It all began that night 30 years ago. I was lying in bed, sound asleep, when I heard a slight sound on the roof. After several minutes had elapsed, and I had just about fallen back asleep, I began to hear a slow rustling and clanking noise. As I reached for my shotgun, I was thinking about the stories I had heard since I was a kid. Stories the like you have never heard. There was a legend, I was told, that once a year, somebody or something, would creep down the chimney, and would leave stuff random stuff into peoples stockings as they slept.
When I was first heard this close to thirty years ago, I was in shock. How could somebody dare to sneak down a chimney, and fill peoples socks with objects. That might make them rip, and then I'd be stuck without socks until next I went into town. Destroying socks was the worst possible crime one could commit where I grew up. As years when by, and I began to use my hard-earned money to purchase my own supply of socks for the year.
That was when I began to keep the shotgun beside the bed, in the hope that one day I would stop the one who made it a habit of breaking and entering peoples houses while they slept. Thirty years later, my shotgun was about to pay off. I was thankful, as I walked towards the fireplace, that I had loaded and cocked my shotgun before going to bed that night.
Moments after reaching the fireplace, I saw the first part of my target, a gigantic foot clad in red, appear. As I watched, I saw the rest of his massive body slide out onto the hearth. As I pulled the trigger, all I could think of was the millions of socks I was saving from destruction. Never again would a stocking be ripped because of somebody with a giant white beard, and a floppy red hat.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Once Upon a Marshmallow
"Gar! Make 'im walk the plank."
"Throw him to the fishes."
"Hang him from the highest yardarm."
Each new suggestion was greeted with joyous sounds by the rowdy pirates. Then, a new voice piped in.
"Maroon him on the White Island!" Few knew what or where this was. It's locatation was kept as a profound secret by the wayfaring captains of the sea. A sort of trump card against mutineers and grumblers.
This was the plan adopted. Less than 3 hours later, I, Jonathan Garbaldo, was set upon the thin green edge of the Island. Less than 2 minutes later, the pirates, my former companions and friends, were speeding away; not daring to stay longer in the mysterious place from which no man had yet returned.
The green spit upon which I stood, was the only green thing in sight. For the rest, a smooth looking white cliff arose into the clouds. I walked the 5 steps necessary to reach the cliff. I had to find a way up. In another hour, the tide would be coming in. To my surprise, I found it to be very porous. I touched it and stepped back in astonishment. I had never seen the like. A sticky, powdery rock! I sniffed the stuff that had come away in my hands, and then I tasted it. In untold horror, I knew in that moment that this strange place was nothing other than a giant marshmellow. It would have been drifting heedlessly had it not been for the narrow piece of earth at the bottom.
"At least," thought I, "I won't want for food!"
Upon further examination, I discovered steps climbing up the white cliff. I was not surprised to see that many of them had been carved by teeth. But, I had no time for thought or exploration. The tide was lapping at my feet. I went carefully, but after the first few steps, I knew I had to go quickly. If I paused for a moment, my feet would stick. When I sped up, I only felt as if I was walking upon a springy white carpet. A delightful sensation really.
It took me nearly two hours to reach the top. I was then in for another surprise. Stretched out for miles was a town made completely of marshmellow. Dusty white figures darted quickly about snatching bites of the mountain as they went.
Upon approaching, I discovered old friends. These people, I realized, were all those who had been marooned from decades past. A short conversation took place as we jogged back and forth. I discovered all I needed to know. The outcasts could not stop moving or they would stick and sink. They ate as they ran in distinct patterns. Eventually, they would be able to add more buildings to the town. They made the buildings large so that they would have room to keep moving during a storm. Many had lived there for 20 or more years. In all that time, they had never seen a friendly ship. The colony was divided into two groups. The first group ran in circles along the edge of the marshmellow. Their job was to look for ships. The second group, as has been mentioned, carved the buildings with their teeth. When one group had had enough to eat, the groups switched.
I quickly adapted to the new way of life, but despite the fact that I did what everyone else was doing, I was far from happy. I was often to be found swimming in the ocean, the one time that I didn't have to stop constantly running, the one time when I could relax and get away from that sticky landmass. The idea of freedom was never far from my thoughts as I went through the mundane sameness of what was my new life.
It was like this for months, but I knew it could not last forever because the island was rapidly shrinking as new members were added to the colony of outcasts. Yet, what could I do? The marshmallow could not be moved, the colony had nothing that could be used to escape the sticky mess that we were all in.
But this all changed when a small chest washed ashore, and stuck fast to the goo that was our beach. After painstakingly opening the chest at risk of getting forever stuck in the glistening white landscape we discovered naught but a single match that had somehow escaped the water.
It was with this that we resolved to make our escape from the desolate island. We determined to burn our way to freedom. I remember it like yesterday, the decision to risk burning our island in the hope that we could turn our fluffy habitation into an over-sized hot air balloon. But could we generate enough heat to take us to land? That question we left for the next morning, the day of our great attempt.
To prepare us for our venture, I suggested to the colony that we find for ourselves seaweed, with which we might be able to avoid getting stuck for a little while in the sponge-like thing we called home. Once having obtained a sufficient supply of seaweed, we began placing it on such parts of the island that we felt would be safe for habitation during our flight home.
On the following morning, we laid the chest in a deep hole that had been excavated in the side of the Mt. that occupied the center of the island. Before lighting the match, we also painstakingly detached with our hands the marshmallow from the green beach. And then the match, the one hope of our escape, was lit and applied to the chest. Thankfully, the chest caught, and we had only to wait as the chest burned. Would it be enough to inflate the island? Would the island turn into a giant roasted marshmallow and waft across the currents towards freedom?
As unlikely as it seems --and what about this story isn't unlikely?-- the fool's hope, the last desperate attempt to save ourselves from insanity, stickiness, and the thought of eating more marshmallow, succeeded. With great trepidation, hardly daring to believe our eyes, the great island lifted a few feet, faltered, and then, half floating on the ocean, half flying in the air, we were on our way to freedom.
The thought of those last few hours sicken me still. We had no way to guide our ship. Would the wood of the chest last long enough to bring us to land; land that we had no idea where it was, or if it was? As the flames licked up the last plank, the clouds lifted. They lifted higher than they had ever lifted before. And we saw it then. Saw what we had never seen before. What had been our 'ocean' was nothing other than a large lake. If we had, in our daily swim, swum but a little farther, the truth would have been known. Freedom could have been so much sooner.
I leapt ashore first, but I left the scene of our horrible folly last. I lingered, and one thought was pressed indelibally on my mind. Fears are only as big as we believe them to be. When we take action to overcome the prison of our fear, we find it to have been as insignificant as a fly. All our lives, we had been told that the White Island was a place of no return, but if we had only looked beyond the lies, we would have seen the truth.
"Throw him to the fishes."
"Hang him from the highest yardarm."
Each new suggestion was greeted with joyous sounds by the rowdy pirates. Then, a new voice piped in.
"Maroon him on the White Island!" Few knew what or where this was. It's locatation was kept as a profound secret by the wayfaring captains of the sea. A sort of trump card against mutineers and grumblers.
This was the plan adopted. Less than 3 hours later, I, Jonathan Garbaldo, was set upon the thin green edge of the Island. Less than 2 minutes later, the pirates, my former companions and friends, were speeding away; not daring to stay longer in the mysterious place from which no man had yet returned.
