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!

Fancy Bulleted Lists

Dearest of Dear Diaries,

Since I went ahead and got organized, I thought I might as well get started on tying up all these threads loosely dangling in the cavernous hollow of my brain.

The first of which, is to figure out the cause and nature of my 2pm fits.

Lucky for me, Unca Macbeth had a small dinner party last evening at which a lovely Caribbean lady and/or Bride of Satan was a guest. Her name was Hellcat or Hellkite, or Heh-cah-tay, or something sinister and exotic like that. Well, it turned out she had an amazing gift for hypnosis. Also possession, but we didn't have time for that seeing as how it was Banquo's Tuesday Night Streaking. I begged her to put me under, as they say, and endeavor to discover through discussion with my subconscious why I am victimized by these fits everyday at 2pm.

Oh DIARY! Discover she did!

She unearthed such a memory that it is a wonder I am able to be a marginally functional Little Prince at all.

When I was just a wee tyke, skipping fencing lessons in favor of snuggling the bunnies in mother's garden...a catastrophic event occurred.

It was a Saturday.

It was precisely 2pm.

I was enjoying my first ever batch of Scrumptious GoodTimes Snickerdoodles with Cook in the kitchen, when DonalBORING burst in, bloody dagger in hand, cackling madly and holding up the decapitated head of none other than my most favorite pet chicken, Edward. It was then that cook gleefully shouted "Well done, good master! We'll be having wings and special sauce tonight!"

Commence First Fit Having.

Oh, EDWARD. I had forgotten our adventures together. Preferring to purge you completely from my memory than deal with the pain of your brutal loss. Your noble bearing, your regal beak, your slightly hideous but still completely lovable feet...

I realize now why becoming ENRAGED prevents them. If I had simply thrown my steaming hot mug of spiced cider in DonalBORING's EVIL EYES and defended the honor of the savagely murdered Edward, surely I wouldn't have been crippled by a fainting spell.

Oh, curse my sensitive and delicate nature! I should have never allowed the soft translucence of my skin and penchant for wistful eyes dictate my behaviour!

No more! Now is the time...the fates conspire against me in all things...dare I mention the Keg-O-Blood. However, I know I must take control of my own destiny.

So I shall!

On to bullet point number TWO. What exactly is it that Father does? What sort of kingdom am I Not Quite Prince of?

Terribly Impassioned,

Y.B.P.M.

"I Just Don't Know What to Do With Myself"

Dear Diary,
I am listening to the stylings of Burt Bacharach on father's gramophone. Current mood: incredulous. Oh this song gets right to the heart of the matter! Dearest keeper of my musings and mutterings, I don't know what to do with myself...do doo do do. It seems the fates are more than contented to give me vague prophecies and hopes only to dash them against the boulder of ironic hilarity! Last week's festival fiasco was bloody mess; my vest is ruined. I DID lick lady MacD's earlobe, which was some small consolation, but not much.
Diary, I am at a crossroads. I have so many diverging paths of inquiry that I feel overwhelmed by the mere possibility of choosing one over the other! I must approach this in a systematic fashion.

• Figure out the nature/cause of my fits
• Just what does father do for a living?
• Is Young Siward-Gainsville's hand really possessed?
• *side point* does Y.S.G. try to foil my efforts because he is (gag) jealous of my attentions?
• Why does Unca Macbeth love cats so much?
• Does Gilmer really love me, or was she merely seeking more of the "Ambrosia de Malcolm" that was covering my face?
• Would marketing "Ambrosia de Malcolm" be a lucrative business venture?
• Is there a second Gilmer, or was it merely a chappy witch lady?
• Why is there a talking manwich?
• Do I go after my Dulcet darling, Gilmer 1, Gilmer 2, or simply move to Utah and become a Mormon like that creepy chick-lit writer? *Note to self* "Spidermonkey" does not a good pet-name make.
• Why do I feel the compulsion to free myself from my cottony confines everytime I start to think about freeing Tibet?
• Would leaving a plate of poisonous cupcakes around...perhaps in nose-shot of the MacDuff household...be murder in the strictest sense?
• Would that qualify to be put on father's "enemies no more" chart? you know the one that looks like a fundraiser thermometer? Mine is embarrassingly low (actually, I am in the negatives...after I accidentally told Lady Lennox that father was planning to "Off Angus." In my defense I thought that meant he was going to let him go on vacation). Father might be pleased.
• Is Wu-Tang really forever?
• Does the invention of compact discs negate the mystique of the "secret song?"

Oh, Diary, my lines of inquiry are so many...but I believe I can knock at least one off the list. The answer is "Yes, Wu-Tang is forever."

Illily yours,

Y.B.P.M. (a.k.a. Jimmy Analog)

All's "Fair" In Love and War!

See what I did there Diary?

Do you KNOW what today is? It's finally here! The Annual Gainesville Homecoming/Paternity-Fest!

I am already at my station in THE KISSING BOOTH (squeee!!!) but business has been a bit...well...slow.

I've worn my best vest, new button and all, PLUS a spritz (or seven) of Father's cologne. Until I can find a way to harvest the mannish scent of Young Siward, that's the best I can do. Luckily, I have brought you for company dearest diary.

I fear it is in fact Young Siward that is stealing my business. He's across the path from me at the Strong Man booth. Diary, you must imagine my exaggerated eye-roll. I just have to keep watching over, and over, and OVER again as the plebeians test their strength against his. And that BRUTE just keeps on dropping the hammer ringing that god awful bell, much to the unadulterated JOY of the local ladies.

OMG.

Methinks? He just WINKED at me.

:::shudder::::

No doubt his arms have been UNNATURALLY strengthened by the powers contained in his demonic hand. I know that he spends his evenings cavorting with THE THREE.

As afraid as I am to see their like again, I do hope they attend, even if it is to wreak satanic havoc on what appears to be a delightful day of deep fried Love Buttah Balls and high-flying kitten trapeze artists. For I MUST know, once and for all, which TTND it was that brought me heretofore unknown levels of bliss.

Oh! OH! Diary!! Diary, I must part with you for just a moment! I can see none other than my Sensual Swan, my Delectable Dish, my Lady McD approaching! Of course, she is arm in arm with her....husband....but it appears that he is distracted by the Cupcake Dispensing Machine next door! Look! There he goes!

Oh my.

I've never seen a man eat a cupcake like that before. I feel sullied an unusual by what I have just witnessed.

But soft! She comes!

BRB Diary!

.....

