Thanksgiving In London

While at the airport to catch my flight to Louisville, KY for the Thanksgiving holiday yesterday, I accidentally boarded a flight to London.

The confusion started when I ran into some security trouble at O’Hare airport. Now, may I just begin by saying that I sometimes say threatful things. These are not things of which ever I mean. That is to say I don’t mean them. I never say them to people, but only to stationary and non-hearing things such as a mailbox or a door frame. So when I cursed a chair and said I would bomb it if it did not cooperate, I was overheard and made to sit in the exact chair I had threatened. To be fair to the chair, I was curt with it before it was curt to me in response. I’m not going to get into why I made angry comments to the chair, but suffice it to say I was having a rough day, and I doubt I’ll be seeing Paul, my godson, any time soon. So being made to sit in the chair was poetic and just desserts, which is exactly how I like my desserts. I once ate a custard that was more literal than poetic and I did not care for it.

Upon being dismissed from the chair, I fell into an open bag of a kind young man with big arms, and since he didn’t notice me, I didn’t want to startle him, so I remained silent. I did tap lightly on the interior of the bag and said “Excuse me, I don’t want to cause any trouble, but I’m in here,” but nobody heard me, so I just took my medicine and fell asleep.

When I awoke I was in an overhead compartment next to the miniature set of golf clubs that had woken me with their incessant rattling and head-knocking. I was able to unzip the bag to get some fresh air, and again I tried rapping gently to alert people to my presence, but decided to let them all be. It had been a rough day for all of us.

I spent the last 8 hours of the flight rummaging through people’s things looking for a good laugh, but I found nothing. When they opened my compartment, I let my eyes adjust, and then allowed my body to be passed above the heads of all the people until I was on solid ground.

When I deboarded the plane, I knew immediately I was in London, because the first thing I saw was the Abbey Road crosswalk where Marvin Trapp and the Polka-doors posed for their famous album cover in 1941, so I laid down for a nap, as that had been a longterm dream of mine.

I spent most of today watching plays and fog and coppers. I hope to find a youth hostel to stay at. Do you suppose they’ll have turkey? I found sweet potatoes in the overhead bin.

"Foiled By the Letter H!" and "Judging My Granddaughter"

For nearly two weeks yon passing I have been unable to access my computer access web networking blogspot, and for this, Dear Reader, I apologize. The problem was that in the night a spyman must have come into my house without permission and replaced the power button on my computer with the H key and then broke it, for I have spent many hours of many days pressing holding down the H button, and the computer would not go on. Only today when I complained of lack of sleep from holding down the H button did my godson Paul point out that the power button is not in the center of the keyboard, but altogheter elsewhere. So now I’m confused as to the spyman's intentions, but I will get used to that. The good news is that the computer is on.

This has been a traumatifying time for me, because the letter H has long been one letter that I do not trust with any rigor therein or whereby. And to spend long hours pressing it and staring at it has furthered my frustration and ill feelings against it. Some say it’s just a letter, but I see it for all of which what that it is whence and hitherto therefore. Like two vertical golems of darkness bound together at the waist stands the letter H, pouting in a corner, ready to pounce on me. Think of all the bad H words. “Hatred”, “Hell”, and “Hahahaha!” (as in a maniacal laugh) all come immediately to mind. But it is a subversive letter as well, hiding in words like “Happy” and "Heaven" and “Hello Honey, how are you? I hold your hair in a horse harness,” which are perfectly innocent until you notice the golems with their bad attitudes. I just try not to make eye contact, hoping they will get bored and leave me alone. But holding the key down for hours has made me cross to the darkside for longer than I had hoped, and I now find that I’m using the letter H more than ever before, which could become a problem. Stop it, please. Thank you.

So in addition to that, new things are happening. The weather is getting colder which is leading to aches, pains, confusion and I no longer sleep in my tub. Therefore I have lots more time to make my business phone calls. I have caught up on my necessary phonecalling through March, so I decided to make a call for next May.

My godson Paul’s goddaughter Brandy (I think of her as a granddaughter) is in the Girl Scouting of America Organization Agency, and their troop will have a beauty competition when the weather gets nice again so that they can stop fighting over who is the prettiest. This is an instrumental step in the lives of these young girls, because the winner will get into the college of her dreams and be a doctor or a homemaker or something. I care very much about Brandy and want her to do well, so I agreed to help with the organizing of said pageant. A phone call to a professionally judgmental person can be listened to in the player below.