The green spit upon which I stood, was the only green thing in sight. For the rest, a smooth looking white cliff arose into the clouds. I walked the 5 steps necessary to reach the cliff. I had to find a way up. In another hour, the tide would be coming in. To my surprise, I found it to be very porous. I touched it and stepped back in astonishment. I had never seen the like. A sticky, powdery rock! I sniffed the stuff that had come away in my hands, and then I tasted it. In untold horror, I knew in that moment that this strange place was nothing other than a giant marshmellow. It would have been drifting heedlessly had it not been for the narrow piece of earth at the bottom.
"At least," thought I, "I won't want for food!"
Upon further examination, I discovered steps climbing up the white cliff. I was not surprised to see that many of them had been carved by teeth. But, I had no time for thought or exploration. The tide was lapping at my feet. I went carefully, but after the first few steps, I knew I had to go quickly. If I paused for a moment, my feet would stick. When I sped up, I only felt as if I was walking upon a springy white carpet. A delightful sensation really.
It took me nearly two hours to reach the top. I was then in for another surprise. Stretched out for miles was a town made completely of marshmellow. Dusty white figures darted quickly about snatching bites of the mountain as they went.
Upon approaching, I discovered old friends. These people, I realized, were all those who had been marooned from decades past. A short conversation took place as we jogged back and forth. I discovered all I needed to know. The outcasts could not stop moving or they would stick and sink. They ate as they ran in distinct patterns. Eventually, they would be able to add more buildings to the town. They made the buildings large so that they would have room to keep moving during a storm. Many had lived there for 20 or more years. In all that time, they had never seen a friendly ship. The colony was divided into two groups. The first group ran in circles along the edge of the marshmellow. Their job was to look for ships. The second group, as has been mentioned, carved the buildings with their teeth. When one group had had enough to eat, the groups switched.
I quickly adapted to the new way of life, but despite the fact that I did what everyone else was doing, I was far from happy. I was often to be found swimming in the ocean, the one time that I didn't have to stop constantly running, the one time when I could relax and get away from that sticky landmass. The idea of freedom was never far from my thoughts as I went through the mundane sameness of what was my new life.
It was like this for months, but I knew it could not last forever because the island was rapidly shrinking as new members were added to the colony of outcasts. Yet, what could I do? The marshmallow could not be moved, the colony had nothing that could be used to escape the sticky mess that we were all in.
But this all changed when a small chest washed ashore, and stuck fast to the goo that was our beach. After painstakingly opening the chest at risk of getting forever stuck in the glistening white landscape we discovered naught but a single match that had somehow escaped the water.
It was with this that we resolved to make our escape from the desolate island. We determined to burn our way to freedom. I remember it like yesterday, the decision to risk burning our island in the hope that we could turn our fluffy habitation into an over-sized hot air balloon. But could we generate enough heat to take us to land? That question we left for the next morning, the day of our great attempt.
To prepare us for our venture, I suggested to the colony that we find for ourselves seaweed, with which we might be able to avoid getting stuck for a little while in the sponge-like thing we called home. Once having obtained a sufficient supply of seaweed, we began placing it on such parts of the island that we felt would be safe for habitation during our flight home.
On the following morning, we laid the chest in a deep hole that had been excavated in the side of the Mt. that occupied the center of the island. Before lighting the match, we also painstakingly detached with our hands the marshmallow from the green beach. And then the match, the one hope of our escape, was lit and applied to the chest. Thankfully, the chest caught, and we had only to wait as the chest burned. Would it be enough to inflate the island? Would the island turn into a giant roasted marshmallow and waft across the currents towards freedom?
As unlikely as it seems --and what about this story isn't unlikely?-- the fool's hope, the last desperate attempt to save ourselves from insanity, stickiness, and the thought of eating more marshmallow, succeeded. With great trepidation, hardly daring to believe our eyes, the great island lifted a few feet, faltered, and then, half floating on the ocean, half flying in the air, we were on our way to freedom.
The thought of those last few hours sicken me still. We had no way to guide our ship. Would the wood of the chest last long enough to bring us to land; land that we had no idea where it was, or if it was? As the flames licked up the last plank, the clouds lifted. They lifted higher than they had ever lifted before. And we saw it then. Saw what we had never seen before. What had been our 'ocean' was nothing other than a large lake. If we had, in our daily swim, swum but a little farther, the truth would have been known. Freedom could have been so much sooner.
I leapt ashore first, but I left the scene of our horrible folly last. I lingered, and one thought was pressed indelibally on my mind. Fears are only as big as we believe them to be. When we take action to overcome the prison of our fear, we find it to have been as insignificant as a fly. All our lives, we had been told that the White Island was a place of no return, but if we had only looked beyond the lies, we would have seen the truth.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Bon Voyage
It all began that summer afternoon long ago. I remember it as if it were today; the humidity, the ice-cream man gracing my street with his presence, the nagging feeling I had that something wasn’t right. Despite that feeling that some things were not as they should be, I went ahead and booked my trip to Berlin. I never guessed that it would be the last time I would glimpse the Statue of Liberty as I sailed out of New York Harbor on the night of the July 17th, 1919.
As my ship, the Preussen, left the harbor, I had that sinking feeling yet again in the pit of my stomach. A bowl of hot, steaming stew soon shoved that feeling to the side for the moment. However, I continued to feel that going forward with this business trip might not have been as important as I had thought, and began to seriously wish that I had never seen the contract that I had signed binding me to ship twenty thousand head of cattle to Germany. The recent termination of World War 1 did nothing to relieve the growing tension, but rather acted as an intense fuel to my growing apprehensions that my personal safety was at risk in Germany.
The only comfort I had was the service pistol that I still carried from when I was on the frontlines in World War 1. I felt that my m1911 was my only insurance for my life, and as such I always kept it by my side loaded and cocked. When I walked on the deck, my hand was always on the comforting pistol butt, ready at a moments notice to show the world that I was not to be messed with.
On the 8th day of an already stressful voyage, the Captain came over the loudspeaker, and asked the crew to report to the main deck immediately. About five minutes later I heard the steady thunk-thunk of the engine picking up speed. As I looked out my cabin window, I saw what the Captain had seen, a submarine off the starboard bow.
I then knew that I had been right, that I should’ve stayed in New York, and that my puny service pistol would be useless in the coming ordeal. But despite that, I was hesitant to get rid of it, and instead began looking for something to waterproof it in the probable case of my personal self being pitched overboard. Yet, even as I did that, I still hoped that it was all mistake; that the submarine was merely a U.S. sub patrolling the shipping route. In those last few minutes before the torpedo hit, I hoped, I prayed, I pleaded that I might never feel the shock or hear the noise as the torpedo hit. For despite my time in the Marine Corp., I still dreaded the water as no man ever has. When I purchased my berth aboard the Preussen, I did so under the desire and expectation that this would be a quick voyage without foul weather or other unpleasantries.
As I was thinking these gloomy thoughts, I felt, rather than saw or heard, the torpedo hit the engine room in the deck below me. I flung myself through the porthole more by instinct than any other reason, and felt that cold wetness that I knew to be the Atlantic Ocean slowly cover my body. It was only then that I realized I had not yet put on the lifejacket that I had placed on my bunk, and that my only chance at survival was to reach the submarine before I died from the cold.
Apparently others had reached the same conclusion; the raft being put out from the submarine had all the indications of coming for me, as the sole survivor of the Preussen, they were coming for me. I was helpless, and could only watch as the raft came nearer as the two sailors onboard combated the waves with the paddles they had in their possession. I knew my only choice was to submit if I wanted any chance of seeing my homeland, the good old U.S of A.
When the raft came alongside me, I spent my store of energy on raising my hands for them to grab. This they did with no great show of gentleness. I passed out.
