A Very Merry KringleMash Gift?

My Dearest of Dear Merry Diaries,

The Great and Ferocious Santathulu MUST have been watching what a good Young Prince I've been through his Magical Snowball Shaped Like a Sausage Pinwheel because I've gotten the most incredible package through the Pretty Pink Pony Express this morning!

Well, not really the Pretty Pink Pony...if only.

Anyhoodles!

I was just waking up from yet another delicious dream that ended in me and a scantily clad KringleMash Elf (who may or may not have looked JUST a little like Lady McYouKnowWho) face licking underneath the feeler flower....when there was a loud pounding on my chamber door.

A knock, knock, knocking on my chamber door!

"What's this kerfuffle [implied interrobang]", I shouted, quickly sliding my feet into mother's old feather slippers.

I flung open the door (or rather pushed it open with great triumph over my weak arms) and much to my surprise, there was no one there!

BUT!

There was a package festively wrapped in the skin of a yak, as is the Louisiana Scots way at KringleMash time, with a tag that appeared very hastily written.

It said,

To: Malcolm
From: DonalBORING
Re: The fact he is a virginal toolface with an unnatural amount of hair on his hands.

DonalBORING....had sent me a KringleMash present. Diary, I was so moved (and slightly wracked with guilt seeing as how I had so recently bargained his soul away) that I even ignored the fact that he called me "virginal". The holidays DO make me so very sappy and emotional.

I've cried at least 3 times in last 47 seconds.

Anyway, I tore open that yak skin as ferociously as any...any...well anything that eats yaks, and found, much to my chagrin...a book.

Everyone KNOWS Young Bonny Princes HATE getting books for KringleMash. Well, I read the note that DonalBORING had included, and I shall transcribe it here.

Toolface,

I've been held up for a bit on some business. Things are a little hairy (not as hairy as your wolverine hands though) here and I fear this book will fall into the wrong chappy fingers, if you know what I mean. Unca Banquo passed it to me for safe keeping, and since I can no longer guarantee that safety, I'm passing it to you. Though, the more I think about it the more I'm convinced you'll do something stupid like bind it, cover it in glitter and mail it to that Lady McWhatsHerFace you're always going on about.

Anyway, don't lose it. You may find some of the things in here useful, seeing as how I can't imagine ANY woman...

It was at this point in the note that the writing became obscured by something that didn't look entirely unlike baboon's blood.

Well, DIARY! This book wasn't just ANY book! It was Unca Banquo's Book of Non-Consensual Holiday Cooking Fun! Diary, it's a veritable well-spring of recipes for romance. All from Unca Banquo's secret arsenal of womanizing techniques.

Oh, how I admire that man.

I'll share a few of my favorites with you here, just in case the worst should happen to Unca Banquo's book.

I'd naturally start off my Super Duper Dream Date of Love and Awesome with Lady McFluffyRuffles with a cocktail or two...

Roofie Colada

• 2 Parts Malibu Rum
• 1 Part Coconut Cream
• 2 Parts Pineapple Juice

Combine with ice in a blender and blend until smooth. Garnish with sliced pineapple and Rohypnol.

Vodka Gimme-It

• 4 Parts Vodka
• 1 Part Sweet Lime Juice
• 3 Ketamine Hydrochlorides

Serve in a glass over ice with a twist of lemon and a drool napkin.

After we've had a few of these elegant mixed drinks, I thought I could do a dessert or two. Ladies LOVE sweet things do they not? I know nothing can be as much of an aphrodisiac as Cook's Scrumptious GoodTimes Snickerdoodles, especially when coupled with the wafting odor of Eau de Young Siward, but I think the last recipe in Unca Banquo's book may just do the trick.

Hot Candied Nuts

• Hot
• Candied
• Nuts

Preparation Instructions: Look in your pants.

KRINGLEMASH Par-tay!

Oh Diary,
Kringlemash is in crusty, drippy swing! I have been tirelessly decorating; wherever I step, I leave festive prints! How I do love the additional adhesive traction (it makes the fits a little easier to control), plus it gives the help something to do (we must all do our part to make sure the help doesn't skip out on the Kringlemash festivities).

Diary, I have been so busy preparing for the arrival of Santathulu! I have been looking over and over for the ingredients needed to make the customary "milk and corrupted gingerbread of greatest contempt." I may need to make a visit to the chappy sister, the Gilmer? and the manwich. Perhaps they have some more "Salamanderision" or "Batrocity" they were sold out of both last time I went...they did have a lot of "Felicentiousness." Anyways, I will take care of the nefarious baking after I finish preparing for tonight's "Kringlemash Bash!"