Oh Diary. I almost lost you! As it is, your cover is a might bit singed. Also, I can see so many droplets of blood scattered among your pages, I could just weep for looking at you. Although, Father will no doubt be pleased since you finally do look as though you've been to battle.

Oh, but a war it seemed today my dearest diary! A war on my poor, poor, heart!

When Lady McD approached my Kissing Booth, her bear of a husband taken off by cupcakes, I was just covered in little goose pimples with anticipation.

She sat across from me, her soft, silken arm resting gently on the ledge between us.

"Oh, Mal!" she said, her voice like a melodious bird song "You've got a little kissing booth! Oh, how charming!"

She then made some offhanded comments about Unca Macbeth's "unsettling regime of discipline" for his cats, whilst I simply gazed adoringly at her. Wondering when and if I should ask her for admission...and then commence with...well...with the kissing.

It wasn't long before I knew I was going to lick her face for FREE Diary!

Let me transpose our conversation VERBATIM for you here!

Lady McD: So, you know how I just adore hosting my weekly themed Cotillions don't you? Well, we've been shopping for the Wren Cotillion, right? I know that Mr. MacDuff just hates it when I go off on a tither with such things, but I can't help it, can I? I mean, these are Wrens, not Ravens. Must keep things classy, you know? Of course you do, dear boy.

Me: Yes, by the fire-like tresses that fall from your sainted head, I do sway and dip with your every move. Just say the word, my lovely Leche.

(Well. I didn't QUITE say that. I thought it though! What I actually wound up saying was something akin to "Lurr...lurrr...yes, yes...heeeee....LECHE.")

Regardless, I took her indulgent smile for what it was, an invitation to 7 minutes of Heaven in MY KISSING BOOTH and leaned just out of the booth where her soft, supple lips awaited me...tongue fully extended as Gilmer/NotGilmer had shown me....when her OAF of a husband came bounding over babbling about those ridiculous CUPCAKES.

ANYWAY, she turned to see him, covered in icing, and instead of caressing her ambrosial cheeks, chin, lips, nostrils, eyelids with my hungry tongue....I salivated all over her inner ear.

Luckily, and I use this term loosely, my humiliation was short lived as it was just at that moment that The Three Weird Kind-of-but-Not-Really-Sisters blew up Old Sow's Keg-o-Blood!

YES! Those Vile Vixens and their Talking ManWitch used their pernicious powers to make that Keg shoot sky high and shower all the Fair-goers with blood.

It was just like when Mother was alive.

:::sigh:::

Chaos reigned, and Lady McD and her dripping ear were scattered to the wind, along with my dreams of kisses.

On top of all of that, my best vest is stained past all hope.

I can hardly even sign off.

Y.B.P.M.

Dearest Diary,
Your ruffles do always comfort me so, as do your firm -yet supple- pages. After last weeks bout of possible skullduggery, I have been flying "incognito" as they say. TTND 1 and 2 have been giving me such trouble. I am wracking my nubile little brain trying to arrive at some definitive answer, but to no avail. But, fear not! I have a plan...
I have heard tales of these magical pleasure machines called "kissing booths" set up for a non-committal exchange of the smoochies. The Annual Gainesville Homecoming/Paternity-Fest is fast approaching, and guess who has registered to man the aforementioned booth? Hmmm?! MEE!
I shall determine, by way of my impeccable recall of sensual memory, which of the two redheaded rapscallions gave me my first chocofly kiss. I have been going through chapstick like Unca Macbeth goes through Meow mix in an effort to give the two old boys a head start and keep the ladies happy.
I must now go about making sure all parties will be in attendance, I wonder if father would follow through with his threat of live burial if I use his printing press again? For love...I'll risk it; who knows? Maybe my matronly morsel might stop by and solve my dilemma once and for all :)

In anticipation of snogging,
Y.B.P.M.

Toil, Trouble, and FunNubbles

Ooooooooh.....Diary.

You must imagine my pen as a secretive, terrified whisper along your page. For the tale I am about to relate surely demands it.

Diary, my curiosity outweighed my sheer, unadulterated terror, and I ended up following NotGilmer on her accursed path. I stayed a good distance behind, afraid my heavy breathing may awaken her...or...IT rather, to my presence. Often, in the night Father (4 doors down) complains of it disturbing his slumber, so surely it would alert this unworldly thing that no doubt had the heightened senses of Unca Macbeth's prize genetically altered feline, The Professor.

Of course, I was still without a shoe and my SpongeBob sock did make an awful crunching noise on the forest floor (yes...THE FOREST). AND I stepped on THREE pebbles that hurt something awful. In order to stifle this unfortunate noise as well as shelter my little naked foot against the treacherous ground, I was forced to sacrifice my fashionable summer scarf. I tied it in a giant, cushion-y wad over my foot. Father would be so proud of my resourcefulness! Another plus, my subsequent uneven gait made me feel much like a fearsome pirate!

Even though I had a scarf leg, rather than a peg leg.

And no sword.

Or ship, as it were.

The illusion, however, did embolden me to some degree as the sun began it's descent, and the shadows crept in all around me. Luckily, my best vest is fitted enough that one button missing didn't disturb it's deliciously tailored appearance. Nothing makes one braver than a nicely tailored vest.

We reached a clearing deep in the wood, and NotGilmer finally slowed. I tucked myself behind a tree nearby, covering my face (still sticky from Gilmer/NotGilmer's chocolatey saliva) with leaves and grit to conceal my appearance. And then?

She began to sing.

Her siren call brought forth two more...beings...into the clearing. I recognized one as the Talking ManWitch! The other? Well I'm confident she was the dusky hued Lady Satan that took DonalBORING on his "Cruise to Nowhere".

It was not long before the three weird kind-of-but-not-really sisters began singing together over a steaming pot of what smelled not entirely unlike my favorite stew that Cook used to make.

Oh, Cook! Shim used to make me that warm delicious FunNubbles stew whenever I was feeling cold and lonely.

Which was almost all the month of January.

Once they threw a hard-used Squirtten into the pot, I was out of there like the fat kid in dodge ball.

Oh DIARY, you SEE how fear makes me crass?

I ran straight home, caring not for the briers and brambles slowly but surely shredding my scandalously scintillating summer scarf, and straight up here to record my observations in you, my dearest devourer of dark, dastardly....d....d....secrets.

DEEDS! Dark, dastardly DEEDS!

Anyway, it is clear to me, and I'm sure to you Diary, that these THINGS, and this NotGilmer are:

WITCHES.