Later, after coming to, I realized that there was no way of escape; that getting out of a submarine hundreds of feet below the murky surface of the Atlantic was an option that would never be available, especially to one with such an acute fear of the water as I had. I resolved then and there to confront those who had rescued me, and placed me under lock and key far from the light of day.
I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, in desperation, I started pounding on the walls, the door, anything that came in front of me as I staggered around my confines. After completely exhausting myself with this exercise in futility, I heard a key in the lock, and a squeal as the door opened to allow the passing of a masked someone in black.
His were the last words ever to sound upon my ears, and as I think of them, I feel the horror of his voice. Despite that, his words are precious to me as the last words I will ever hear in this lifetime. He told me, in the short minute he spent in my cell, that I was to be observed, watched, and experimented upon until the day I die. He told me that I was never to interact with another human other than to be passed food. Food which, he told me, would have various experimental chemicals and other nameless terrors in it. Yes, I was to be locked in a giant test tube as test factors were added. I could not help but asking why. Why me? Why this elaborate plot against ME? But he told me nothing and even now, as I write this, I sometimes wonder if this is real, if I am real.
As my ship, the Preussen, left the harbor, I had that sinking feeling yet again in the pit of my stomach. A bowl of hot, steaming stew soon shoved that feeling to the side for the moment. However, I continued to feel that going forward with this business trip might not have been as important as I had thought, and began to seriously wish that I had never seen the contract that I had signed binding me to ship twenty thousand head of cattle to Germany. The recent termination of World War 1 did nothing to relieve the growing tension, but rather acted as an intense fuel to my growing apprehensions that my personal safety was at risk in Germany.
The only comfort I had was the service pistol that I still carried from when I was on the frontlines in World War 1. I felt that my m1911 was my only insurance for my life, and as such I always kept it by my side loaded and cocked. When I walked on the deck, my hand was always on the comforting pistol butt, ready at a moments notice to show the world that I was not to be messed with.
On the 8th day of an already stressful voyage, the Captain came over the loudspeaker, and asked the crew to report to the main deck immediately. About five minutes later I heard the steady thunk-thunk of the engine picking up speed. As I looked out my cabin window, I saw what the Captain had seen, a submarine off the starboard bow.
I then knew that I had been right, that I should’ve stayed in New York, and that my puny service pistol would be useless in the coming ordeal. But despite that, I was hesitant to get rid of it, and instead began looking for something to waterproof it in the probable case of my personal self being pitched overboard. Yet, even as I did that, I still hoped that it was all mistake; that the submarine was merely a U.S. sub patrolling the shipping route. In those last few minutes before the torpedo hit, I hoped, I prayed, I pleaded that I might never feel the shock or hear the noise as the torpedo hit. For despite my time in the Marine Corp., I still dreaded the water as no man ever has. When I purchased my berth aboard the Preussen, I did so under the desire and expectation that this would be a quick voyage without foul weather or other unpleasantries.
As I was thinking these gloomy thoughts, I felt, rather than saw or heard, the torpedo hit the engine room in the deck below me. I flung myself through the porthole more by instinct than any other reason, and felt that cold wetness that I knew to be the Atlantic Ocean slowly cover my body. It was only then that I realized I had not yet put on the lifejacket that I had placed on my bunk, and that my only chance at survival was to reach the submarine before I died from the cold.
Apparently others had reached the same conclusion; the raft being put out from the submarine had all the indications of coming for me, as the sole survivor of the Preussen, they were coming for me. I was helpless, and could only watch as the raft came nearer as the two sailors onboard combated the waves with the paddles they had in their possession. I knew my only choice was to submit if I wanted any chance of seeing my homeland, the good old U.S of A.
When the raft came alongside me, I spent my store of energy on raising my hands for them to grab. This they did with no great show of gentleness. I passed out.
Later, after coming to, I realized that there was no way of escape; that getting out of a submarine hundreds of feet below the murky surface of the Atlantic was an option that would never be available, especially to one with such an acute fear of the water as I had. I resolved then and there to confront those who had rescued me, and placed me under lock and key far from the light of day.
I waited. And waited. And waited. Finally, in desperation, I started pounding on the walls, the door, anything that came in front of me as I staggered around my confines. After completely exhausting myself with this exercise in futility, I heard a key in the lock, and a squeal as the door opened to allow the passing of a masked someone in black.
His were the last words ever to sound upon my ears, and as I think of them, I feel the horror of his voice. Despite that, his words are precious to me as the last words I will ever hear in this lifetime. He told me, in the short minute he spent in my cell, that I was to be observed, watched, and experimented upon until the day I die. He told me that I was never to interact with another human other than to be passed food. Food which, he told me, would have various experimental chemicals and other nameless terrors in it. Yes, I was to be locked in a giant test tube as test factors were added. I could not help but asking why. Why me? Why this elaborate plot against ME? But he told me nothing and even now, as I write this, I sometimes wonder if this is real, if I am real.
Thursday, October 6, 2011
An Analysis of Current Threats to the Brain
So we thought we'd change things up a bit, and share a paper written long, long ago... or maybe in the not so distant past four years. This was co-written with out neighbor/friends in September, 2007. Enjoy!
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Psalm 139:14 “I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.”
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Psalm 139:14 “I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made: marvelous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well.”
The brain is the one of the most important things that God ever created. It is the part of the human body that does our thinking. It tells us when and how to move our limbs and it tells the other important parts of the body whether they are functioning properly or not. In other words, the brain is the most important part of our body. It is extremely important to keep our brains from any kind of disease or serious malady.
A new kind of illness has come to the attention of some of our top scientific minds. The following is a synopsis of their report to the Royal Science Institute.
“Due to the systems of pathogenic organisms, the brains of those inhabiting earth have become muddled, and have therefore become susceptible to the dangerous disease of hypothermia. The process of hypothermia causes the internal body to have a temperature of more than five degrees below zero, leaving the person unable to support any kind of mental strain and causing the brain to collapse. One of the most dangerous symptoms of hypothermia is a brain freeze. Brain freeze, essentially, is what happens when your brain becomes so completely strained that it tries to rest itself by shutting down. It is often referred to as a paralysis. This is usually brought on by junk food and particularly by: ice cream, hot dogs, and potato chips. Doctors have not yet found a solution for this strange phenomenon other than relative healthy eating.
Doctors have found that anyone in the vicinity of junk food often comes down with this dreaded disease. Because of this, the disease is spreading so far as to greatly alarm government officials throughout the world. Incidentally, the effects of hemangioendothelioblastoma are intensified by the consumption of junk food. The muddled brains mentioned earlier are especially vulnerable to this.
It seems, moreover, that the mental stress that opium gives to the normal person is yet another of the many sources to which mankind has fallen into subjection, (literally fallen). The government has unsuccessfully tried to ban these drugs, and has also unsuccessfully tried to ban the smuggling of such drugs. The methods which have been taken to do this have greatly aroused the anger of the citizens because of the unethical cruelty shown in so many cases.
As we reach the end of this very startling document, let us leave you with one more sample of the brains' diseases. Seps ceph is an infection of the brain that causes it to rot like an unused tomato. This infection can be very painful because it often causes migraines, and severe pain in all parts of the body. So say the experts in medicine, neurology and psychology.”
The brave team currently investigating this alarming issue currently includes Professor John D., Phycologist Abigail D., Dr. Kathryn K., P.H.D, and Dr. Drew K., MD. Others are called in daily, and we expect to soon arrive at a solution to these mind-boggling problems. The team currently involved has some recommended reading for those interested in the study that has so far taken place.
