You’re so fickle.
Fran
Once upon a time there was an enchanted land where animal could talk. You know the drill, so let me just say Don’t Do Drugs, Stay In School, and Eat Your Vegetables.
In this land there was a turtle and a bunny rabbit. They didn’t get along so well. It could have turned ugly. Hop-by shootings, graffiti wars, popping “caps” in each others “asses”. Whoa, it could have been bad. But it didn’t get that far.
One day, actually it took about a week, the turtle was out weeding his garden. The bunny rabbit hopped by, and decided to razz the turtle a little.
“Whatcha-doin’?” the bunny asked. The bunny’s name was Ignazio, but everyone called him “Brick”.
“I’m. Weeding. My. Garden.” said the turtle. His name was Shlomi, but everyone called him “Shlomi”. You can’t be clever all the time.
“Yeah-I-can-see-that. Or-I-could-with-stop-motion-photography. Man-are-you-slow. Hahahahaha! You-are-so-slow. I-could-do-the-whole-job-in-a-tenth-the-time-it-takes-you. Man-are-you-slow. Hahahahaha!” said Brick.
“Then. What. Are. You. Busting. My. Ass. For? If. You. Could. Do. It. So. Damned. Fast. Then. You. Do. It.”
“What-are-you-done? I’m-sorry-I-fell-asleep-there. Hahahahaha! No-way-Tom-Sawyer. You’re-not-getting-me-to-fall-for-that-old-dodge.”
“Rats.” said Shlomi.
Brick waited around a while, just in case the turtle was going to wheeze out some thing else. He didn’t so Brick jumped in.
“Don’t-you-get-tired-of-being-so-slow?”
“No. Don’t. You. Get. Tired. Of. Being. A. Pain. In. My. Shell?”
“No-way. You’re-so-easy. I-say-something-painfully-funny-then-I-can-hop-off-and-have-a-sandwich-while-you’re-still-thinking-it-over.”
“Slow. And. Steady. Wins. The. Race.”
“Yeah-I’ve-heard-that. Mostly-from-slow-pokes-like-you.”
That’s about enough of the dialog. It’s real hard to type it all out in the respective styles. And it goofs up the Spell Check.
So, you get the picture. Turtle = slow. Bunny = Fast. They don’t like each other. There’s a Big Race. There always is a Big Race when the two combatants are so unevenly matched. Unless it’s the Harlem Globetrotters. Then it’s a basketball game. And the Globetrotters always kick the Generals’ asses. Or the Space Aliens. Or the Evil Real Estate Developers. In basketball, the Harlem Globetrotters always kick ass. It’s what they do.
But this is not about basketball, and the Harlem Globetrotters are not to be seen. This is The Turtle and The Bunny. A classic. Shlomi gets Brick to challenge him to a race. Brick thinks he has the whole shootin’ match tied with a string. He’s a rabbit for cryin’ out loud. Rabbits are just known for their racing prowess. Turtles, not so much. Brick could probably take a nap in the middle of the race and still beat old, slow Shlomi. But he wouldn’t. He knows that way lies folly. He’d run for all he was worth, and at the end of the race, rub the turtles nose in it. That was the plan.
Since Brick was the challenger, Shlomi got to pick where the race was to be. He picked a racetrack. Brick got to pick when the race would be. He picked 2:00 on Tuesday.
They showed up at the racetrack on Tuesday for the race. “The racers are getting in position.” the announcer called over the P.A.
“Wow-nice-touch. An-announcer.” Guess who said that.
There was a bell, and the announcer announced “And they’re off!”
Shlomi and Brick took off running. Brick was way out in front, of course, when he was passed by another rabbit. Only this one was up on a rail that ran around the track. “A rare mono-rail bunny?” you ask. No. The racetrack Shlomi picked was a dogtrack. This was the 2:00 race. Brick didn’t have a chance. 29 greyhounds came up behind him, and he was slower than they were.
Brick won the race after 16 hours, by the simple fact that he was the only racer still breathing.