Oh yes.

I said it.

And now, I still know not whether I am covered in the saliva of the Devil's Dam or that of my almost-goddess....my divine bit of "special"...

And if I HAVE been kissed by Lucifer's Mistress....does this mean it was the dirty kind? The kind of kiss reserved only for a late night NASCAR victory party?

And even MORE questions are raised! Has Gilmer gotten her Butterfly devouring knowledge of transformative powers from these three hellions? OR, is the reverse true? Are the three midnight hags (except that's it only 9!) haunting TTND because this is HER discovery?!

?!?!?!?!

Dammit. Now I KNOW I've used my interrobang quota for the day. Maybe even the WEEK.

Oh Diary, I'm not sure how to proceed! So many things happening at once. This morning I was an unkissed wisp of a boy, and this evening I'm a face-licked, witch-hunting piece of ManCandy!

How quickly bright things come to confusion!

To bed, to bed.

To bed.

Ever Yours,

Y.B.P.M.

When Two Is Too Much

Dear Diary ...

It is you, Diary, isn't it? Some sneaky varlet didn't steal into my lodgings and replace you with a paper doppelganger whilst I was taking third naps, did they? Did they?!!

Forgive me, Diary, my sweet. I know it is you and only you, for there on the back end paper is an identifying thumbprint I cast in pamcake syrup, just for this very security. But oh, how the rest of my day has been flipped, and perhaps even turned upside down. And I pray your fibrous patience as I take a minute or three to detangle myself from this icky, sticky cobweb of a day.

Seconds after The Touched One completed her departing scamper, I must confess that I was taken by an overpowering Swoon.

This hasn't happen'd often, mind you. The Swoon. Or as Chef called them, those times when I've DFO'd (Done-Fell-Out'd). Once was on the afternoon that I learned for certain that dear Mother had left us indeed. But another was when I "Lindy Hop'd" solo from dusk 'til dawn on an implied dare from Lady Lennox -- see if she ever slurs a challenge of "Oh, I doubt you'd last a minute, Bonnie" again. (Though she wasn't there to see my all-night recital, having been called back to Tijuana for another mission trip, I consider the argument won on grounds of principle.) So I have come to see these instances of consciousness lost as portents of great importance.

Minutes later, my Swoon of Destiny completed, I picked my still reeling self from the ground and considered my surroundings. Yes, I was still in the Royal Yard. Yes, my face was still a bit damp from an unexpected application of apparent desire. And yes, she had left behind a half-empty box of butterflied chockies! Opportunity came a-rushing up to my front portico door, Diary, and it made such a great knockina-noise! So I answered by picking up the half-empty ... no, half-full! With a half-full box of insectual confections under my sinewy arm, I strode around the side yard and made a bee-line for El Yardo del Gilmer!

But no sooner had I come 'round the corner, when what to my bleary eyes should appear not one Gilmer sitting cross-legged in the grass, flicking inchworms centimeters back in their progress ...

But two.

Not wishing to impose myself upon a possible twin -- mayhap she's been hidden in the attic all the while -- without being properly introduced, I hid in one of Father's prized fig copses and considered the sight before me.

There they were, side by side. I turned my head to the side as I've seen inquisitive hounds do, thinking that perhaps my noggin was jarred still from the fall that accompanied my Swoon. But even horizontally, there they were. Two Gilmers. Two of the one.

And they were moving in tandem, only without the assistance of a bicycle. One would flick and so would the other. One would giggle at a passing bit of tumble-fluff and so would the other. I was nigh mesmerized by this harmony of image when one said to the other, "Well, this'as been fun!" The other answered with a nod, "Well! This 'AS been fuuuuun!" Somewhere, a servant played a theremin. And with that, the Gilmer on the left leapt in place, landed on here-to-fore hidden roller skates and iced across the turf, disappearing into the house.

This left a single Gilmer. Almost imperceptively, the wind shifted from a gentle breeze to something more insistent.

And before I could reassign myself to the delivery at hand, this remaining Gilmer's visage of mind-blasted bliss shifted into one that knew far too much. The grin was replaced by a commanding smirk. And the next flick? Why it sent that poor inchworm some five meters through the empty air. That's like from here to Audi Arabia for such a widdle creature! I had to stifle an eeking of "Eep!" as this more-and-more Un-Gilmer Gilmer rose slowly and deliberately, dusted off her arms and stood much taller than her counterpart, as if filled from top to toe with a purpose I dare not consider. Shifting only her dark-cast eyes, the surveyed her surroundings. Did she see me? Did she? I thought for a moment she had, as the blood in my calves ran cold, though perhaps I had chosen poorly a stance for skulking.

Flaring a single nostril, her smirk became a very satisfied whiplash of a smile and she turned to walk away. Walk, I say, not roll. Her hands curling into and out of fists as she went, each step seemed to burn a print of pride and avarice to mark her path.

Once sure of her distance, I fled back to my room, to you, Dear Diary. The box of butterfly-chocs were lost in my panicked flail-run. As was a single shoe and a button from my best vest. But I had to find something of certainty.

Who was this Other-Gilmer? And if there are two Gilmers, which is which? If one can so resemble the other, which was the Gilmer who made me AWLL KWEEN?!? Darn me and my amorous desirings, as I didn't even take note of her footwear! Darn me all the way to Heck!

Was she rolling, Dear Diary?!

WAS SHE ROLLING OR WALKING?!!?

Yours tremulously,
Y.B.P.M the ... Other-Smooched?

The...kiss

Diary...

Slightly less S.U.t.W. As I write this, you might notice my youthful exuberance has diminished. I believe I have finally become a man. That's right diary, the deed was done. I collected enough specimens to make an acceptable present to the fair Gilmer. I gave her the box of chocolates, filled with a plethora of richly colored butterflies. She devoured them with a lusty glee, covering her face with bits of wing and nougat. Halfway through the thorax of a particularly succulent monarch she stopped and smiled. She stood up, wiped most of the remainder from her mouth...then and then...asdf980uhjirorgiok.grreh m,jkegjlkgsdljk;vcxkhdgzviogsd

OH! Diary, I should know better than try to write an entry right before 2:00. Where was I, let me read and...Oh, yes...Diary, um, so...I was about to divulge the juicy details of my newfound "experience" in the ways of love. I must confess to dipping into the exotic trail mix to ease my nervousness, but the churning of my stomach told me that butterflies and snickers do not make good stomach fodder. I gulped as she stared into my eyes with a look that I can only assume was desire. She blurted out "You Burfflyes and Chocate!?" before I could respond, she pressed her decidedly non-chappy lips against my own! Her sweet, soft, tender pillows of pleasure worked their way all across my face! She made these odd slurping sounds that, I must admit frightened me a bit, but I braved the terror and enjoyed the ride of my young, bonny life! Eventually, she stopped, pushed me to the ground, and proclaimed "AWLL KWEEN!" and scampered off, her red pigtails bouncing to the throbbing of my thrice beating heart!