The brave team currently investigating this alarming issue currently includes Professor John D., Phycologist Abigail D., Dr. Kathryn K., P.H.D, and Dr. Drew K., MD. Others are called in daily, and we expect to soon arrive at a solution to these mind-boggling problems. The team currently involved has some recommended reading for those interested in the study that has so far taken place.
Recommended reading: Dr. Ben Carson is an expert neurologist who has studied the brain in extreme detail, his book Gifted hands is an excellent example of his work. Dr. Kathryn K. has also written a practical handbook for those who are sensitive about their health called Junk Food and Your Hemangioendothelioblastoma, this tome is about the effects that junk food can have on your brain’s blood vessels. What You Need to Know About Septcephnecrosis Syndrome by Dr. Drew K. is about the effects of muddled brains. Our honored Professor John D. has kindly contributed an informative video entitled Government Drug Prevention and Why it’s Not Working. Also available is the book The Psychology of Mental Stress by Psychologist by Abigail D.
A note from the Editor
This article has been published in part because of the editor's deep concern, and also in part because as a major medium of information, the editor feels that it is his responsibility to pass on this vital information to those infected with the deadly disease. Please do your part in saving the world. Pass this on to those you care about! And yes, that really long word is a real medical term and it's definition is correctly stated. Sound it out! It's fun to pronounce! The other one, Seps ceph, is a combination of two real medical terms, for which the authors took the liberty of defining in their own words.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Noodle Wars 3
Introducing the final segment of this three part saga concerning NOODLE MAN! We left our hero, Fred Dunderson, in the exciting throes of mystery, suspense, drama, and the key to unraveling it all.
For those who missed the first several parts of this thrilling adventure, we have generously provided premium quality links entirely free of charge.
Premium Links:
- Part 1
- Part 2
As this publication hit the streets, Fred was slowly sneaking through town, carefully looking for any sign of the Bain of Houston. But nowhere did Fred see a trace of Noodle Man. No Noodle Man, but noodles? Yes, all in various stages of decay. This decay was assisted to some extent by the new population that was quickly establishing itself in Houston. What the citizens found unattractive, the crows found extremely appetizing.
Despite Fred’s lack of success, he still valiantly continued his search for the one who was making his life miserable from dawn to dusk. Yes, he was ready to find the thing who was responsible for his eternal suffering. Who would have ever guessed that the sight of noodles would send a man into hysterics, but our records indicate Fred at this point in his life was suffering from a mid-life crisis. Yes, Fred was in the depths of despair to the great delight of the furtive figure watching Fred from the shadows of a nearby house. Yes, the shadow was exuberantly excited over his extreme success as he watched Fred’s slow sneak turn into a stumbling stagger. Yes, analysts at this later date believe that Fred was well on the way to becoming crazy. Lulu. Insane. Kookie.
The Shadow slowly moved across the street, and as it did, it revealed itself. Here is what an observant person would have seen. First off, he would’ve seen a white cape, which, upon closer inspection, would have been recognized as a well loved cape of Ramen noodles. Under that dreadful cape slunk a man, entirely unrecognizable. In one hand, he carried a bag that was spilling noodles from a jagged hole near the bottom. Tucked underneath his other arm, he had a brown paper package containing several knobby and crunchy objects.
Fred turned around. He had heard something. The mysterious shadow slid into a doorway. Fred's dim eyes followed the trail of noodles. A whole pile was building up where the shadow was. Fred reached in his pocket for the only thing he had handy. A screwdriver. Jumping desperately on the man in the Ramen Cape, Fred belted three good ones across the Noodle Doodler's hand. A feeling of victory came over him. A renewed vision Yes, Fred Dunderson was on his way to being crazy. But he WASN'T THERE YET!!! Unfortunately, Fred's slow realization of this fact allowed Ramen Man to escape once again. As he did so, Fred caught sight of three distinctive welts on the man's. They were in the shape of a single star. "Well," he thought to himself, "That makes it easy. All I have to do now is find a man with a red star on his hand and a black eye.
Inspector Bond leaned back in his office chair. A smile flitted its way across his face as he stared out the window through his sunglasses. The smile faded as he saw Fred Dunderson walk in the door. "It's you again. Now what Freddie old boy? Got the water from the fountain of youth or something?"
The Inspector exaggerated his yawn. Fred's buoyant attitude made him look even more bumbling than ever. Fred glanced out the window, and shouted, "Take a look through this telescope! Look over there on Second Street. On the light pole. It's a flamingo."
"Seriously Fred? I don't have time for this. I'm incredible busy. I've got a crowd of rioter's to control. Not flamingos."
"Awwww, come on Bond! Please?"
The Inspector grudgingly took the telescope with his left hand and removed his sunglasses with his right. A light bulb flashed. Three men appeared in the doorway. Fred's camera spit out a picture. He held it up in front of the Inspector. A black circle was revealed under the Inspector's eyes and a deep red welt shaped like a star across the back of his hand. "Well, Noodle Man. I think your Noodle is cooked."
Houston Daily News
March 9, 1992
So ends our recount of the Attack of the Noodles. Our records indicate that much of what we didn't make up is entirely true. But, despite a few discrepancies we would like to assume that all facts are true unless proven otherwise by a higher authority that than the writers imagination.
For those who missed the first several parts of this thrilling adventure, we have generously provided premium quality links entirely free of charge.
Premium Links:
- Part 1
- Part 2
Houston Daily News
March 9th, 1992
March 9th, 1992
Town Council
After some deliberation, the town council has decided to leave their citizens helpless, undefended, victimized, and assaulted in their very homes. The very angry populace have been parading through the streets as they protest the decision of the town council. At the writing of this paper, no councilmen have yet commented on either the protest or their decision. In fact, not one of those scoundrels has yet shown their face.
After a short deliberation, the town mob has decided on a stakeout at the mayor’s residence until the decision is reversed by the town council. As month after month rolls by of constant assaults by Noodle Man, the town is getting disgusted, and not a few of Houston’s highly respected citizens have found another place to live; far from this place of horror.
As this publication hit the streets, Fred was slowly sneaking through town, carefully looking for any sign of the Bain of Houston. But nowhere did Fred see a trace of Noodle Man. No Noodle Man, but noodles? Yes, all in various stages of decay. This decay was assisted to some extent by the new population that was quickly establishing itself in Houston. What the citizens found unattractive, the crows found extremely appetizing.
Despite Fred’s lack of success, he still valiantly continued his search for the one who was making his life miserable from dawn to dusk. Yes, he was ready to find the thing who was responsible for his eternal suffering. Who would have ever guessed that the sight of noodles would send a man into hysterics, but our records indicate Fred at this point in his life was suffering from a mid-life crisis. Yes, Fred was in the depths of despair to the great delight of the furtive figure watching Fred from the shadows of a nearby house. Yes, the shadow was exuberantly excited over his extreme success as he watched Fred’s slow sneak turn into a stumbling stagger. Yes, analysts at this later date believe that Fred was well on the way to becoming crazy. Lulu. Insane. Kookie.
The Shadow slowly moved across the street, and as it did, it revealed itself. Here is what an observant person would have seen. First off, he would’ve seen a white cape, which, upon closer inspection, would have been recognized as a well loved cape of Ramen noodles. Under that dreadful cape slunk a man, entirely unrecognizable. In one hand, he carried a bag that was spilling noodles from a jagged hole near the bottom. Tucked underneath his other arm, he had a brown paper package containing several knobby and crunchy objects.
