Once a week on Friday, Uncle Bardie celebrates the creativity in others by shining a Spotlight on a movie, a song or a creator. This week’s Spotlight is the song: “Party All the Time” by Eddie Murphy and Rick James:
It’s time to get some funk.
Previously the ghosts of Haggismarshe and the Prime Minister were upset.
The S. S. Twit’s crew calmed the passengers, telling them there was no iceberg. The panic turned into an applause, then the passengers dispersed. The S. S. Twit steamed along like the Little Steamboat That Could, happy with the knowledge that it was not about to be sent to Davy Jones’ Locker.
In the ballroom, Tootles “The Tootler” Tootle Lou and her Orchestra swung its swing with The Doodlebug Ragtime and “We’re going to rock it like it’s 1899″. Then they changed the pace with a rendition of “France may be a country, but Paris is a city.” It was a waltz.
“How exciting,” Lady Marye Caterina Wimpleseed-Prissypott said, her ladyship following her German companion’s dance steps. “We were almost on a sinking ship.”
“Some people like to follow the weather,” said the monocled German Pipsqueak Pimplesquat. “That does not mean they long to live through a hurricane. I have been through two sinkings, and I can guarantee you, fraulein, it is never exciting.”
There was such a longing in the music, the violins leading the singer into sadness territory. It had most of the listeners sobbing. It was that sad.
Such a loverly waltz with such a loverly man, her ladyship thought. Goose pimples pimpled up and down her spine. Her bosoms were blossoming at the possibility of establishing diplomatic relations between Haggismarshe and Bavaria with this Bavarian gentleman of a German. Her monocled partner seemed to fit her bill as a candidate for Mr. Right. And he spoke very good English too. So there would be no need for a translator between the sheets.
Outside a dark cloud moved out from the land, across the sea, and toward the S. S. Twit. It was very dark and very foreboding; that’s the kind of cloud it was.
Pipsqueak Pimplesquat, his face directly facing the tall woman’s bosoms, overcame his reticence to advance the relationship to a new level of diplomatic partnership and asked, “Shall we repair to my drawing room? I have some very nice drawings there. Drawings you most certainly will admire.” It seemed to be the right good move in his way of existentialist thinking, and it was well put.
Slam! Bam! The ship hit … something. Something big. Something hard.
Pipsqueak Pimplesqueak and Lady Marye Caterina Wimpleseed-Prissypott had a close encounter of the bodily kind. “My darling,” he said, feeling her bosoms up close and personal. “I did not know you cared.”
“I did not know I cared either,” her ladyship said.
From the crow’s nest, a sailor cried out, “We’ve been hit. I am not kidding. We are sinking. Oh, my gosh, we are sunk.” Then he jumped, flying off the tippy-top top of the ship and crashing down toward the deck. He missed the deck and hit the side of the ship and thumped off and into the sea.
Smythie Smathers was taking a dump, got a bump and a pump went up his rump. Thwump! and he was thumped across the plump toilet. Then he slumped and he crumpled. He was dead as a doorknob. Deader than a doorknob. He was really dead.
Crepe Suzette bit off more of a companion’s meat platter than her French tartness could chew, swallowed hard and choked to death.
Studdley Duddley stood and announced to his fellow poker-playing pals, “It has been an honor and downright fun to take your money. But I do believe it is time to skedaddle and rope myself a lifeboat.” He rose and left his tablemates stammered and stunned. Quick thinking was always Studdley’s greatest strength. Especially when it came to self-preservation.
The S. S. Twit had hit a snag. A rather big snag. The biggest snag you can imagine, dear Reader. It hit the Rock of Gibraltar. How the ship had gotten that far off course was anybody’s guess. After all, it should have been in Alexandria’s harbor, not the western Mediterranean.
Some blamed the ship’s pilot, Wongway Wongway, and his pilotage. His ineptness had guided him through a career of screw-ups. Though he kept screwing up, he kept being hired. You see, he worked cheap. Very cheap. What can a guy named Wongway Wongway do besides pilot boats? Open a Chinese restaurant even though he was not Chinese and could not cook? Maybe if Wongway Wongway had a gps or Google Earth, he would not have hit Gibraltar. No, he would have read the coordinates upside down. It was the way of things. The way the yin meets the yang and blows up in your face when you least expect it, that way of things. And some blamed the Captain for hiring him.