Personal Train Me, Please

Dance class stopped plodding along today. Due to various frightening events in my everyday life, I have only made it to one class and I spent most of it getting my head stuck and unstuck and stuck again in my costume dress's arm hole. I think that perhaps I have put the dessert cart in front of the meal horse on this one, because now I am fretting that perhaps my body is not all painted up and readied for public display and liftings without hernias ensuing. Also, my head may have a larger circumference than I bargained for.

I asked my godson, Paul, to get my money back from the place as he is more frightening with his voice than I am with mine. (Although I did once portray a rabid wolf who ate children in a school play, and my performance had everyone depressed and angry for weeks afterwards, but that is neither here nor over there.) It took a lot of shouting, but Paul was able to get the money back in exchange for I never take another class there and that Paul stays 500 meters from their offices at all times. All of today’s shoutings have got me all cramped up in my stomach, wrists, neck, back, feet, abs, spleen, taste buds, cheek puffs, shoulder humps, yarn-bucklers and skull cap, which I am none to the pleased with by or of. Nevertheless, I can't remember a more beautiful day.

I still plan to take some dance classes (somewhere else) at some point, but first I must get into repair. Parts of me that are loosened need to be firmly stowed away and tucked under where they belong. “Keep your arms and all other flapping parts inside the train at all times,” a conductor man would surely say to me.

So I placed a call to a gymnastics man who could train me into tonefulness and versalability. The call was recorded by me to ensure personal homeland security and that quality customer service is being enjoyed by all, not absconded henceto and hitherforth.

Press play on the player below to hear my phone call.

I Elude the Snares of an Evil Canoe Heist!

What an awful weekend.

First off, the futon has sustained another injury caused my godson, Paul, himself. There is a gash in the cushion where the fabric used to be. I checked my godson’s pockets, expecting to find a shiv or a broken glass bottle with which for him to use in his normal barfights. To my shock, all I found was a comb, so evidently he is turning even that into a weapon with which to gash my furniture and nice things. With his hair condition, he really only would need a wet towel for grooming and danderfiling, thus causing me more suspicion directed at his person. I did not question him on the comb as I did not want to stir the pot of frogs.

But the second bad thing began when I heard my godson place a phone call to a canoe rental company. It began innocently enough. He had invited me to a reunion of his family which I agreed to join, only for the purpose of protecting my name against embarrassments of mine that he may have chosen to mention. Here is the call he placed to the canoe boat rental dock place.



Now, I respect and was impressed with his thriftiness, however, mere minutes after placing this phone call, I heard him chatting with the postman and laughing about tossing me in the water. I imagine that he would like to see what my hair looks like when it is wet, and I was determined for him not to see me like that, so I called back the canoe place to ensure my protection. You can hear the call below.

EPILOGUE

I averted certain drenching by screaming and smoking constantly throughout the entire boat trip. I had alerted the people in the canoe office that if they no longer heard screams or saw my smoke signals, they should call the police. My scheme with the canoe house ended up being for naught because Paul’s family cancelled the trip after declaring that the day was “too loud and musty” to be with on the canoe. I personally thought it was a beautiful temperature, and every time I stopped screaming I could hear the lovely babblings of the brook in which we were astreamed. Their inability to detect ideal outdoor conditions furthers my suspicions that Paul’s family is nothing but drunkards.

Lie Detecting

Pardon the intrusion in my posts of late, but I have been occuppied with an unexpected houseguest. My godson Andrew is in town as his Houston job has dried up and he is looking for funding. He stops in every 3 years and 2 months to see how I'm doing and whether there is a space on the futon for him. Of course there always is, but I am a smidgeon worried this time as I do not have a duvet this time around, since he ruined the last one with his drunkeries.

His name Andrew and he has always never been up to no good. I love him dearly, but he has a mischievous streak of which I am none too pleased. He is not a bad son (I call him my son), although he was never very good at origami or any of the folding arts I taught him. It's just that he is often angered, sometimes on my behalf.

He is not a responsive gift recipient and when I presented him with a sausage cheese egg pickle and sausage basket, he snorted at it, not like a pig, but like a non-plussed burro. He is the only one who has not appreciated the baskets that I give, and this was of course offensive to me.

I have argued with him to stay off the booze train, and he says he is cooperative, but last night I was not sure. I wanted to be sure, so I attempted to enlist the help of a lie detector test. I was thinking that perhaps being hooked up to one and the subsequent flashings of colorful bulbs might make him nervous enough to not get on the wagon again. The rental of such a device necessitated a phone call, of which I recorded, and of which you can listen to on the player below.