Fred turned around. He had heard something. The mysterious shadow slid into a doorway. Fred's dim eyes followed the trail of noodles. A whole pile was building up where the shadow was. Fred reached in his pocket for the only thing he had handy. A screwdriver. Jumping desperately on the man in the Ramen Cape, Fred belted three good ones across the Noodle Doodler's hand. A feeling of victory came over him. A renewed vision Yes, Fred Dunderson was on his way to being crazy. But he WASN'T THERE YET!!! Unfortunately, Fred's slow realization of this fact allowed Ramen Man to escape once again. As he did so, Fred caught sight of three distinctive welts on the man's. They were in the shape of a single star. "Well," he thought to himself, "That makes it easy. All I have to do now is find a man with a red star on his hand and a black eye.
Inspector Bond leaned back in his office chair. A smile flitted its way across his face as he stared out the window through his sunglasses. The smile faded as he saw Fred Dunderson walk in the door. "It's you again. Now what Freddie old boy? Got the water from the fountain of youth or something?"
The Inspector exaggerated his yawn. Fred's buoyant attitude made him look even more bumbling than ever. Fred glanced out the window, and shouted, "Take a look through this telescope! Look over there on Second Street. On the light pole. It's a flamingo."
"Seriously Fred? I don't have time for this. I'm incredible busy. I've got a crowd of rioter's to control. Not flamingos."
"Awwww, come on Bond! Please?"
The Inspector grudgingly took the telescope with his left hand and removed his sunglasses with his right. A light bulb flashed. Three men appeared in the doorway. Fred's camera spit out a picture. He held it up in front of the Inspector. A black circle was revealed under the Inspector's eyes and a deep red welt shaped like a star across the back of his hand. "Well, Noodle Man. I think your Noodle is cooked."
Houston Daily News
March 9, 1992
Extra! Ramen Man Caught At Last! Read Everything About Our Hero Fred Dunderson and the Arch-Villian Of all Houston History!
An exclusive interview with Inspector Bond revealed the motives behind his bizarre outbreak. He confessed that he had held another name before, he confessed that for years he had been locked behind the bars of an insane asylum. Ever since his escape, he had taken the name Bobby Bond. The judge sentenced him to fifteen years behind bars for his heinous crimes throughout the then unsuspecting town of Houston. Houston is finally settling back down to normal. Noodles, however, are still frowned upon by every citizen within twenty miles of Houston.
After questioning Fred, it turns out he first guessed that it was the Inspector when the Inspector tried to shrug his off the case, and the fact that both the suspect that he had tacked and Inspector Bobby Bond both had a similar limp.
After questioning Fred, it turns out he first guessed that it was the Inspector when the Inspector tried to shrug his off the case, and the fact that both the suspect that he had tacked and Inspector Bobby Bond both had a similar limp.
So ends our recount of the Attack of the Noodles. Our records indicate that much of what we didn't make up is entirely true. But, despite a few discrepancies we would like to assume that all facts are true unless proven otherwise by a higher authority that than the writers imagination.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Noodle Wars 2
For those who missed the first of this exciting series, here is a link to Noodle Wars 1
In part two of this thrilling documentation of the Noodle Wars, we follow the path of Noodle Man and our hero, Fred Dunderson. In part one of this documentation, we wrote about the start of Ramen Man’s escapades. Weeks later, Noodle Man is still the center of attention in Houston.
Houston Daily News March 1, 1992
Noodle Man scares the daylights out of Houston citizens with grotesque noodle creations. Citizens all over town woke up this morning to noodles sculptured to look like skeletons. Those who escaped the “art” found that they had a bundle of noodles stretched tightly across their door frames. Upset citizens have begun to purchase firing arms to repel night invaders. Houston is no longer amused by Noodle Man’s un-stoppable rampage. He MUST be captured, but who will do it? Inspector Bond, the man who, in conjunction with the Mayor, spearheaded the formation of the Ramen Squad, has done nothing, and his best man on the force, Fred Dunderson has resigned. What could possibly happen next!?
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"Now," said Fred, seriously annoyed, as he turned on the light and surveyed the mess, "this has become a Personal battle! You're going down, Noodle Man!"
Fred immediately called his ex-buddy, Inspector Bond, to report the new incident. The Inspector was very encouraging.
"Well, Freddie old boy. Like as not Ramen Man heard you resigned and is thumbing his nose at you. I really don't see how you can capture the guy on your own. Besides, bless your heart, we've had fourteen other calls this morning. I'll send someone over eventually to file a report. I don't know why you called me though. Aren't you going to get the Noodle dude yourself?"
Fred hung the phone up in disgust. His next plan of action was breakfast. While waddling, I mean walking, to his car to grab a McDonald's burger, he made three interesting discoveries. There was dirt mark on the left side of his apartment door, a piece of dark cloth on caught on the thorn bush just outside, and, upon walking closer to the bush, a footprint that could only have been made by a man with a very wide right foot. Fred made sure that Inspector Bond, and the press were fully informed.
Houston Daily News March 2, 1992
Upon being informed of the recent incidents at Fred Dunderson's apartment, Inspector Bond honored the premises in person. Says Inspector Bond: "It is definitely a very wide imprint of a right foot. Whether a man or not is unknown. You know, some women have very large feet." He continues, “It is yet to be determined who is behind these mysterious attacks, for attack is really the only word that captures this person's actions. I have nothing further to say.”
In part two of this thrilling documentation of the Noodle Wars, we follow the path of Noodle Man and our hero, Fred Dunderson. In part one of this documentation, we wrote about the start of Ramen Man’s escapades. Weeks later, Noodle Man is still the center of attention in Houston.
Houston Daily News March 1, 1992
Noodle Man Still Loose!
Noodle Man scares the daylights out of Houston citizens with grotesque noodle creations. Citizens all over town woke up this morning to noodles sculptured to look like skeletons. Those who escaped the “art” found that they had a bundle of noodles stretched tightly across their door frames. Upset citizens have begun to purchase firing arms to repel night invaders. Houston is no longer amused by Noodle Man’s un-stoppable rampage. He MUST be captured, but who will do it? Inspector Bond, the man who, in conjunction with the Mayor, spearheaded the formation of the Ramen Squad, has done nothing, and his best man on the force, Fred Dunderson has resigned. What could possibly happen next!? ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fred had a unique way of getting out of bed. First, he rolled over on his stomach, then he did a complex back-flip so that he was standing on the bed. He usually bumped his head on the low ceiling. After that, he made a flying leap for the light-switch by the door. This morning, he had an additional surprise. As he landed on the floor, a crunch met his ears. Simultaneously, he let out a yell.-- Yells are often the result of landing on ramen noodles unexpectedly in bare feet.
"Now," said Fred, seriously annoyed, as he turned on the light and surveyed the mess, "this has become a Personal battle! You're going down, Noodle Man!"
Fred immediately called his ex-buddy, Inspector Bond, to report the new incident. The Inspector was very encouraging.
"Well, Freddie old boy. Like as not Ramen Man heard you resigned and is thumbing his nose at you. I really don't see how you can capture the guy on your own. Besides, bless your heart, we've had fourteen other calls this morning. I'll send someone over eventually to file a report. I don't know why you called me though. Aren't you going to get the Noodle dude yourself?"
Fred hung the phone up in disgust. His next plan of action was breakfast. While waddling, I mean walking, to his car to grab a McDonald's burger, he made three interesting discoveries. There was dirt mark on the left side of his apartment door, a piece of dark cloth on caught on the thorn bush just outside, and, upon walking closer to the bush, a footprint that could only have been made by a man with a very wide right foot. Fred made sure that Inspector Bond, and the press were fully informed.
Houston Daily News March 2, 1992
Noodle Man “Noodles” Respectable Citizen.