Uncle Rue, story guy.
Regarding the first story (I’ve only just got back to the board. I’ve been creating. Ask not what, else I’ll tell you an’ bore you to tears.)
Anyway – regarding the first story – isn’t it about time we wolves quit getting the bum rap, here? What if the wolf was Jewish? Wouldn’t be going around eatin’ un-kosher pork, now would he? There’s always more complications to the tale. Stuff the Wolf Code, babe – let’s hear it for Wolf Appreciation!
Without us – you’d be short a baddie to scare Trixie and Mopsey with on those cold, dark nights.
Still, I continue to admire your style, Rue – your warped, twisted, but very cool style. I look forward to visiting again. Ciao.
Oh sure Ice Wolf, lets stop giving the wolves a bad name and pick on, ohhh, lets say, I know! How about crows? … or maybe ravens? Wolf appreciation indeed. Sheesh.
Say there, Uncle Rue, story guy, I notice the complete absence of stories involving fairies. While I appreciate your discretion about certain <ahem> matters, I do believe that fairy stories are usually stock-in-trade for Story Guys[sup]TM[/sup]… at least they were in my neck o’ the woods.
Please don’t take this as criticism. Take it for what it is - a transparent cry for recognition. Have I told you lately you’re my favoritest story guy on the whole board?!?!?
You ought to put that in your thread title.
I would have some milk and cookies while reading this thread, but I’d end up aspirating one or the other. As it turns out, there is copious amounts of Mountain Dew on my desk, thanks to several quips, including the Lane/Nathan groaner.
Criminey, I’m never going to be able to eat/drink and read posts ever again, thanks to you, Fenris, Scylla, jarbabyj, and Eve.
Keep up the good work (and maybe I’ll overlook the lack of owls in your story).
Yeah, and I have to say that we bunnies are always getting the short end of the stick when it comes that “turtle and the hare” story. I mean, trust me, family rumor has it that Shlomi was a dealer and had hired the track way in advance of any deal with Brick. Those dogs were bought, man, bought! Brick had 5,125 kids at home and his wife cried for hours before finding another guy to help feed the family.
Trust me, never make a deal with a turtle. They’re shifty.
Peter, Peter pumpkin eater,
Had a wife
And some other chicks were digging him too.
This made Peter’s head swell,
But he tried to keep things under control.
I’m glad I’m not Peter.
Once there was a girl. Her name was Francesca. Actually it wasn’t, but it could have been “Francesca”. If I said the girl’s name was “Francesca” people would probably get in a big snit about favoritism and stuff. Why cause trouble? Unless there’s a chance to drum up some good Jell-O wrestling, of course. So her name was not “Francesca”, but it could have been. It could also have been “Michelle”, or “Sarah”, or “Courtney”, or “Rose”, or even “Hazel”. Her name could have been anything. For simplicity’s sake: Her name was Kelly. She called herself “Kelli” for awhile, but got tired of it. She also tried “Keelly”, but didn’t like that at all. So her name was Kelly.
She lived in her Father’s house with her Wicked Stepmother and three Ugly Stepsisters. Actually, her stepmother wasn’t wicked. She did favor her biological daughters over Kelly, but she was just unenlightened. Not wicked. The stepsisters were not ugly either. Victoria’s Secret wasn’t knocking down the door for them to model underwear, but they weren’t ugly. Some conventions are too set to break. “Unenlightened Stepmother” and “Average-looking Stepsisters” just doesn’t pack the same emotional punch. Their names were Milena, Elspeth, Elvina and Leanna. Stepmother first, then the three stepsisters, oldest to youngest. Kelly’s father wasn’t around anymore. Shortly after the wedding, he died under mysterious circumstances. Not enough evidence to take to court, but enough to have the neighbors look askance at Milena.
Kelly got all the rough jobs. Clean out the hearth. Cook the meals. Clean the house. Wash the dishes. Sew and mend the clothes. They kept Kelly hopping.
