Inter the Tartletts imminently,
Bananas and bingo-playing buttle-bunked bumpkins from Baltimore bravely
bare their bathing bonnets,
Jeffrey, Royal Poop of Custard Land, steps out for a snack,
Triskets languish in the hoary arms of ancient apes,
And the brittle strains of Toscanini rise from scud camps of briny banditos,
As the Philosopher King muses, surrounded by the Chinese characters for
WhizBang! and Flemmelhortz, the table of North Pole elements (snacks,
kazoos, mismatched socks, etc.), various algebraic anomalies involving
the art-life continuum, and several vats of red paint. Trickles of Sartre
and Derrida skirt cautiously past his right big toe, intimidated by the
veracity of voracious verbal verisocity verily inveined in the mighty
digit- source of his unconscionably consistent high scores in both Royalty
and Scrabble, but not Set.
To a distant chorus of fresh apricots on Shenai he spoke: "Griddlesmack
Whereupon WhizBang! and Flemmelhortz scampered off to the kitchen to prepare
breakfast. However, the resulting flapjacks were themselves so crapulous
as to immediately consume both their makers, two tins of shoe polish (black),
P.K.'s entire supply of hot pink toothpaste, several books on flower arranging,
a box of spaceship band-aids, 50 red poker chips, 3 stray Triskets, and
a small amount of Vaseline. Unfortunately this instigated a vicious case
of diarrhea, believed to have made a significant contribution to their
early demise from dehydration.
However, the resulting corpses were found to make excellent frisbees.
And rightly so, as P.K. had recently undertaken an epically absurd quest,
in which they would come in quite handily, the search for his bemused
muse, the Ham of Jollility.
This elusive luminary is commonly held to linger above the North Pole
at a height of approximately 20,000 ft. Legend has it that he rarely descends
to bestow his inspiratorial blessings because of the risk inherent in
his meaty appearance. P.K., however, being vegitatious in orientation,
felt confident in his ability to conspire confidence within the Jolly
Ham and glimpse his portly pink visage, said to induce the very fits of
tap dancing and spatula spinning he had so been yearning for.
But first he must rise to the occasion, literally. Quickly deducing his
latent high jump inability, P.K. inquired as to other strategic stratagems
for straddling the stratosphere.
One idea was to catch a lift with a super special spiffy visitor from
outer space (the kind of N.P. citizenry alluded to in several official
documents), but no one could be found who was willing to substantiate
their existence. Consequently they decided to go bowling in Iowa instead,
and did rather well - scoring an average of 323.64, and edging out the
local champions from Emma's Bar down the street. Dawn Himple watched from
Lane 3, but she only bowled a 47.
Meanwhile, the great P.K. was in flagging spirits. Oh woe to the Head
of State of the North Pole unable to Poop on a Jolly Ham! **
Although he had been told not to play
with his food, in despair P.K. took to idly flipping about the flapjack
corpses. And as he did, something warmed within him, and under principles
similar to those of a hot air balloon, he began to rise.
He had thought them to be rather unsavory characters earlier, however,
a new appreciation of leftovers now filled his toasty tummy as he flipped
the mighty disks hamward and continued his heady ascent. Above him loomed
an effervescent cloud of soft pink and P.K. quickly composed a "Song
With Which to Conspire Confidence" for the Great Ham of Jollility...
* It may be useful here to examine several
linguistic descendants of the Northern persuasion of this phrase:
Griddlesmack me Timbers
Widdleslap me Flipper
Wifflestop the Fipple
Gipplefop the Stiffle
Steepleflop the Wipple
Bleebleglop that Hippo
Sleezleslop hit Pickle
Seesawgoose heft Sickle
Theresagus onthe Pillow
** A colloquialism for visitations of
an a-Musing nature.
***Sung to the tune of "I'm Just
a Little Black Rain Cloud" from Winnie the Pooh.
****In keeping with the creative ideals
of the North Pole, no authenticated version of the text exists. That which
is printed here should therefore be taken as a mere suggestion or model,
upon which each reader, if s/he/it chooses, may construct their own version.
At which point something so incredulously
incredulous, miraculously miraculous, and stupendifically stupendous happened,
as to render the Philosopher King re-inspirated. While he continued to
gaze vegitariaciously at the massive pink globule, a fleeting glint of
mighty tin was bestowed unto our dear Head of State!
Although taken by some (heathens!) to be a mere satellite, surely this
was the sacred wink of the Great Ham of Jollility. Whereupon P.K.'s now
legendarily prodigious tap dancing and spatula spinning abilities arose
from their long hibernation and wandered about groggily in search of a
And the following song, composed upon his descent, still figures prominently
in silliness and absurdity throughout the North Pole****:
Pooped on the lid of a Jolly Ham,
Comin' down the custard lamb.
We've got mustard on a curly hain,
Sheep halls swinging on a poop ball chain!
I have seen the face of my sacred muse,
Look down from a great pink smog.
He winked and now I can
Tap dance and spin spatulas like a real pro!)