Upon being informed of the recent incidents at Fred Dunderson's apartment, Inspector Bond honored the premises in person. Says Inspector Bond: "It is definitely a very wide imprint of a right foot. Whether a man or not is unknown. You know, some women have very large feet." He continues, “It is yet to be determined who is behind these mysterious attacks, for attack is really the only word that captures this person's actions. I have nothing further to say.”
Fred after making known his dislike for being Noodle Man’s victim, declared to those who would listen, that he would not rest until Noodle Man was under lock and key. He followed up this resolve with the declaration of his intention to begin his search that very day.
Although Fred was not always a particularly bright young man, once in a while he had a real lulu of an idea. Today, he was so angry that one such light bulb clicked on effortlessly. Fred deduced that the Mayor had never yet been noodleized. I mean, vandalized. Fred decided to stake out the mayor's house that very night.
Fred hit the jackpot. At precisely 12:31 a.m., a dark shadow crept across the mayor's lawn. Since it was necessary to catch the man in the act, Fred waited patiently. He was rewarded by the sound of ramen packages being opened stealthily. With a shout, Fred jumped up and shone his flashlight at the man. Unfortunately, he only saw the back of the man. Noodle Man escaped again, or so it seemed.
Fred's shout had awakened the mayor's wife. (The mayor himself was a sound-sleeper) The mayor's wife had caught a glimpse of the man's face as she hurried out a side door. From this second-hand source, Fred had a significant clue.
"He had a black eye! I've never seen such a one since my Tommie was little boy. Ha, he was one was my Tom. Always into fights he was, bless his little heart."
Houston Daily News
March 3, 1992
Noodle Man Seen in the Act! Escapes Yet Again!
Fred Dunderson and the Mayor's wife both saw Noodle Man last night. Fred says he has a clue, but he and the Mayor's wife are keeping a tight lid on their mouth's. Neither will reveal. Says Fred, "If I said what we saw, Noodle Man would be warned. I want to capture him, not be his early-warning system." The city of Houston believes Ramen Man is at last on his way to the end of his career.
So ends Part 2 of the Noodle Wars! Check back later to read the even more exciting conclusion!
Although Fred was not always a particularly bright young man, once in a while he had a real lulu of an idea. Today, he was so angry that one such light bulb clicked on effortlessly. Fred deduced that the Mayor had never yet been noodleized. I mean, vandalized. Fred decided to stake out the mayor's house that very night.
Fred hit the jackpot. At precisely 12:31 a.m., a dark shadow crept across the mayor's lawn. Since it was necessary to catch the man in the act, Fred waited patiently. He was rewarded by the sound of ramen packages being opened stealthily. With a shout, Fred jumped up and shone his flashlight at the man. Unfortunately, he only saw the back of the man. Noodle Man escaped again, or so it seemed.
Fred's shout had awakened the mayor's wife. (The mayor himself was a sound-sleeper) The mayor's wife had caught a glimpse of the man's face as she hurried out a side door. From this second-hand source, Fred had a significant clue.
"He had a black eye! I've never seen such a one since my Tommie was little boy. Ha, he was one was my Tom. Always into fights he was, bless his little heart."
Houston Daily News
March 3, 1992
Noodle Man Seen in the Act! Escapes Yet Again!
Fred Dunderson and the Mayor's wife both saw Noodle Man last night. Fred says he has a clue, but he and the Mayor's wife are keeping a tight lid on their mouth's. Neither will reveal. Says Fred, "If I said what we saw, Noodle Man would be warned. I want to capture him, not be his early-warning system." The city of Houston believes Ramen Man is at last on his way to the end of his career.
So ends Part 2 of the Noodle Wars! Check back later to read the even more exciting conclusion!
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Noodle Wars 1
The Houston Daily News Jan. 26 1992
“Extra! Extra! Read all Read all about it! Ramen Rain at the Courthouse! Bomb Squad Called! Early this morning Sally Johnson had an appointment at the courthouse. Walking up the steps, she noticed a large black garbage sack sitting on an old bench. In light of the recent bomb scares, Sally called the police. After closing the courthouse for three hours, the bomb squad blew up the bag. Says Chief of Police Samuel Reed "It was incredible. Everywhere. Like, all this stuff. Clouds and clouds of like, top ramen noodles all over the place."
All involved had very sheepish grins. But when Inspector Bond found a note in his office later that day, he vowed to track down the Ramen Man. He isn't saying much, but it appears that the bag was placed there intentionally to make everybody look like a fool. And Houston is not going to take that from anyone.”
There is no further introduction necessary for our story today. Without further ado, we launch into the journey of Houston. A journey of concealment and discovery. A journey in which our hero rises from the midst of a bumbling government to take his place forever in the archives of history.
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Who but Houston would have thought of converting the noodle bomb event into something that would produce revenue? The large numbers of noodles that had been embedded in the courthouse after the demolition of the "Ramen Bomb” was a brilliant tourism opportunity. Although it had made the mayor and the government look like idiots, what better thing was there to discuss and look at all day long? Admission to the courthouse steps is now only $4.99!
The event, however, was the only the beginning of a long series of similar incidents all across town. These “little” incidents soon led to the ban of Top Ramen within the city limits of Houston. But fans of the Noodle Man quickly came up with unique ways to skirt the law. The whole thing became such an embarrassing situation that Mayor Eustace Hodge ordered the man to be found. "Government," he said, "should not, can not, and must not be ridiculed. Justice must be done”
The result of this resolution was the formation of the Ramen Squad, dedicated to the removal of the public menace known as Top Ramen Man. At the head of this band was Inspector Bond. Bond dedicated all his energies to capturing Noodle Man. He sat in his office looking at reports. And, every time he picked up the phone, he could be heard busily rapping out orders. Working hand in hand with the Mayor, nightly blockades were established.
Meanwhile, our hero, Fred Dunderson, was instructed to lead the intrepid Ramen squad on a search for each individual ramen noodle not already consumed. On each of these, a serial number was placed. This order, needless to say, came directly from the mayoral office. And, lo and behold, it was not surprising to find these serial numbered noodles plastered across Inspector Bond's front seat as they returned from their long day of inventorying.
Feb 18, 1992 Houston Daily News
What is the Government for Anyway? An Expensive Circus Act? Do Serial Numbers Accomplish Anything? What will Mayor Hodge Think of Next? Here's the Score: Noodle Man 5; Houston 0!
So read the Houston headline on that snowy Tuesday morning, just under a month since Episode One of the Noodle Wars. Fred, who was as disgusted as the rest of Houston with the farcical nonsense, stormed respectfully up to Mayor Hodge’s desk.
“Sir,” he said, “If you insist that I continue to carry out such ridiculous ideas, I will resign and carry out my own investigations. Do you insist?”
“I do indeed!” Replied the mayor. “One must do something in the case of an extremity such as this. And I am doing so. Go ahead and try. Alone, what can you do?”
Mayor Hodge, in case you couldn't already tell, was one of those elected for their eloquence more than for their brains.
And here we leave our hero of the story, who is indeed Fred. Shortly after the inventorying and numbering of every noodle in town, Fred signed up with >STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL< and was sent on an undercover mission to >CLASSIFIED.< To see if he could >CENSORED< and to >TOP SECRET.<
So ends Part 1 of the account of Noodle Man's Noodle Wars. Check back later to see what his mistake was, and how Fred found out who this Noodle Man really was!
“Extra! Extra! Read all Read all about it! Ramen Rain at the Courthouse! Bomb Squad Called! Early this morning Sally Johnson had an appointment at the courthouse. Walking up the steps, she noticed a large black garbage sack sitting on an old bench. In light of the recent bomb scares, Sally called the police. After closing the courthouse for three hours, the bomb squad blew up the bag. Says Chief of Police Samuel Reed "It was incredible. Everywhere. Like, all this stuff. Clouds and clouds of like, top ramen noodles all over the place."