One day they, the whole family, got an invite to the Prince’s Birthday Ball in the post. That means it was mailed to them, not that the found the letter stuck in a log jammed in the ground for fences and tying your horse to. Right on the envelope it said: To Milena and All The Lovely Children. So everyone was supposed to go. Kelly wasn’t allowed. You just knew this was coming, and here it is. Kelly couldn’t go. She had too much to do around the house. Stepmother and stepsisters piled into the taxi and zipped off to the Prince’s Ball. The Royal Family was known for their Balls, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.
Kelly was stuck at home. “I didn’t want to go anyway. Poo.” she said.
“Well, you could go if you wanted to.” said a voice. A voice a little deeper than you’d expect. If you see the gag coming, don’t give it away.
“Who said that?” asked Kelly.
“Me. Your Fairy Godfather.” said Kelly’s Fairy Godfather. His name was Vince. “Don’t ask me to do a Brando impression, because I just find that demeaning. And I don’t talk with a lisp either. Also demeaning.”
“Brando? Who?”
“How old are you, kid?”
“18.”
“Never mind. Look, do you want to go to the Ball, or not?” asked Vince.
“This is what I really want.” said Kelly. Some time later, she was done explaining her plan to Vince, her Fairy Godfather.
“Done.” he said.
When Milena, Elspeth, Elvina and Leanna got out of the taxi, a shot rang out! And a second! A third! A fourth! “Oh my God! Up in the crenellations across the courtyard! An Owl with a high-powered rifle!” Pandemonium erupted. When nocturnal avians are showing up at Royal Balls armed and start picking off guests, pandemonium is going to erupt, you’d better believe it. What people never found out was there was a stalwart Wolf who tried to stop the homicidal night hunter, but he was stymied by a ladder. The Owl’s name was Garner. The Wolf’s name was Effington. There were some Crows about too. Many Crows. They didn’t enter into the happenings. Right thinking Bunnies were hunkered down under the buffet table.
“That’s not the way we usually do it.” said Vince as he and Kelly were drinking piña coladas. With the rest of the family out of the way, Kelly got title to the house and all the cash her dad had stashed away.
“No. I don’t suppose it is.” agreed Kelly. “But why would I want to go to the Ball? So the Prince could fall “in love” with me?” Kelly, for the record, did not make bunny ears with her fingers when she said “in love”. She’s a classier dame than that. “I don’t need a man. I have skills. I can take care of myself. I just needed to get out from under Milena and her brats. Now I have my freedom and the World is my shellfish of your choice.”
“You are one smart cookie.” said Vince.
“Yes, I am.” agreed Kelly.
Uncle Rue, story guy.
I’ll have to remember this. Beats picking mouse parts out of my talons.
However, you now owe me yet another Mt. Dew.
Unca Rue, could we hear the story of the little girl who falls down a rabbit hole and goes to a tea party and play croquet? Pretty please with sugar on it.
Your loving niece
deb
On behalf of my sisters everywhere, I must thank you for being clever enough to not always blame it on the old lady. That said, how 'bout one about the airhead who lives with seven men of small stature! I love that one (batting eyelashes sweetly and offering a tall mixed beverage of your choice).
Once upon a time, in the Kingdom of Sousaphone, there was a King, and a Queen. This is what made it a Kingdom. If they were an Emperor and an Empress, then it would be an Empire. If it was a Divonary, the King would be a Divon and the Queen would be a Diva. Did I mention this all takes place in the Kingdom of Sousaphone. Near the Duchy of Tuba. I think you know what I mean.
The King was due for some new clothes. The Royal Ermine only lasts so long, you know. The King’s name was Clifton. Clifton IX the Just. It sounded better than “Clifton the Dangerously Inbred Who Was Easily-Swayed By Others”. That would not be a kingly name to inspire confidence. The Queen’s name was Imogene. She wasn’t a sequel, so she was just “Imogene”. But this isn’t about the Queen. She’d just go down to JC Penney’s and get her new clothes. She’d like to go to Nordstrom’s, but they don’t have one of those in Sousaphone.