Yes Diary, I shall be attending this years first annual "K-B!" We threw it together once Unca Macbeth's singing cat choir unexpectedly came up short. Apparently, Sargeant Catnip, Admiral Ackbar, Colonel Curtezy, Staff Sergeant Macgillicutty, and Percy all went missing.

His loss shall be my gain; this Kringlemash Bash will be an unequivocal success! We shall have all the Kringle one could wish for, lots of help to threaten (with the customary broken bottles, broom handles, and freshly lit Kringarettes), traditional Santathulu mouth pieces, and games of "pin the rudimentary wings on Santathulu."

There will be stories of the first Kringlemash (Some burly Celt was table dancing when he inadvertently planted his offending foot right into the king's kringle, which resulted in a terribly awkward blood-bath. Thus Kringlemash was born! the stomping on the Kringle represents the "biting of our thumbs" at "the man;" the cherry filling is for the blood those first accidental patriots shed for the cause. The jujubes are for taste.). There will be carousing and making of merry for hours upon end. How did I procure an invitation you might ask? Well...I worked a deal with the chappy ones in that I shall pledge them the dearest thing to me (" a soul, preferably" they hinted) and in return they shall cast a spell that lowers my voice two whole octaves! Surely a man with such a burly voice will be let into the K-B without question!

*I had to use my acting abilities to convince them that DonalBORING is the dearest thing to me in the world. I pledged my poor brother's soul in exchange for the voice, which should last at LEAST 15 hours, so I think it's a fair trade.*

Diary, I am most excited for the "feeler-flowers" hung over the doorpost. The flowers are slightly scaly and slimy, but when under one you must "awaken the dead" with whoever happens to wander under its limp tendrils. I KNOW for a fact that Lady MacD shall be there tonight...Perhaps tonight I shall get my kiss? We shall see. It would be a Kringlmash miracle after all, and if a miracle won't happen on Kringlemash-when will it happen!?

Making A List, Checking It Thrice

Oh, Diary! I wish you so many returns of the day!

Though really, I've never understood the point of such a greeting. "Many returns of the day." That seems incredibly counter-productive. Imagine, Diary, that I said such a thing to Unca Banquo! Would I be wishing him into some kind of repetitive loop? Why would I be so rude? What if he'd just completed an important task down at the whore mill? He'd have to do all that exhausting work all over again. Again and again and again. The poor man would be spent like a tarnished nickel. Admittedly, he does dabble in more than a little recreational time travel, but that's his own doing and I will not stand in his way. As a free and proud Scot, he has a right to indulge in the occasional irregularity.

(Unless, of course, he starts involving the clergy. That can get a bit sticky.)

But enough of my prabbling on. We've better things to do, dear Diary. We have to make ... a LIST! But not just any list. This is a Wish List for the most stupendous and wonderfulest day of the year! That's right, dear Diary. I can only be talking about ...

KRINGLEMASH! The day when all Scots children hop out of their beds and find their slippers filled with the sugary sweet goodness known as Kringle! How fun it is to shove one's wee toes into freshly baked pastry! All the while, their parents or legal guardians are standing there in the doorway, shouting in faux fury with a frosting-coated spatula in each hand. "MASH THAT KRINGLE! MASH THAT KRINGLE! MASH-MASH-MASH THAT KRINGLE"

Oh, you've never known such joy and terror in equal measure, dear Diary. Primarily, you are ignorant of this because you are an inanimate object possessing no soul or consciousness. But moreover, you do not have legs or feet!

And while I've outgrown most of the Kringlemash traditions -- including the subsequent "Hot Mead Sling-n-Dodge" where the children must make their way downstairs through a gauntlet of elders and older brothers and sisters, diving left and right to avoid incoming missiles of expectorated liquid -- I can still participate in the yearly "Threatening of the Help." What fun for all! Seeing as the Slavs and other assorted helplings are all fitted with merry bells year-'round (so as to know they're coming, says Lady Lennox), the official Threatening of the Help Carol goes like this:

Oh, me shoes is full o' Kringle,
And me clothes is soak'd wi' Mead!
Gimme a gif' wi' a grin n' jingle,
Afore I makes ya bleed!

Isn't that just joyous? It is. And so, you go from servant to servant, collecting presents and gifts all the while.

And so ... I've to start my Wish List -- which will then be taken to the Slavs, who will naturally impart my deepest material desires to their Great and Ferocious Thing-God, SANTATHULHU.