All involved had very sheepish grins. But when Inspector Bond found a note in his office later that day, he vowed to track down the Ramen Man. He isn't saying much, but it appears that the bag was placed there intentionally to make everybody look like a fool. And Houston is not going to take that from anyone.”
There is no further introduction necessary for our story today. Without further ado, we launch into the journey of Houston. A journey of concealment and discovery. A journey in which our hero rises from the midst of a bumbling government to take his place forever in the archives of history.
--------
Who but Houston would have thought of converting the noodle bomb event into something that would produce revenue? The large numbers of noodles that had been embedded in the courthouse after the demolition of the "Ramen Bomb” was a brilliant tourism opportunity. Although it had made the mayor and the government look like idiots, what better thing was there to discuss and look at all day long? Admission to the courthouse steps is now only $4.99!
The event, however, was the only the beginning of a long series of similar incidents all across town. These “little” incidents soon led to the ban of Top Ramen within the city limits of Houston. But fans of the Noodle Man quickly came up with unique ways to skirt the law. The whole thing became such an embarrassing situation that Mayor Eustace Hodge ordered the man to be found. "Government," he said, "should not, can not, and must not be ridiculed. Justice must be done”
The result of this resolution was the formation of the Ramen Squad, dedicated to the removal of the public menace known as Top Ramen Man. At the head of this band was Inspector Bond. Bond dedicated all his energies to capturing Noodle Man. He sat in his office looking at reports. And, every time he picked up the phone, he could be heard busily rapping out orders. Working hand in hand with the Mayor, nightly blockades were established.
Meanwhile, our hero, Fred Dunderson, was instructed to lead the intrepid Ramen squad on a search for each individual ramen noodle not already consumed. On each of these, a serial number was placed. This order, needless to say, came directly from the mayoral office. And, lo and behold, it was not surprising to find these serial numbered noodles plastered across Inspector Bond's front seat as they returned from their long day of inventorying.
Feb 18, 1992 Houston Daily News
What is the Government for Anyway? An Expensive Circus Act? Do Serial Numbers Accomplish Anything? What will Mayor Hodge Think of Next? Here's the Score: Noodle Man 5; Houston 0!
So read the Houston headline on that snowy Tuesday morning, just under a month since Episode One of the Noodle Wars. Fred, who was as disgusted as the rest of Houston with the farcical nonsense, stormed respectfully up to Mayor Hodge’s desk.
“Sir,” he said, “If you insist that I continue to carry out such ridiculous ideas, I will resign and carry out my own investigations. Do you insist?”
“I do indeed!” Replied the mayor. “One must do something in the case of an extremity such as this. And I am doing so. Go ahead and try. Alone, what can you do?”
Mayor Hodge, in case you couldn't already tell, was one of those elected for their eloquence more than for their brains.
And here we leave our hero of the story, who is indeed Fred. Shortly after the inventorying and numbering of every noodle in town, Fred signed up with >STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL< and was sent on an undercover mission to >CLASSIFIED.< To see if he could >CENSORED< and to >TOP SECRET.<
So ends Part 1 of the account of Noodle Man's Noodle Wars. Check back later to see what his mistake was, and how Fred found out who this Noodle Man really was!
Friday, May 27, 2011
The Not-New Car
First off, I'd like to offer my sincerest congratulations to you, as the reader. Why congratulate you? I congratulate you for the understanding and wisdom that led you to this site, and to the first of several narratives recounting the the long history, or possible history, of mankind, from the past to the future. Oh, wait, can the future be history? hmm, I'll have to think about that one.
The following account is of special interest for me, as the historian, or futurian, because it reminds me of the time when my granddad was in his seventies. But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? Have I told you yet that he was seventy? No... I don't suppose I did. I reckon that's what I get for getting old.
Looking back,.... No, no, no, not that far... just to the previous paragraph. I see the folly of trying to write, or text, just one short introductory sentence to capture my passionate feeling regarding the following legend of this dear old fella. Hmmm.... I see I'll just have to start, or you'll never get to read the the true-blue story of discovery.
Once upon a time; but only because all good stories begin that way. Once upon a time there was a wizened old man. He had white hair and a white mustache, but no beard. He wore the thickest glasses you ever did see, the kindest eyes, the most wiry frame, most wrinkled hands, and the tiniest pug nose.
This man lived in a...No, I won't tell you. Not until you ask first. Weelllll, all right. I'll tell you where he didn't live. By the way, did I tell you his name yet? I don't think I did. His name is Giuseppe. What's that? Italians don't have pug noses? Oh, well then, his real name is Alexander, but most people around here call him Canopy Al. Why? Hold your horses, and don't interrupt no more! See?
Now then, where was I? Of course, we were talking about where Canopy Al lives. Let's see here. He didn't live in a mobile home. No, no, no. And he didn't live in a trailer. A castle I hear? ha ha! No, child, he's not a prince. No, Old Al lived in a house that was built Victorian style. You know, she was a Queen! of all of England she was. A very long time ago. They named a whole system of architecture after her.
The house was all decorated in pink and white frills and was always neat as a pin. Al loved it. It reminded him of his wife. There was only one room that wasn't frilly and that was the garage. There wasn't any space for frills there! It was stuffed full of this and that and the other thing. Some gardening tools, metal scraps, all sorts of things! Why, one corner was piled to the ceiling in junk.
Naturally, I can see some of you are thinking what a dreadful pig our Al must have been. But no, some of the junk had been there when Al had moved in. He was always working away at clearing it out, but it never seemed to get done. Maybe he spent too much time in the coffee shop with the guys. Or in the garden with the flowers. Or on his mail route.
Yes, Al had a mail route. And it was that which, indirectly, led him to his great discovery. You see, at seventy, people were starting to say that Canopy Al was getting to old to deliver mail. Only, they felt bad about saying so. Al had been the mailman since he was a youngster of nineteen. And a good job he did too. But when he hit seventy, he started doing stuff. Stuff like dropping pieces of mail and forgetting to pick it up again. One letter was found all the way in the next town!
Before you get overly attached to his mail route, however, I'm sorry to break to you his loss. It was what made this story possible. Unfortunately, for a guy so young as Old Al, the management of the Postal Service found it necessary to relieve him of his time honored position as the oldest mailman in all fifty states. This then freed up time to clean out his garage. His plan for the garage after he completed the monumental project of emptying it was to make room for a bright red Corvette. A fancy car was was his fondest dream, and Canopy Al had fixed upon a Corvette as the fanciest thing out there.
So, my ole granddad started work. So motivated was he that he had finished everything but that one messy corner in less than a month! You know, he couldn't do it any sooner. He absolutely could not leave his coffee shop friends in the lurch. Much less his beloved nasturtiums! He only worked in his garage during the hours formerly taken up with the U.S of A Post Office.
At last, one bright sunny morning, he started to tackle the corner with the junk stacked to the ceiling. Inch by inch, piece by piece (of garbage), our hero Al made the pile smaller. Brave Al! Hardworking Al! Our Canopy Al! My GRANDDAD! Oh, maybe I'm getting a little carried away with myself.
As the clock dinged the lunch hour, (and the quitting hour) that sunshiny day, Al had only one thing left. He didn't know what it was. He carried away one last piece of garbage from on top of a large thing with a dusty old canopy over it, went in to lunch, and didn't even peek until Monday. Did I mention that it was Friday, and that Al never worked on the weekends? Ah, if he had only known what lay underneath that canopy.