Diary, her voracity was so thorough, all the butterfly and chocolate I had foolishly forgotten to clean off my face was gone! What a woman! Clearly she will remember me as she slimes her way into a cocoon (and my heart) and emerges as a mighty demigoddess! I shall be her man-queen (What would one call the male lover of a demigoddess?)! Maybe she'll share the secret and I shall become a god as well. I hope I get wings.

In post-make-out-glow,
Y.B.P.M the Smooched

Sunshine Dust

Diary,

S.U.t.W, but let's skip with the pleasentries, I think Gilmer might be a goddess; possibly a demigoddess. My delicious TTND has a healthy appetite for the luscious lepidoptera, so I took it upon myself to gather several specimens and daintily display them in a tin of chocolates. As grotesque a spectacle as it might seem, I did so only because the sight of her munching on the winged creatures in a chipmunkish fashion filled me with such feelings...lets just say that the catalytic converter was not catching all the pollutants, if you know what I mean! Teehee.

As I was collecting the specimens, I noticed that the poor delictables were losing a powdery substance on my fingers. I was shocked and let this antennaed aliment go free, but it was unable to flap its way to safety.

Diary, I believe my ginger princess might have method to her madness. These butterflies (which is a complete misnomer by the way...CrunchyDirtFlies would be much more applicable...I mean...I didn't...what? I didn't say anything.) seem to have the transformative powers of a god. Once those horrid grub-fingers slime and ooze their way into that rancid sack, they emerge weeks later as a magnificent, beautiful flower... I don't think my obligatory metaphor was required in this case...Anyway, I believe my carrot-top-carbuncle is trying to transcend to the next plane of existence by consuming the "sunshine dust" of these winged insects.

Surely she must be a goddess, how else could her strange behavior be explained!? As spunkily delicious as she is now, imagine the wonder that would be the post-cocoon Gilmer (assuming the transition from human to god requires a cocoon)! I have continued to collect many more glorious proboscised pabulum for my ravenous red-head. Oh, diary how she will thank me! She will swoon, or possibly totter and fall like a newborn babe, and glubber some generous thank you, followed by a...dare I hope...large, sloppy kiss!? oooh! GLEE!

Diary, I must go and continue the search for more of the magic bugs...bugs, so callous a word for such a magnificent ticket to sweet, sweet loving.

In breathless anticipation,
Y.B.P.M.

Peppermint Pillow

Diary.

Diary, Diary, Diary.

(Diary.)

I handed out my fliars to anyone who would accept them. This, unfortunately was about 4 people, one of which may or may not have been a lady. So, I took the rest of my fliars and wallpapered the town square with them! Oh, how lovely they looked! Alas, it draws near 2pm and I see no one approaching.

I will tell you what I DO see though Diary....I see Gilmer, my delightful "Touched by an Angel" neighbor.

She's out in mother's garden chasing butterflies like a playful little kitten. I think she just ate one.

SIGH. She is awfully charming. Well, at least I know that she will be here for the viewing of my fit. Perhaps it will illicit in her the profound need to hold me, and put her fingers in my nostrils like I saw her do to cousin Ross yesterday.

Wait a minute. What's this?!

DIARY.

I'll B.R.B!

......

I? AM ANGRY. So angry in fact that my blinding RAGE has actually PREVENTED my 2pm fit. I will note this new development. I am positively FUMING. I can FEEL my blood boiling. I am practically foaming at the mouth. Oh, wait. That's just saliva mixing with my tears.

Diary, I rushed down to the garden because I saw none other than Young Siward approaching my Ginger Gem as she gnawed off the wing of a monarch.

I wonder if there's a hidden metaphor to be discovered there.

ANYWAY.

Young Siward held out his DEMONIC HAND for her to hold and pulled her up off the ground, asked her if she'd care for a "sammich" and then stole my Special Needs Siren away.

Where could he and his Demon Digits be taking her?!

Oh WHY must he constantly thwart me!

The only good news of the day thus far is that tonight, I am told, Unca Macbeth comes with his Cat Circus, which is always a good show. My personal favorite is Doctor Whiskerkins who catches flaming bowling pins on his nose. Regardless, he is nearly always joined by MacDuff which means...thank the heavens...I may see my Lady Lemondrop this evening. Together, we will enjoy the many wonders of Viscount Reginold Litterpants, the tight-rope walking tabby and maybe a sip or two of Giggly Water under the table.

Maybe I can "accidentally" lick her earlobe when I lean in to ask her some benign question like "Did you see my fliars?" or "Have you seen any good talking pictures lately?" I hear earlobe licking is one of "the signs" in some cultures.

Farewell for now Diary. I must depart and wander the garden for any sign of Gilmer, or that dastardly villain, Young Siward.

Yours in Perpetual Rage and Yet Marginal Excitement,

Y.B.P.M.

Printing Fame and Fortune

Dearest Diary, how I wish I would simply dip you in the free-flowing river of concern that is my all too human heart (and its associated veins and capillaries.) But alas, I cannot, as it would hurt like the Hardy (worse than the Dickens) and might prove incredibly unsanitary.

I must tell you, Father borrowed my most favoritest pen yester-morning, saying he needed it for Check-Writing Time down at The Mill. I've not seen it since, but I pray its restorative righteousness served Poppa well and kept his hand from cramping too terribly. And so, I must commit my considerings to your ever-accepting pages with the ink of my 2nd favorite pen -- a greenish-gold Mont Blanc Meisterstück upon which I have impaled jauntily a flame-haired troll doll. Oh, how I delight in watching that blissfully happy little face bob and sway with every dotted I and crossed T.

But enough about my implement. Instead, I will tell you about my latest adventure. Or dare I say, business venture.

So you might recall -- might! nobody recalls better than you, my Bound Plains of Scribed Experience! -- how I bemoaned the lack of a suitable audience to my daily fit, yes? Well, I have solved that problem entirely, Diary. And in doing so, perhaps I will win a loving glance from Lady MacDulce ... or maybe a delighted blink-and-stare from the Touched One Nextdoor, eh? So here's what I've done ..

