Monday, November 30, 2009

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!


Wednesday, November 25, 2009

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


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.


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,


Tuesday, November 17, 2009

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.


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


Monday, November 16, 2009

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.


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.


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,


Friday, November 6, 2009

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!

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

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,


Monday, November 2, 2009

"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 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 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)