To get the finest clothes, the King called the finest tailors to the Royal Court. It was a trailer park near the castle. He didn’t want all these tradesmen cluttering up his ancestral home. The King was just that way. It’s a wonder the lovely Imogene would put up with such a putz. There’s no accounting for True Love. There’s also no accounting for The Chance To Be Queen. Sometimes life is just a trade-off.
“Your Highness, lamé is so chic this year.” said the first tailor.
“No, I don’t think so.” said King Clifton.
“What about this fine ruff? It could hide your chin.” said the second tailor
“What was that?” said King Clifton, in what could be assumed was a menacing tone of voice.
[sub]“nothing”[/sub]
“Next!”
“Your Majesty, have I got a deal for you!” said the third tailor. The third tailor is going to be around for a while, so let’s give him a name, shall we? I know the tailor could be a girl, but Kelly’s out of town. And he is kind of smarmy, so let’s make him a boy. OK? His name is Biff. But that’s not what he calls himself. What self-respecting King would want a Royal Tailor named “Biff”? He called himself Mr. Michael, Tailor to the Stars. Since stars are huge balls of flaming gas, and don’t wear clothes, this was technically true. All the clothes your average star would ever need, Mr. Michael could sew up in an afternoon. And still have time for his soaps.
“Yeah? What is it?”
“Just the finest thread imaginable. The finest threads make the finest clothes. N’est-ce pas?”
“Was the French?” asked the King.
“What?”
“The “ness pah” thingy.”
“Do you like French?” Mr. Michael might be smarmy, but he’s not stupid.
“Yeah, it’s OK.”
“Then it was French.”
“I like the cut of your jib” the King had no idea what this meant, but he heard it on TV one time. Tailors cut, so he figured it would be appropriate to use now. And who’s going to argue with the King? “You are now the Royal Tailor.”
All the other prospective Royal Tailors said “awwwwww!” and went home.
Mr. Michael came to the castle the next day. He brought a big box with him. He opened it before the King. He was standing closer, so the King couldn’t get there first. It was empty! Saints preserve us! He brought an empty box to show the King.
“How do you like this?” asked Mr. Michael.
“Like what?” asked the King right back.
“These fine, fine threads. The fine, fine threads with which I shall weave the cloth for your Royal Duds. Such a fine, fine thread as this can only be seen by a highly sophisticated eye.”
If the King was thinking he would have gotten a new tailor right here. For the most part the King will be wearing his clothes, not before highly sophisticated eyes, but in front of the average yutz in the street. Are these the people you want to be wearing clothes made from invisible cloth in front of?
“Ah! I see them now. The light caught them funny and I couldn’t spot them before. But I can spot those threads now. Maybe I should tell the Diva of Tuba, or the Queen of Sousaphone, whatever, that I have spotted fine, fine threads.” And he went to the Queen with Mr. Michael in tow.
“Lookit these fine, fine threads, my dear.” said the King.
“You schmuck! You’re holding a handful of air! Mr. Michael, you are a charlatan. If I ever hear of you in my Kingdom again, things will go hard for you. And NOT in the Good Way. And you, Royal Ninny, I am taking you shopping for clothes myself.”
Wise Queen Imogene took King Clifton the Just to JC Penney’s and got him new clothes. Sans-a-Belt slacks and glof shirts. He wanted golf shirts, but they were all out. He wasn’t the most styling King, but he was comfy. And being comfy makes for a good King.
(For everyone who was waiting for an Elvis joke when the saw “King”, HA! The joke’s on you! No “Elvis” joke.)
Uncle Rue, story guy.
Rue I don’t get it… are you trying to say something here? Something about spotting threads? It’s on the tip of my tongue, tapping at the very edge of my recognition… almost… within… reach.
No, i just don’t get it. Hey, are you naked?
Fran
Wow. I’m most certainly in awe, Rue. When you get all famous and stuff with your anthologies of fairy tales, you’ll remember the guy who wrote you into a detective story, right?