While Father was away at The Mill, I calculated just how long he would be engaged in the writing of Worker Money and determined that I had just enough time to "borrow" the printee-press he keeps hidden behind the third mahogany bookshelf -- it opens up when you give his copy of "Think And Grow Richerer" a little jiggle. I figured he wouldn't mind, since he is always saying I need to get out more. Well, the "more" is often silent, but I know it is there.

And so, knowing how popular Poppa is when he hands out the little slips of paper he prints, I took it upon myself to make a few creative changes to the messy little metal bricks that make the machine go. Using a letter opener, I turned the face of that silly bewigged little man into one more like my own. Then I drew a fine picture of Benson swimming across the lawn of some dumb old building. And printed in big capitals on each side:

"COME SEE MY FIT! FITSIES AT DUNCANTON!"

Proud of my witty design, I set the steam-powered machine into motion. In seconds, it was spewing forth these little paper items, sending them flying all over the room. "Come back here you!," I cried to them, 'cause maybe they can hear a lot like you do, Diary. Catching several, I stacked them and said to myself, "These little fliars are just stupendulous!"

What will I do with them, Diary? Just you wait. This evening, I'm going to actually go into town! That's right, I'm going to load up good ol' Clyde and we're going to roll into the municipal square, right as the town clock chimes a fourth time, for today is the day for "Taunt The Poor A Bit After Four!"

I'll hand my fliars to passing roustabouts, wastrels and gruntlings, inviting them all to come around tomorrow afternoon to witness the bestest fit they've ever seen. They'll talk to their neighbors (or to whatever you call the person that sleeps next to you in the alleyway) and the buzz will be so profound that surely one or both of my objets de affection will be among those who attend tomorrow's 2pm "performance!"

Yours anticipatorially,
Y.B.P.M.

P.S. -- Still unknown to woman, but soon known to all ... though perhaps not Biblically.

Unca Macbeth...cat person?

Dear Diary,
I went outside for my 2 p.m. fit yesterday. I must admit that it was for purely selfish reasons. True, it is an embarrassment to collapse into a puddle of my own tears and awkwardly try to catalogue them whilst my hands involuntarily spasm, BUT what could be more pitiful? If my sultry "Touched Tomboy Next Door" (TTND from here on out...you know...for secrets) were to come upon me in a tizzy, surely she would try to comfort me, right?
Anyway, as I was removing rocks, pointy sticks, and bits of broken bottles of the Slavic giggle water," I noticed Unca Macbeth out in the ol' sandlot. I didn't know Unca Macbeth was such an avid practitioner of athletics! He had set up the ol' sandlot for a game of t-ball. Surely, he wanted me to join the festivities! I was beginning to walk over when two p.m. hit and I began to have my fit. When I awoke, Unca Macbeth's game was already taking place. Feeling a little bruised that Gilmer was not around and also that my fit went unobserved (why have them then if no one is there to observe I ask!), I gathered myself and walked over to the field.
Before I turned the corner I heard Unca Macbeth shout "Gorammit Mittens! Stop playing with the ball! Mr. JuJu is gong to score! Oh, no! Leave the field, just leave. Where's your head!? Dr. Fluffy McPantaloons, fill in for Mittens!" I couldn't believe my eyes! Unca Macbeth had trained his many cats to play T-ball. I have heard of horse whisperers, but never have I heard of cat-whisperers.
I was going to ask Unca if I too might learn his most incredible gift (imagine what wooing wonders I could perform with a trained kitty!), but before I could, Mittens-who had had quite enough of Unca's smart talk-began to bite at his ankles. Well, needless to say that emptied both dugouts and an all out brawl began to ensue. My gentle stomach couldn't handle such violence, so I ran back to the house.
I must get unca Macbeth to teach me the secret to Cat-Whispering. With an army of adorable pussycats at my control, I can win the heart of...well, I probably better make up my mind first.

Yours,
Y.B.P.M.

Gilmer

Oh Diary,

I had just finished reading the last of the delightfully white-trash, car-themed novellas (Red means GO!) When I happened to look outside and I saw the most curious creature. It was a lady, diary, but not like Lady MacD. She had no elegant, maternal charm, nor was her decorum indicative of a proper understanding of social morays. No. Diary, she wore the most...er..."imaginative" assortment of garments I have ever seen bedeck an individual (Diary, can I use "bedeck" in that way? OH! That's right, silly me, you and your analog wonder don't critique me with silly things like "spelling" or "sentence fragment;" that is why I love you so).

As I stared in quizzical wonder at this ginger creature gingerly try to rollerskate on the front lawn, I was overcome with something like...well...like what is described in those books. I felt a whole slew of car related metaphors jump to mind! Sure she was dressed like a third-hand store exploded, sure she was trying, valiantly I might add, to rollerskate in mother's old flower-bed, but Diary, she was so delightfully precious! She would get frustrated and plop down in one huge "Harrumph!" with her arms crossed and her sideways ponytail bouncing alongside her. Oh, Diary, my fuel intake valve was grinding its windshield wiper brakes! Oh, yes, I went there diary!

I ran downstairs and asked father about the precocious spunkster, and he told me that the fair creature's name was "Gilmer." Oh, Diary, what a lyrical name...Gilmer...GIL-mer. Oooh, I feel all twitterpated! Anyways, father told me that she lives next door, but is slightly "touched." I wasn't quite sure what he meant by that, but it must mean that she has been touched by the divine, for she truly is. Even right now, as I write this, she is vigorously plucking blades of grass while shaking her head back and forth while raspberrying like a fiend...a cute, adorable fiend. Diary, what am I to do!? Her adorability simply knows no bounds!

Diary, am I betraying my dulcet darling by having these feelings? I don't know. I feel torn. Maybe some sleep will solve the issue. Goodnight Diary, goodnight my dulce-de-Macleche, goodnight my "touched tom-boy next door."

Yours,

Y.B.P.M.

I Feel Funny

My only solace this day is YOU, my dear Diary.

After I stripped to my underoos, tied a shirt around my head, and rushed down the hall shouting "Free Tibet" last night, Father has had me confined to my room until the apparent affects of LovelySugarDelight leave my system.

I fear I shall never see Benson again. But my soul tells me that he, he alone, was REAL and not a fantasy generated by sugar and spice and everything snickerdoodle.