Or so I've heard. I really don't care about the cosmic bits, just so long as I get my prezzies. And I think I will start my list with a simple wish for a chapeau. Which do you think will suit me better, Diary? The Antilles is quite fetching, but I'm leaning positively side-saddle toward the Big Buck!



Oh, almost forgot. I've an appointment with my alienist this afternoon, so I'll leave off here. I do so love talking to the alienist. I yammer on and on, he writes things down and if I stop, he says "Please go on." And then, just before he gives me a handful of peppermint pills, he checks my head for fresh knots. It tickles!

Yours in mental health, Diary! Ta!

Y.B.P.M.

A Very Special Dear Malcolm's Diary Thanksgiving Special (subtitle: GRAVY!)

Oh DIARY!

Today, more than ever, how I miss dear Cook.

Shim and me would always spend the day before Thanksgiving preparing the traditional Slavic Scottish Southern cuisine of our people for all the household to enjoy. Oh, how I used to love helping Shim roll the burek and slice the apples for Shim's specialty...Deep Fried Apple Haggis.

MMMM, my tum-tum just rumbles to think of it. It seems however we will not be celebrating tomorrow, since we've yet to replace Cook. In fact, I can't remember the last time I ate something OTHER than noodles. As it is, I've been SO busy re-decorating my room to serve as the "Front Office" of The GoodShip Bros. High Adventure Ballooning Initiative Company Corporation Cooperative LLC that I nearly forgot about it all together. Though, now my mind begins to wander back to Thanksgivings past....

The celebration of the peaceful treaty between the visiting Slavs and our people is certainly timeless. Oh, how DonalBORING and I used to love playing games with our traditional Slavic handmade marbles. And Mother, dear Mother, never looked so lovely as when she donned her costume from the old country.

Nothing said Thanksgiving like Mother in a tartan, a Celtic sword round her waist (still covered in sow's blood) sipping on a mint julep at sunset in the back garden.

:::sigh:::

Alas. It seems I shall have to sing the Slavs and Scots of Ye Olde Louisiana Battle Hymn to you and you alone, my dear diary.

In other news, I have successfully applied for a "Business License" under the name of Young Siward. I'm just assuming his first name is "Young" as I've yet to hear otherwise. Although, now that I think about it that is rather odd.

Thinking of Collard Kotlety Pozharskie Smokies,

Y.B.P.M

The Good Ship Bros. High Adventure Ballooning Initiative Company Corporation Cooperative LLC

Well, here I sit dearest of all my worldly possessions (outside of possibly Clyde, my trusty Radio Fl yer), deprived of all things adventurous and inquisitive. I was placed under house arrest, but after I asked father if he had any whore's lying around that I could schuff, he was mortified (though slightly proud judging by the twinkle in his eye and the slight ease he took in paddling me) I am now confined to my man cave. No, that's no good, man cave sounds as if I were a swarthy brigant with no class or distinction...or had a penchant for cupcakes! ZING! Oh, Malcolm, you are so wicked.

I do need a name for my inner sanctum. Hmmm. If it is to be a true base of operations, it needs a front. Before I got hungry and asked to prepare the meal that made father so upset, I was rummaging through Father's papers (as I am wont to do, I don't understand them but it makes me feel so deliciously high-brow that I just get all tingly in the middlins) when I came across a pamphlet called "Front Doors for Back Deals."

I need a business to confound that Y.S.G. so that he will never again stumble upon my plans and thwart them. I had several good ideas, one was a cat laundering service called "Pressed Puss" in adorable little "kid-print" lettering, but decided against that as Unca Macbeth would keep me so busy it would defeat the whole purpose of having a front. I also thought about a bakery called "Lil' Malcolm's Sugar n' Stuff" but surely Macduff would darken my door from open to close eating my wares until he ran out of money, which he would then undoubtedly leer at the remaining confections all afternoon...slobbering all over himself. :::horf::: No. Thank. You.


I finally decided on a piloting company. It shall be called "The GoodShip Bros. High Adventure Ballooning Initiative Company Corporation Cooperative LLC." I will include DonalBORING on the officious papers so that he will be responsible for all the "legal stuff" that goes along with a small business. When we hit chapter 11, or when "The Man" father keeps talking about figures out what kind of organization we are, DonalBORING will be chased by the Feds and I shall have undoubtedly accomplished my purposes by then.