Right?
I knew I could count on my Puddin’ to figure out my ruse. Hmmm… Rue’s ruse… I wonder how I can work that into my next story…
Anyway, I didn’t want to come right out and say it. It could offend a delicate sensibility.
-Rue.
Hickory dickory dock.
A mouse ran up the clock.
She got her tail stuck in a gear,
And when the clock struck,
It yanked her ass clean off.
Hickory dickory dock.
Uncle Rue, what about the one about the long-haired chick stuck in the tower?? I know you have the real story on this one…
<fluffs up seat cushions and settles comfortably in anticipation of another classic>
Once upon a time there was a girl. Her name was Debbalina. She was a beautiful girl. Blonde ringlets cascading down her back, a short blue dress with a tight bodice, white stockings on her long legs and black patent leather shoes. While black patent leather shoes will reflect up, there’s no chance of Debbalina’s shoes reflecting her panties for all to see. If you know what I mean. If you don’t, ask around, someone will explain it to you. Debbalina also had big, round bazoombas. You wouldn’t believe a girl could have such big bazoombas. Everywhere she went people would stare and say “Now there is a girl with big bazoombas.”
Her uncle got her the bazoombas one time when he was travelling in West Africa. He met a Village Witch, and told her he needed a magic amulet to keep his niece safe. A lucky charm of some kind.
“Oh, you want a bazoomba” the Witch said. “Very lucky to have a bazoomba.”
“If one bazoomba is lucky, give me two. Those big, round ones.” said Debbalina’s uncle. “This girl needs all the luck she can get.”
Debbalina needed luck because she wasn’t so bright. Say the average person is as bright as a candle. That’s pretty good. If the power goes out you can get around with a candle. It’s pretty bright. Not unbelievably bright, but then most people you meet are not going to be unbelievably bright. Debbalina was about as bright as a candle. Under a bushel basket. At the bottom of a well. Covered with rocks. That a badger peed on.
“Now just hold on!” you cry. “Just because a girl is blonde and beautiful doesn’t mean she’s stupid. That’s just a stereotype.”
Yeah? So? Stereotypes live on because there’s always someone around who you can point to and say “Yup, that stereotype is true.” Debbalina was keeping the dumb blonde stereotype alive. Sad, but true.
Debbalina had a hobby. “That’s good,” you say. “A hobby will keep her out of trouble.” Not really. Debbalina chased rabbits. Not like most kids. “Ha ha! There’s a rabbit. I shall chase it. Oops it got away. What shall I do now?” She’d chase them to catch them. Debbalina was not quite right.
One day she was chasing a rabbit and followed it right down its hole. She went tumbling down the rabbit hole. Down, down, down she went. When she reached the bottom with a thump she saw a teeny tiny door. There was no way she’d fit through the door. Heck, her head alone was too big to fit through the door. What could she do? That’s when she spied a plant stand with a bottle on it. “Man, there sure is good lighting at the bottom of that rabbit hole.” you say. “Shut up.” I say.
Debbalina picked up the bottle. It had a note tied to it. The note said “Drink Me.” It looked like a bottle of Mt. Dew, so you’d figure no one would be foolish enough to drink it. Well, this is Debbalina remember. “If I drink it, I’ll get small enough to fit through the teeny tiny door.” How this even approaches logic, I don’t know. Anyway, Debbalina drank the bottle down in one gulp.
Oooooo… the colors. Debbalina started to hallucinate like crazy. She thought she was drinking tea out of a croquet ball, served to her by a dormouse. Then the pain hit. Deep wracking pain. Debbalina’s last moments were of clawing agony. She died.
Since she was at the bottom of a rabbit hole, she wasn’t found for a few weeks. When they did find her body, her mother went crazy with grief. She was institutionalized for the rest of her life.
So don’t do drugs and make your mother crazy.
Uncle Rue, story guy.
Those bazoombas sure weren’t very lucky 