So here I lie, snuggled up on my feather bed cradling you. Oh, if only I were cradling a form slightly more caress-worthy, such as that of my perfect pomegranate, Lady McD. As it stands, rubbing my cheek against your well worn cover shall have to suffice.

Though it's a bit scratchy.

Since I am here for I know not how long, without even the prospect of Blueberry Pancakes to look forward to...EVER AGAIN (GASP!), I thought I might flip through the books that Father lent me.

Oh yes. Father has actually given me ANOTHER present! He gave me a box of what I imagine are the books that changed his life, taught him to be a lion among men, and King to be remembered (especially if he should unexpectedly be bloodily murthered while away at a celebratory post-military victory weekend, or something like that.) I can't begin to express how touched and moved I am that Father would choose to impart these gifts, this wisdom to me.

So, I shall open the Box of Fatherly Affection here with you, my dearest Diary, for I wish you to share in my joy.

DIARY.

I don't exactly know what to say. The books appear to be be a collection of novels. Novels about...NASCAR? And romance.

NASCAR and Romance.

THIS is what Father wants me to read? THIS is what Father wishes me to learn from? Surely this is yet another cruel joke. If Father hadn't hadn't handed them to me myself saying "For goddsakes, get some action" I would be convinced it was another of Young Siward's tricksy tricks.

Well, I don't wish to doubt him. Nor do I wish to scoff at a gift from Father, since they are so infrequent.

Let's see...this one is called "Rigid Tire Iron".

Diary. I'm not sure exactly what a "double entendre" is, but I think this might be a genuine one!

......

OMG! DIARY. I think it's been 7 hours.

I've just finished "Checking The Undercarriage" and I can't decide if I like that one, "Bright Headlights" or "Fully Engaged Emergency Break Lever" best.

Diary, the things I have read! I feel more a man than ever! After Chapter 3 of "Gear Shift" I knew that I'd found the key to winning the heart, and the "chassis" (wink, wink!) of my Pit Crew Princess!

Diary, I must put you to rest for a small time while I finish "Oil Change". Be still my heart, what wonders await me among its pages!

Revving my engine,

Y.B.P.M.

Back to Earth

Dearest Diary,
Cook is gone. Father had herm (a lovely compromise between him and her, if I do say so myself) taken away for good! I do not fully understand why, but I think it had something to do with my inter-dimensional escapades. Apparently Cook's secret ingredient in herm "ScrumptiousGoodTimes" snickerdoodles is causing me to have these "visions." Cook once told me that they had a special ingredient that was included just for me...sweet, innocent, trusting me. Cook said the secret ingredient was "LovelySugarDelight," and that made the cookies even more scrumptious than the cinnamon (if that's even possible!). Apparently, there is nothing called "LovelySugarDelight," though the vial containing said magic had the same initials.
Father assures me that Y.S-G. does not have a daemonically possessed hand, nor do I have muscles from here to Tuesday (I asked if I could possibly have muscles from here to Monday and he still said no). Though he did say it with a sigh...perhaps he felt bad for covering up the truth? Possibly, but...oh no. What if...Benson? NO, BENSON! I MUST find a way to get ahold of more ScrumptiousGoodTimes or else Benson might vanish for good!
Diary I must leave expeditiously to procure the bottle of "LovelySugarDelight" so that I don't loose Benson forever!

Speedily and Clandestinely Yours,
Y.B.P.M.

Battle or Y.B.P.M. didn't pay too much attention in philosophy class, just enough to mess it up and ignore the obvious.

Diary...such news.
I now know that my hunch was correct. Young Siward-Gainsville is indeed possessed by a daemonical force that resides in his hand. I assume that any semblance of a human soul he once possessed has long since been consumed. He is a soul-less husk of a boy. I should have known, no one can dress that snappily without making some deal with the forces of darkness. I confronted him as he was idly conversing with his nefarious digits; seeing me he panicked and his hand opened up a rift in the space-time continuum. I remember waking in a strange place, feeling like I do right before I attempt to speak to my dulcet darling...except with less vomit. It was the same room I had been in previously, except it was different. Father's manly decor (taxidermized fauna, various bladed and projectile weapons, and a cornucopia of empty bottles) had been replaced with lacy frills, soft pastels, and rose petals. Young Siward-Gainsville was dressed in homely rags with his hair a tattered mess. And he was tiny, dear diary. Those once taught, sinewy fibers had shrunken to a mere skeletal waste.
Obviously shocked, I looked in the mirror and saw...well, diary, it was a revelation. My royal-blue corduroy overall-shirt combo had turned into the finest of seersucker suits. My chiseled jaw jutted forth with the manly confidence of a panther in heat, and it was covered with millions of neatly trimmed Fredericks! And the muscles! Oh, diary, imagine the muscles...I had muscles from here to Tuesday! and felt every single rippling one as I sauntered over to my cowering enemy.
Unfortunately, Y.S.G. waved his hand yet again and I was suddenly back to the world of normalcy. As I was disgorging some Scrumptious Good Times, Y.S.G. used the opportunity to escape. After the tummy discomfort had subsided, along with my tears-thankfully I bring a spare pipette just in case I break out into a fit of spontaneous sobbing- I was able to process what had happened.
Clearly, Y.S.G. had propelled us out of the proverbial, Platonic cave and straight into the world of pure form! THIS MUST BE SO! The purest expression of myself is a demi-god with Gable-rific good looks, Y.S.G. is a simpering hobo, and the world is decorated with beautiful, beautiful pastel. He won't dare to battle me in that realm again, but now he knows that I will clearly emerge as victor in this paramortal combat. The victory will be mine!

Triumphantly,
Y.B.P.M.

P.S. If this was the world of pure form...why did the ScrumptiousGoodTimes taste like boiled cabbage? Hmmm.

A Visit From the Continuity Fairy

Dearest Diary,

Strange and weird (in the bastardized, non Anglo-Saxon sense) things are afoot. I read through my last two posts and realized that both things seemed to have happened on the same day. I clearly remember one of these two events, yet why do I post the morning post after the unfamiliar "sexypartytimes-post?" Diary, to further add to the confusion, my postings were a mere half hour apart! Something is amiss though I do not know exactly what.

WAIT! DIARY! Oooh, I am a veritable young Sherlock Holmes...or Brisco County Jr...Doctor Who? Anyways, I noticed a common thread in both these events: Young Siward's daemonically possessed hand.