Pipsqueak, a gentleman’s gentleman in his best gentlemanly form, pried himself from her ladyship’s body and escorted her off the dance floor.
The floor shook. It shook a lot and it began to lean to the port, then to the aft, then back to the portside. Everyone was heading for the doors, including Pipsqueak, her ladyship and the toot-toot-tootler. The singer pulled the door open and went through, shouting, “Tootle lou and skip to my do, my darlings. It’s toot, toot, tootsie goodbye. The Toot is out of here. Exit stage left.”
Lady Marye and Pipsqueak were right behind her out the door. On the deck, they encountered lots of pan and lots of demonium and lots of pandemonium. People were running to and fro, fro and to, and to and fro again. Pipsqueak yelled, “What’s going on?”
Someone passing someone else yelled back, “We’re running to-and-fro and, if that isn’t enough, we’re running fro-and-to.”
“I am going tootle-lou,” Tootles said and jumped over the side of the ship. On her way down to the water, she cried, “Yippee. I’m having a ding-dong daddy in a ping-pong-paddywack-give-a-dog-a-bone kind of day. Gee, I always wanted to say that and now I have.”
Splat.
The ship started to shake, rattle and roll.
Sgt Mack Truck took it all in his Girine stride. He had faced down Jessie and Frank James in Missouri. He had faced down the notorious Billy the Kid in Tombstone. He had faced down Sitting Bull at Little Big Horn. He had faced down the Spanish at San Juan Hill. He was a Girine and there was nothing he had not met before.
Standing on the deck, helping the ladies into the lifeboats, the sergeant did not see the thing coming. The flag pole above him broke loose from the ship and fell, fell, fell and ran straight into The Truck’s head, through his body, and out his foot. He stood on the deck for moments without thinking. That’s when it came to him. “I am dead. Oh yes, I am dead. No more United States Gyrenes for me.” Then Sgt. Mack Truck of the United States Gyrenes fell to the deck.
A lady was in the Captain’s Bed, her hormones hormoning next to Captain Pedro Emmanuel. Suddenly their hormones stopped their hormonizations. Out popped the Captain’s pooper from her amusement park of love, and he was on his feet. Something had happened to his ship.
“What the … ?” Captain Pedro Emmanuel asked as he pulled his pullover on and slid into his pants.
The woman in the Captain’s Bed said, “Slam bam thank-you ma’am. Just like a man. Always eating and running. You’re abandoning me like all the others.”
“Madame,” the captain said. “Have you no sense of decency? My ship is sinking and this is not the time for more piddle-paddling.”
“Excuses, excuses,” the woman said. “Always excuses.”
“Well,” the captain said, “why don’t you wait here. I will be back in a jiffy.”
“Right,” the woman said. “You know how to break a woman’s heart. You get your way with her, then you’re out of there.”
The captain gallantly leaned over and kissed her succulent lips. “I am sorry, my darling Señora. When I come back, I will take over where I left off. You will be satisfied. That I promise. Extremely satisfied.” Then he was out the door.
Of course, he wouldn’t come back. They never came back. It was always like this. She was always a woman on a sinking ship. But a woman could hope the Titanic wouldn’t sink, couldn’t she?
Captain Pedro Emmanuel Montoya Henandez Gabriel Garcia de Toledo San Cristobel y Mendoza Cantabria headed fore, then aft, then athwartship, then starboard, then port. He ran through the ship’s companionways and out onto the fo’castle and he ran smack dab into the Big Rock. The monster stared into his eyes. He stared back at Gibraltar and felt the S. S. Twit slowly sinking. Not much time.
“Everyman for himself!” he yelled below at the First Mate.
“Skipper!” the First Mate called back. “What about the passengers?”
“They’re all tourists, Señor First Mate,” the captain yelled above the screaming and the whining and the complaining and the crying and the yelling. “Get the hell off the ship.”
“Whatever happened to the captain going down with the ship?” the First Mate cried.
“You have been promoted,” the captain cried back. “You are the captain now.” Then he jumped.