:::WAIT:::

Hold the proverbial phone, what if I include YOUNG SIWARD on the legal papers? He could use a stay in jail...but with all those dashing good looks he wouldn't last very long, if you know what I mean...because...I really don't. Unca Banquo says that a lot, about everything. I never know what he means. I tried to get Lady Lennox to explain it to me once (after I offered to pick up some more Love Buttah for Angus at the store, as Unca Banquo insinuated that he was out) but she simply laughed at my expense, as is her way, patted me on the head, and jauntily sauntered back to her dutiful occupation of "protective observation" of Unca Macbeth's private quarters. Sorry, Diary, that is neither here nor there.

I am off to fill the rest of my unoccupied hours drawing balloons of friendship and clandestine proceedings.

Fiendishly Yours

Y.B.P.M.

I am Returned!

Oh Diary!

I have such tales, SUCH TALES to tell! I know not how I can possibly make my pen move swiftly enough to keep up with words that long to spill themselves all over your pages.

Diary? I was PRINCE-NAPPED! Yes! I know you must have been worrying so very, very much as to where I was!

Well, I suppose you weren't seeing as how you are simply a book and not my most bestest and importantest friend, as I wish you were.

ANYWAY.

Not long after I had finished illustrating the frustrations associated with not being permitted to sow one's oats, I strengthened my resolve enough to follow Uncle Banquo and company on their nightly excursion.

As such, I needed an impenetrable disguise. Luckily for me, Father keeps mother's closet unlocked and after I finished weeping uncontrollably into a rack of her favorite dresses, I borrowed a smart little purple paisley number, a pair of sensible yet stylish pumps and a lovely pill box hat.

I was the very picture of elegance! But before I left, I had to test my disguise. For while my delicate, skin is silken enough to belong to a lady, I feared my budding manly physique would give me away.

I made my way down to the back garden where our new landscaper was working well into the evening hours on a special Clematis Bush Restoration project. Whatever THAT means. Anyway, I approached him warily...I will transcribe our conversation here:

LadyMe: Why, good evening!

Clem: Evening, ma'am. (SUCCESS DIARY!)

LadyMe: What kind of plant are you working with there?

Clem: Sorry ma'am, but that's classified information. It's historic, you see. Only a few very gifted gardeners know of its secrets.

LadyMe: Oh, good gracious sir! Why, I never heard of such nonsense. Historic plants. Whatever do you mean? Tell me at once!

Clem: Are you twisting my arm? I'd like for some pretty little thing to come on over here and twist my arm. (UNSETTLING WINK! Why do people wink at me so creepily with increasing frequency?)

At this point diary, I became a little nervous. I did not want to arm wrestle, at all. For I was sure I would have to let him win in order to preserve my ruse, and what would that do to my fragile ManEgo? So, I hurriedly excused myself, satisfied that if Clematis the Historic Bushwacker , or whatever he's called, was fooled, so should all be fooled.

Happily, I found Uncle Banquo, McDuff, Ross and Angus on the back path, already on the south path, already on their way to make their Whore Meal. I silently fell in step a small distance behind them.

Imagine my dismay when they began to head toward that SAME WOOD where I spied the Three Weird Kind-of-But-Not-Really Sisters! I would not let my courage fail me now however, so I continued to follow, keeping up with them in the darkness by the trail of Uncle Banquo's cigar smoke, the scent of Angus' unbelievably amazing hair glue, and the slightly unsettling sound of McDuff's cupcake licking. Where does he even KEEP all of those cupcakes? His pockets? A man purse? I haven't the slightest idea.

We did not make it quite to the Witchy Clearing before Uncle Banquo veered sharply left, and we very shortly found ourselves in front of a quaint old two story house. This was not what I was expecting, as I saw no agricultural tools for oat sowing, nor any giant vats of Whore Meal. I watched Uncle Banquo, McDuffCakes, Ross and Angus enter the house. I could hear them greeted by the sounds of warm cheers, clanking glasses and the light tinkling of....well...the laughter of women.

WOMEN.

I thought perhaps the slew of ladies undoubtedly inside were part of the oat grinding operation.

Oh diary. They were....but not at ALL in the way I had supposed.

But I get ahead of myself! I waited a few moments and then approached the house. I couldn't quite bring myself to knock on the door, so I peeked in the front window.

Oh DIARY! What I saw was almost straight out of one of Father's NASCAR novels! For a few brief moments it was as if I stood staring at a living dream! Then I felt a blow to the back of my head and I blacked out.

Yes, Diary.