Fiend! He must have been gallivanting with those lyrical chappy women and talking manwich, I have noticed his lips are beginning to have that rough-hewn look. Clearly he must be dabbling in the daemonical arts and has opened some sort of time fold where-in one of my realities is encroaching upon the other. Does his deviousness know NO BOUNDS!? I shall have to stop him somehow. If he is truly dimensionally transcendental, I shall have to come up with some plan...which I will...after some more of Cook's "ScrumptiousGoodTimes.

Yours in an unknown to woman fashion,

Y.B.P.M.

P.S. Maybe if I get to explore alternate universes...perchance I can woo the fair Lady MacD by trial and error until I know the right combination of verbal and physical come-ons that will make her mine in this world? Perhaps.

Work, work, work and a poop bush.

Dear Diary,
What an eventful week! I feel as if I'm slightly hollow, now. As if some integral part of my existence has since evaporated into the deep-dark abysm of time. I hope it's not getting La Gripe again. ANYWAYS (diary, I get so distracted sometimes...but you never fail to re-direct me; a papyrus Ritalin of joy you are.), yesterday Father was absent but left me chores to do. I had to work with a motley crew of nobles, Young Siward, "men of dubious morality...especially in the realm of knifing," and an androgynous man-witch (hmmm...suddenly craving spaghetti sauce on a hoagie) . It was an odd assortment to be sure.
I imagine that father wanted me to be exposed to hard labor and the "rougher element" because he says I too much resemble my saintly mother, only softer. Father said if I was good, he would return with my horse (whom I have decided to name "Madge"), so I set out with my wagon to help.
I was relegated to spare lumber removal. I loaded up my wagon (now named "Clyde"...the man-witch had an odd affinity for distributing nicknames...upon hearing me called "Bonny Prince Malcolm," I became "Bonnie." He thought the juxtaposition hilarious) and began to cart lumber back and forth. I was in terrible spirits Diary. I wanted to join the group of manly men with their devil-may-care clothing, their sweat-stained hats, their ability to lift more than a quarter of their own body weight, but ALAS. I just knew they were making fun of me by giving me a sledge hammer to nail in some errant staples. I was very low. My anger grew, my pulse raced, and my voice cracked from the strain. I had had ENOUGH! With Clyde at my side I began to feverishly pummel a bit of leafy screen into a mangled corpse of PVC and camo netting. I looked up and all my co-laborers (which, by the way, where were the Slavs in all this?!) stared in awe-faced amusement. I gave a final "Harumph!" in the direction of the tattered ruin and swaggered away in triumph.
Diary! SQUEE! They had finally accepted me! They invited me out to a tavern afterwords! Oh, I was feeling quite high on the proverbial hog. I was going to have a cold, malty beverage of sorts (perhaps something denoting my inevitable rise to royal status, like a "Surely Temple.") tell sordid stories (I would have to rely on my imagination for this one...as my illustratively educational etchings were at home), and generally cause a rumpus! Oh the times we would have had, had not some errant knave (probably Y.S.) decided to make a nasty in the bushes approaching the tavern. Diary, my very blood seemed to be contaminated by this unholy odor. it was oppressively potent. Everyone simply made a face and continued on, I tried but my gentle olfactory bulb nearly perished in the attempt! I was so overwhelmed that I simply sat on the ground and cried. I don't know how long I cried for but when I stopped, my co-laborers were exiting the tavern all stumbly-like. Also, it was now nighttime. I had lost all manly respect points I might have gained. I am sure Young Siward planned this...it would explain why he was late?
Though, on a side note, Y.S. seemed to be possessed and controlled by some daemon that had taken up residency in his hand. He was looking at it and, well, "communicating" with it as well. needless to say, I was mortified. Perhaps Y.S. isn't so bad after all, just possessed by a demonic presence. I must study up on demonology.

Until I am known to Woman,
B.P.M.

P.S. Just yanking your chain, I couldn't leave you for that long.

Begging For More!

OH DIARY! What a night I have had! I feel so awash with joy that I could sing like Audrey Hepburn's vocal double in "My Fair Lady!"

Last night, Father threw an impromptu party! Well, at least I didn't know about it until I saw cook baking an inordinate amount of hot wings. My soft heart naturally quaked at the thought of all those pretty chickens being deep fried in one fell swoop and I began to cry softly, clutching my ScrumptiousGoodTimes snickerdoodle to my chest with such ferocity I got crumbs on my favorite footie pajamas. Cook soothed me as she...he...often does by telling me that their sacrifice would be well worth it seeing as how they were for the party we were to have that VERY EVENING!

PARTY!

It is rather odd that Father hadn't said anything about it. ANYWAY, he was so thrilled at my excitement regarding the soiree that he let me wear DonalBORING's favorite seersucker suit! He said he was determined for me to "look like a man", however I'm quite sure he meant "gentleman." The suit was a little large in the waist however, so I was forced to wear a belt AND suspenders. It proved not to be a concern though. Unfortunately I had no occasion to get my pants off in a hurry.

So, S.U.T.W.

Everyone seemed to be drinking the Slav's funny water, and it was a veritable smorgasbord of ROLLED BUREK, if you know what I mean! ;)

But, despite the presence of so many fine, delicate lady-flowers....MY fair lady was not in attendance.

Despite this most poignant of absences, I feel as though I'm positively glowing. I stayed all the way until the wee hours of the morning...outdoing even Young Siward. While he certainly looked dashing in a jacket that looked SUSPICIOUSLY like my own, I'm afraid that GainesVillain was adding something with a little more punch to his Slavic Water. Last I saw him he was talking to his fingers about the varying flavors of Chex Mix and exactly what the difference was between "Regular" and "Bold Party Mix."

Diary? I even danced! Oh, how I danced and danced! Roxie didn't know what hit her when I did 'The Percolator" much to the enjoyment of the guests, and of course father, who had to hide his face in his hands so as not to reveal his blush of pride!

:::SIGH::::

It was truly a night to remember...I only wish that the mistress of my heart was there to see me in all my dashing glory. My faith is renewed though diary, for judging by the reactions of the OTHER ladies in attendance (who all PALE in comparison to my sweet, creamy, Lady Hazelnut Latte) the only reason I didn't have to swiftly come up with a way to unhook a pair of suspenders while simultaneously unbuckling my belt was because they merely stood in AWE of my incredible dancing skills. I read once, in an issue of Cosmo, that a man's dancing is an excellent indicator of his...well...PROWESS in the marital arts...wink, wink Diary! All I can say is, there wasn't another man there who could Cupid Shuffle quite like THIS handsome prince!

Farewell for now diary...I'm off to make my "Dancing Into Her Heart" playlist so that I'll be ready at anytime to bust a sweet groove, as they say!