That dark cloud I told you about earlier, dear Reader, it had arrived. It filled the sky above the S. S. Twit. The world had gone black.
Pipsqueak and her ladyship ran to the edge of the deck. They looked down into the waters below. The sea was azure. Besides that, it was blue. Bluer than blue. It was indeed blue.
“Shall we dance the light fantastic, mine fraulein?” Pippy said.
“You betcha,” Marye said. Over the side of the deck, she followed Pippy as he jumped. He let go of her hand and shoved her out to sea. His body hit the side of the boat and bounced into the water.
Next Week: A Nice Night for a Long Swim
The house looked empty. There wasn’t a car in the driveway. No stirring. Taggert decided it was perfect. He’d do a run inside. Steal what he could take. Then he’d be out the door. And he’d do it in no time. It was still morning and everybody on the street seemed to have taken off for work. Taggert liked that. It made housebreaking easy peasy.
Little did Taggert know he was being watched. From the basement. Her name was Puddin’ and she was the house owner’s black panther. Mostly she was tame. The family had had her since she was a pup. I mean, kitten or cub or some such thing.
Puddin’ was harmless unless you want to call scuffling in the living room harmless. The family had declawed her so she wouldn’t scratch up the furniture. Now Puddin’ loved the family. She considered herself part of the family. So when she heard the back window open she just figured it was the man of the house playing a game. Puddin’ loved games.
When the family was gone, she had the run of the house. Every room was her castle. She ran into the bedroom. She saw a man coming through the window. He didn’t look like the man of the house. He didn’t smell like the man of the house. He was much shorter. Puddin’ figured it was a friend of the owners. So she hurried over just as Taggert was stepping down on the floor. She went to hug the Taggert and lick him on the back of the neck.
Taggert turned his head and saw the large black cat opening her mouth. He thought she was going to eat him.
Now Taggert’s heart was as healthy as a horse. But when you’ve got a grown black panther hugging you and trying to lick you, your heart just won’t hold out. And Taggert’s didn’t hold out.
Several hours later Rush and Laura came home. Rush headed to the bedroom. Over by the window, he saw Puddin’ licking a man’s face, trying to wake him from his eternal sleep.
Once a week on Friday, Uncle Bardie celebrates the creativity in others by shining a Spotlight on a movie, a song or a creator. This week’s Spotlight Creator is the archaeologist Heinrich Schleimann:
The Adventure Continues at Mycenae
These films are from the Michael Wood BBC’s “In Search of the Trojan War”.
Previously Quills returned with a vengeance.
What do ghosts do while their mistress is on holiday? On the Haggismarshe Estate, it was summer, one of the most beautiful in years. The trees were filling out with their fruit. The planted crops were exactly where planted crops were supposed to be. The rain came when the rain was supposed to.
The staff were at their finest. The Manor House was spotless, a sparkling clean. Everything was prepared for her ladyship’s return whenever she desired. She had been a relief from the old fuddy-duddy Lord Dunnville Percival Wimpleseed-Prissypott. At first, they thought she would be a disaster. Two old pissy-pots instead of one. When they first learned that she was American, all had frowned. Even the seldom-frowning butler, Charles, frowned. Americans could be such savages.
Then they met her ladyship. They were duly impressed. She was young, vibrant, alive and breathing. The alive-and-breathing part impressed them the most. They genuinely liked her ladyship and were sad for her when she moped around the estate after old fuddy’s demise. When she left to go abroad, they were glad. Not for their sake, but for hers. It just wasn’t natural to have all that money and titles and be so melancholy. The death of old Wimpleseed-Prissypott must have been hard on the young bride. Her ladyship ought to have some fun.
For the ghost, Benjamin Patrick Nutt, her ladyship was an even more glorious experience. An American. Finally a fellow countryman, or in her case, countrywoman. So that summer he came out of his normal dingy, damp places. He’d even taken to having a spot of ghostly tea with the other two manor house ghosts, Earl Grey Wimpleseed and Sir Long John Longjohn Prissypott. During one of their ghostly teas, B. P. commented, “I miss those mighty fine bosoms. Mighty fine bosoms indeed.” The other two ghosts agreed.