On Monday, Al went into the garage and lifted the canopy. Dust flew everywhere and we have accurate accounts that he sneezed exactly three and a half times. What was underneath? Oh, just an old car. Awww, what's so special about that? You don't want to hear the story? Fine. No, don't leave!!
Now, where were we. Oh yes, Al pulled out the car into the middle of the garage. He figured he could fix it up a bit and sell it to somebody and then use the money for a Corvette, with a sport muffler! After he fixed up the car, Canopy Al drove it through town to his favorite car dealer. This guy, his name was Dick, had a red Corvette for sale. When Dick saw Al's souped up car though, he whistled.
'Say Al! you sure you want to sell that thing? Why don't you take it and have it appraised first. That looks authentic.'
Al laughed, and replied, "Sure, it is. 100% Genuine authentic garbage." But Dick continued to insist, so Al got it appraised. It ended up being several weeks before he heard from the appraiser, but when he did, he was mildly surprised. Hmmm, mildly surprised doesn't quite capture it does it? Let me rephrase that..... He received the shock of his life when the appraisal came back at $63,752 for what he thought was garbage on wheels.
Dick was just trying to take it from Al when I walked upon the scene, and unlike the typical teenager; I loved it. So began the short process of what, or who, Granddad Al liked more, a red Corvette, or his young teenage grandson. Al had no doubts. Like the good grandfather that he was, he kept the car for the sake of the more insistent and younger of the two fighting for the car, his grandson.
Al taught me to drive that old car, and I taught it to your dad. While not bright red, and not very speedy, (but with plenty of noise) the car, once souped up a bit, was just the thing for granddad. When the story got out, as it soon did, everybody started calling him Canopy Al after what he'd found beneath that old canvas cloth.And, when Al saw that he was the celebrity in town, he grew to love it too. After all, it's not everyone who has the original Model A designed by Henry Ford himself!
The following account is of special interest for me, as the historian, or futurian, because it reminds me of the time when my granddad was in his seventies. But wait, I'm getting ahead of myself, aren't I? Have I told you yet that he was seventy? No... I don't suppose I did. I reckon that's what I get for getting old.
Looking back,.... No, no, no, not that far... just to the previous paragraph. I see the folly of trying to write, or text, just one short introductory sentence to capture my passionate feeling regarding the following legend of this dear old fella. Hmmm.... I see I'll just have to start, or you'll never get to read the the true-blue story of discovery.
Once upon a time; but only because all good stories begin that way. Once upon a time there was a wizened old man. He had white hair and a white mustache, but no beard. He wore the thickest glasses you ever did see, the kindest eyes, the most wiry frame, most wrinkled hands, and the tiniest pug nose.
This man lived in a...No, I won't tell you. Not until you ask first. Weelllll, all right. I'll tell you where he didn't live. By the way, did I tell you his name yet? I don't think I did. His name is Giuseppe. What's that? Italians don't have pug noses? Oh, well then, his real name is Alexander, but most people around here call him Canopy Al. Why? Hold your horses, and don't interrupt no more! See?
Now then, where was I? Of course, we were talking about where Canopy Al lives. Let's see here. He didn't live in a mobile home. No, no, no. And he didn't live in a trailer. A castle I hear? ha ha! No, child, he's not a prince. No, Old Al lived in a house that was built Victorian style. You know, she was a Queen! of all of England she was. A very long time ago. They named a whole system of architecture after her.
The house was all decorated in pink and white frills and was always neat as a pin. Al loved it. It reminded him of his wife. There was only one room that wasn't frilly and that was the garage. There wasn't any space for frills there! It was stuffed full of this and that and the other thing. Some gardening tools, metal scraps, all sorts of things! Why, one corner was piled to the ceiling in junk.
Naturally, I can see some of you are thinking what a dreadful pig our Al must have been. But no, some of the junk had been there when Al had moved in. He was always working away at clearing it out, but it never seemed to get done. Maybe he spent too much time in the coffee shop with the guys. Or in the garden with the flowers. Or on his mail route.
Yes, Al had a mail route. And it was that which, indirectly, led him to his great discovery. You see, at seventy, people were starting to say that Canopy Al was getting to old to deliver mail. Only, they felt bad about saying so. Al had been the mailman since he was a youngster of nineteen. And a good job he did too. But when he hit seventy, he started doing stuff. Stuff like dropping pieces of mail and forgetting to pick it up again. One letter was found all the way in the next town!
Before you get overly attached to his mail route, however, I'm sorry to break to you his loss. It was what made this story possible. Unfortunately, for a guy so young as Old Al, the management of the Postal Service found it necessary to relieve him of his time honored position as the oldest mailman in all fifty states. This then freed up time to clean out his garage. His plan for the garage after he completed the monumental project of emptying it was to make room for a bright red Corvette. A fancy car was was his fondest dream, and Canopy Al had fixed upon a Corvette as the fanciest thing out there.
So, my ole granddad started work. So motivated was he that he had finished everything but that one messy corner in less than a month! You know, he couldn't do it any sooner. He absolutely could not leave his coffee shop friends in the lurch. Much less his beloved nasturtiums! He only worked in his garage during the hours formerly taken up with the U.S of A Post Office.
At last, one bright sunny morning, he started to tackle the corner with the junk stacked to the ceiling. Inch by inch, piece by piece (of garbage), our hero Al made the pile smaller. Brave Al! Hardworking Al! Our Canopy Al! My GRANDDAD! Oh, maybe I'm getting a little carried away with myself.
As the clock dinged the lunch hour, (and the quitting hour) that sunshiny day, Al had only one thing left. He didn't know what it was. He carried away one last piece of garbage from on top of a large thing with a dusty old canopy over it, went in to lunch, and didn't even peek until Monday. Did I mention that it was Friday, and that Al never worked on the weekends? Ah, if he had only known what lay underneath that canopy.
On Monday, Al went into the garage and lifted the canopy. Dust flew everywhere and we have accurate accounts that he sneezed exactly three and a half times. What was underneath? Oh, just an old car. Awww, what's so special about that? You don't want to hear the story? Fine. No, don't leave!!
Now, where were we. Oh yes, Al pulled out the car into the middle of the garage. He figured he could fix it up a bit and sell it to somebody and then use the money for a Corvette, with a sport muffler! After he fixed up the car, Canopy Al drove it through town to his favorite car dealer. This guy, his name was Dick, had a red Corvette for sale. When Dick saw Al's souped up car though, he whistled.
'Say Al! you sure you want to sell that thing? Why don't you take it and have it appraised first. That looks authentic.'
Al laughed, and replied, "Sure, it is. 100% Genuine authentic garbage." But Dick continued to insist, so Al got it appraised. It ended up being several weeks before he heard from the appraiser, but when he did, he was mildly surprised. Hmmm, mildly surprised doesn't quite capture it does it? Let me rephrase that..... He received the shock of his life when the appraisal came back at $63,752 for what he thought was garbage on wheels.
Dick was just trying to take it from Al when I walked upon the scene, and unlike the typical teenager; I loved it. So began the short process of what, or who, Granddad Al liked more, a red Corvette, or his young teenage grandson. Al had no doubts. Like the good grandfather that he was, he kept the car for the sake of the more insistent and younger of the two fighting for the car, his grandson.
Al taught me to drive that old car, and I taught it to your dad. While not bright red, and not very speedy, (but with plenty of noise) the car, once souped up a bit, was just the thing for granddad. When the story got out, as it soon did, everybody started calling him Canopy Al after what he'd found beneath that old canvas cloth.And, when Al saw that he was the celebrity in town, he grew to love it too. After all, it's not everyone who has the original Model A designed by Henry Ford himself!
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