Ever Yours,

Y.P.M.

fashionable faux-pas

Dearest Diary,

S.U.t.W. In shockingly unexpected news, Young Siward may not be such a bad chap after all. Not that I am forgoing my plan to destroy him, but I might feel a little more remorse after I do. I do not foresee, however, the event causing me to add to my tear-jar collection...though with my fertile ducts one never knows.

Y.S. is, despite his corrupted rust bucket of a soul, a most snappy dresser. Without any ulterior motive that I can glean, he complimented me on my most exquisite jacket...you know the one, diary, the one with the slimming lines and svelte charcoal wool construction, the manly epaulets and bold buttons. It is a fine jacket. One that has a thoroughly tough military pedigree yet with a lacy, electric blue liner that gently envelops me in satiny warmth. the kind of jacket that gains the affection of a lady...and apparently, Young Siward.

Apparently, Y.S. is quite the connoisseur of fine haberdashery. We had a three minute conversation about leather jackets that almost left me feeling something like an affinity towards the young, swarthy chap. I must not let this blind me though, many people appreciate clean lines, fitted cuts, and the fine art of pairing patterns and colors in bold but tasteful ways...
I must flaunt my jacket in front of Lady MacD. If the jacket inspired admiration in my most devoted enemy, imagine what it could fill my dulce de Mac-leche with :) !

yours in color-coordination,
Y.P.M.

Rain (or lack there of) Dance

Dear Diary,
I have momentarily put aside the rancorous ire Young Siward doth arouse in me in favor of a much more dastardly aversary: the weather.
Diary, how am I supposed to woo the Titania of my bottomless tenders when the RAIN WILL NOT STOP!? Diary, I apologize for the yelling (no such apologies for the implied interrobang, however), but I feel so powerless. My plans for lady MacD have been laid out with the care my gentle mother took in dressing me after a fragrant bath, yet despite EVERY effort the threat of incliment weather continues to dash the delicate song bird of my hopes against the moisty rock of...of...oh diary, I am so frustrated my metaphors are all in a tizzy!
I shall have to perform a "lack-of-rain dance." I am left with no other recourse. I am a desperate man-child Diary and my wilyness is to be feared. Cook said that she...he...

*On a very disturbing side-note, I am in doubt of Cook's gendered identity. She has the soft, supple hands of a matronly mammy yet with the deep, rich vocal timbre of a man. He has often nuzzled me and her few protruding whiskers poked and irritated my delicate skin, yet I did not recoil in discomfort because of the warm, cushy embrace of its bosomy voluptiosness...terrible thoughts.

ANYWAYS Cook has said that chicken feet brought to a slow boil, smothered in velvetta, and doused in the tears of an innocent will provide a charm that may be employed in the ritual. I am loathe to delve into my collection of chronologically itemized tear jars, but I suppose the situation warrants. I must take the charm and do a dance (Cook was non-specific...I hope my "excited dance" will count as that is the only dance I know besides the "Lindy Hop") that SHOULD forestall the heavenly precipitation that has been plaguing my efforts.
Well, Diary, wish me luck!

With love,
Y.P.M.

Influenza blues (with a boozy upside)

Dearest Diary,

Doubt that the sun doth move, doubt that Young Siward is evil, but never doubt, though temporarily absent, I love (well, I wouldn't really doubt the "Young Siward is evil" part)!



Diary, oh my little papyrus homunculus, I am ill! Well, actually, I am recovering, but STILL! Oh, the influenza always brings out the poet in me :sigh:.



Diary I have laid in my downy comforter for five straight days! Cook has brought me copious amounts of chicken soup, "Scrumptious Good Times," and beets. I wanted blueberry pamcakes, but Cook says that they would make my dainty stomach "uncomfortable." Diary, non of these normally glorious foodstuffs have brought me any comfort. I lounged in my silk jammies moping and stroking Frederick's abandoned home (I get sentimental when sick) hoping that my sweet- MY "Scrumptious Good Time" would come and visit her poor, courtly lover. Alas, I was left to cough and sniffle in silence. Diary, I honestly don't know how much of my moisture stained hanky is from post-nasal drip or tears. I do not know. I. do. not. know.



There was one upside, Father introduced me to a most interesting beverage: a "Hot Toddy." Diary, this little drink was a miracle! Father would not tell me what went in to this veritable witches brew of warm, fuzzy delight. I suspect father must get sick a lot, for there was something in the Toddy that reminded me of the way father smells when I sneak into his bed for warmth in the winter-time. What strange dreams were produced by this magical concoction!



My dream was so vivid! I awoke terrified, but laughed the dream off as silly and ridiculous. Still, the over-wrought and sickly manifestations of my brain caused me considerable distress. I dreamed that father had been murthered! And by Uncle Macbeth no less! On the plus side, when I discovered this, Lady MacD pressed her "Rolled Bureks" to me in a show of comfort. I cried because I was so emotionally conflicted! Then I sat around for a while, and then I was in England for some reason and was absolutely horrid to Macduff (though he probably deserved it for leaving lady MacD alone).

It was then that I received the worse news of all! My Dulcet Peach had been murthered as well! Diary, I was crushed beyond belief! But, oh Diary, the strangeness only continued to occur. On hearing of my dear one's death, Frederick's progeny erupted into a veritable mane of animalistic proportions! My voice dropped an entire octave! And I even engaged in physical warfare. Diary, you could not imagine my surprise when I wielded a knife in mortal combat...though I slashed no one I can remember, surely my manly conquests outnumbered the imaginatively prevalent hairs on my dream-induced chest. Then, lo and behold, father had returned in the guise of an old, swarthy Englishman...Old Siward (Young Siward's "father"). This was a most disturbing plot-twist and one from which I dare not dwell (except that nobody save me seemed to care much about Y.S. demise...which I maintain was because I wanted to do him in myself).

It all ended with me becoming king of Scotland. The end. Nothing more. There was nothing else that happened...nothing.

Anyway, I think we have all learned a valuable lesson about how wonderful and calamitous Hot Toddies are.

Yours in absolute, no-holdsbarred truth,

Y.P.M.


OH DIARY, I cannot lie to you! Something else did happen. In the dream Macduff tenderly placed his arm on mine to pronounce me king of Scotland...and I felt...a connection. I don't know what that means, but I am frightened. Nevertheless, I am determined to pursue the more feminine of the two Macduffs until Birnum Wood do come to Dunsinane.