When B. P. walked the halls, he would spring a bright “Howdy” on any human he came into contact with. It was not a boo-ish howdy or a howlingish howdy, rather the kind of howdy you say if you are in the peak of happiness. As he was. Unbelievably happy. The summer evenings after tea he went out on the Manor House lawn and lay in the hammock and dreamed of her ladyship’s return.
Then late one afternoon, a rider for the Headless Horseman Post Service came with the mail. To say that Benjamin Patrick Nutt, Earl Grey Wimpleseed and Sir Long John Longjohn Prissypott were surprised to see Headless would be an understatement. There had been no ghostly communication between Haggismarshe’s ghosts and the rest of the ghost world in forty or fifty years. The last mail they received had been about the conversion of Scrooge. The three had been happy about that. They had known how much it meant to the Marleys.
Headless approached the three as they were finishing their afternoon tea. He handed B. P. a letter. It was from Giles Gilesworth, the limping ghost butler at the Times. Ghosts did not receive letters from Giles unless the news was exceedingly disturbing. One could see the glee on Giles’ face as he wrote the letter. It had been such a long time since he had had anything of consequence to communicate to the English Ghost World. He felt like a weatherman during a hurricane. “I am sorry to report how bad the hurricane is. But I have a job to do. And, oh yes, I have a job.”
B. P. cut the seal and opened the letter. He read:
“I am so sorry to disturb you in your summer idyll. But I thought it urgent to communicate that the House of Lords is considering revoking Lady Marye Caterina Wimpleseed-Prissypott’s title and lands. They feel that the marriage was never consummated and should be annulled. But all is not hopeless. She has allies in the Lords and Her Majesty, the Queen, has taken an interest. This has been reported to me by the House of Lords’ very own ghost, Gregory of Hecklestag. Giles, ‘The Times’.”
The American ghost read the communiqué a second time. A frown crossed what existed of his face. Earl Grey Wimpleseed and Sir Long John Longjohn Prissypott each read it aloud. They were all trying to absorb the disturbing news. It was not that disturbing to Earl Grey and Sir Long John but they were distressed about their friend. Before the news, they had never seen B.P. in such a happy state. Now this news. What were they going to do?
***
No one called the Prime Minister Irving from Swirving any longer. No one called the Prime Minister four eyes any longer. No one called the Prime Minister the little man any longer. No one called the Prime Minister short cakes either. He was called Prime Minister or the PM for short.
A man of the people, he had come by his power and position the hard way. He had earned it, rising through the party ranks rung by rung. He began life as an orphan like Oliver Twist. Early on, he realized that he was either going to be condemned to a life of pickpocketry and theft or he would have to take his fate into his own hands and become a politician. He chose the second.
And now all that he had achieved was at risk. All because of some aristocrat called Wimpleseed-Prissypott. My God, the country seemed overrun by the titled breed. They grew like weeds. What must Lords be thinking to get the Queen all in a tizzy? This did not look good.
The Prime Minister’s carriage pulled up at Number 10. He stepped out and headed to the door. His Personal Secretary was waiting in his office.
“Prime Minister,” the P. S. said as the P. M. entered his office. “You look white as a ghost. What happened?”
The Prime Minister poured himself a good stiff drink, drank it and then poured another. “The Lords have gone and done it.”
“Done what, sir?”
He downed the second drink, then he sat down on the couch in the middle of the room.
“I don’t know. But those nincompoops are up to some skullduggery or other. That’s what you have to find out, P. S. We have to get control of this thing or it will be the end of us. Not only me. The Party as well.”
“But the Queen?” P. S. said.
“Yes, the Queen. Wales has gotten the old bitty in a tizzy about something or other that the Lords is up to. All I know is that it affects a Prissypott.”
“What is a Wissywott?”
“It’s a Prissypott. You need to go up to Lords and take a bit of a look around. See what our spies have to say.”
“Sir, did you get a chance to talk to Her Majesty about that other matter we discussed?”
“No, I didn’t get past this Prissypott matter.”
“The Duke of Pimpletonia said that it was urgent that Her Majesty be informed. Her life could very well be in danger.”
Next Week All is not well aboard the S. S. Twit
Uncle Bardie's Stories & Such 