Someone.Hit.Me. (re: YOUNG SIWARD)

I came to sometime later on a patch of cold hard ground. I had no idea how long I'd been out, but the charming House of Whore Meal was nowhere to be seen. A fire crackled nearby, and there was a bowl of what appeared to be opossum parts next to me. I think I was meant to eat them. It didn't take me long to realize that I must be in the clutches of the WITCHES. I jumped up, hiked up my dress, and ran as fast as my pumps would carry me.

Diary, you must know that I had absolutely no clue in which direction I ran! I was all turned around! Luckily, it was not too long before I heard the unmistakable sounds of Unca Macbeth's Midnight Choir Practice and Sing Along, and in no time I was surrounded by the familiar sounds of a comforting cat chorus.

I was, however, still in a dress.

Now that I'm home, Father has cruelly put me under house arrest. Not, dear Diary, because I was missing for 4 days. Rather because the landscaper apparently asked for my hand in marriage and was rather distressed to find I was not, in fact, a lady...and quit.

I imagine Clem will be only the first in a string of broken hearts I'll leave behind on my path to manhood.

Regardless, Mother's closet is now locked, and I must be on guard for those three wiley witches and their servant Young Siward. I have no idea what they intended to do with me, I only know that I intend to make it back to that House of Whore Meal as soon as I can!

Yours in Scandalous Adventure,

Y.B.P.M.

We Need To Talk About Banquo

Diary, it's time.

It is time we had a serious talk about ... well, about Uncle Banquo's weekly whoring.

Don't take this as an aspersion. My beloved Uncle Banquo is a veritable Dionysus in a three-piece suit and someday I hope to be just as much of a dandy as he -- provided I can make some earnest progress in any or all of the areas I've aforementioned.

But I am troubled by Uncle Banquo's strict adherence to form and protocol as regards my accompanying he and his band of merry roustabouts when they sally forth on their Friday Night outings.

Angus can go, of course. Nobody gives him the shoulder of coldcuts. A welcome fellow at any brawl, I'd bet. I doubt he even had a mother, so strapping of a dash-hound is he. The man was born with those Devil-may-care locks, that wry looks, surely he's been whoring since he was in short-pants!

And Ross, that self-appointed occasional guardian of my Lady de Leche, he tags along to document every ribald occasion with his flashy-bulb camera. From that contraption he makes stacks and stacks of foty-graffs. I look at them and I think "A bawd, a bawd!" -- then he catches me, shoves them back under his mattress and shoos me away like I had no business sneaking in his bedroom late at night. He was sleeping, after all, so why should he care if I peruse his picture pages lit only by the lights of a few hundred fireflies in a jar?

And speaking of Lady MacD, even her man-accessory has permission to march in the weekly parade of mashers! Mr MacDuff himself! Why I've seen him in their company on many such an outing. Though I may not go, I do keep a trusty telescope on my window sill, right next to a steno-pad I use to document his every move. "He's drinking the brandy." "He's puffing on a cigar." "He's pulling a cupcake out of his jacket pocket and biting it lasciviously." "He's asking Banquo if they can stop at the corner shop for more cupcakes." "He's recoiling in pain as Banquo slaps him across the pate and calls him an addict."

So why, Diary? Why won't Uncle Banquo let me join in the festivities?! I've asked the Lady Lennox what it is they do when they're out and about. She turned, winked at me in a way that made me feel strangely moved, and said simply, "Oh, dear Malcolm, you know they're out whorin' again." When I asked her to expound on her answer, she bit her lower lip, then said, "Oh, you know ... hootin' and hollerin' ... makin' time and sowin' oats." As is my practice when I'm not entirely certain at all, I continued to stare at Lady Lennox, eyebrows raised like highwires. But she must've had somewhere to be, as she sighed, said "Oh, Malcolm, bless your precious, precious heart," and walked out the door.

As such, I was left to deduce. And deduce I have. It is obvious to me now that Uncle Banquo is leading Angus, Ross and MacDuffcakes to his secret farming lair, where they all are engaged in the production of temporally-displaced oats from which to make time-traveling oatmeal. The breed of oats must be called Whore, of course. And one of them must always be on guard duty to scream at passing owls that threaten their work, lest those owls hoot the secrets of their magic future breakfasts to The Competition. Et voila, as the Italians say: Whoring!

So that's it, Diary. When next I see Uncle Banquo, I'll let him teach me once again how to blow smoke rings and how to hold my brandy, but then I'll lean over and whisper, "I know about the oatmeal, Uncle. The time-traveling whore oatmeal." Then, seeing what a brilliant nephew I am, he'll be all too happy to bring me along for next week's whoring!

Watch out, Whores!
Y.B.P.M. shall know you at last!