along the road. There were no hills and the road was lying down, so he couldn’t walk up. After a time he came to the remains of the Pluperfect Non-Pariel Emporium and Plantain Shoppe. In one hand he had a digging impliment, in the other he had a “¨”. The Lost “¨” of the ill-fated Citroen which, even now, was hurling Dawn and Pierre to their destinies. Luckily the had some antiseptic spray to put on their destinies, and they both healed without scarring.
“Who are you?” cried Manne. “And why are you carrying a shovel?”
whoosh
kannggg
“Ow! Crap! You just hit me with your shovel!”
whoosh
kannggg
“You don’t learn too fast, do you?” asked the mysterious Guy with a Shovel. (No harm was done this time because that’s just what he was called. No one said the “s” word out loud.)
“You… It’s you…” said Ginger, clutching a robe to her heaving bosom as she entered the ruined courtyard.
Ginger was fully clothed, pants (jodhpurs, she changed out of her coulottes for dinner) and a checked shirt. She had to check it for pythons. You can’t be too careful. But she has a certain flair, and knows when your bosom heaves, you should clutch a robe to it. It’s just the way things are done.
“Yes, it’s me. And I have some news for you.” The guy said…
The Mysterious Guy with a Shovel (which nobody actually said out loud) isn’t gonna hit me, is he? There would be less bosom heaving and more simple-minded drooling if he did.