Saucy Tim's Adventures

Dearest Convalescent Parchment,
While I DO adore King Kamp, I feel rather peckish from lack of food and pampering. You are my sole sustainer currently...well, so is my new friend Saucy Tim. I told you that he was reading my princely musings, but once I began looking further through your leafy pages, I saw that he had chronicled the outline for one of his scandalous adventures! The best part? He had given me a part! I felt so privileged! Saucy Tim had used your humble leafs to begin yet another salacious story of delight! I, being quite the Machiavellian myself, have endeavored to turn his skeletal outline into a fully realized story his Sauciness would slather himself in garlic butter over.

The Cabin Boy

By Y.B.P.M. (S.U.t.W)

Inspired by an outline composed by the "Crumpet of Corruption" himself: Saucy Tim

It was a dark and stormy knight. He was in a tizzy about some spoiled yams that had been delivered to his chateau, Xanadu. This Knight was so whipped up into a distemper that he ran the messenger right through with a candelabra. It was both painful and humiliating...the best kind of death. This knight was a bad seed, you know the kind, the one with the devil may care hair-do, cigarette pack suggestively peeking out from his rolled up tunic sleeve, and an alluringly ne'er-do-well twinkle in his eye. This knight, Hubert, bellowed for yet another Manservant to bring him another dish. The new Manservant sauntered in with a sprightly, almost elfin canter. He had such a delightfully rich voice, the sound of a musically alto beast.

"Here's you're dessert!" Lilted the scampery Manservant.

"Mmmmm...I smell raspberry drizzle!" chortled the roguishly handsome knight.

"Your JUST desserts!" Huzzayed the manservant who whipped the top of the chafing dish off revealing a kitty, covered in raspberry drizzle, that immediately kicked the knight in his handsome pate. The waiter threw off his outer garments revealing a velour onezie emblazoned with sweet-meats. It was none other than Saucy Tim! Standing beside him was the kitty, which was no ordinary feline but Viceroy Fishylips!

"Have mercy on me!" cried the wanton coxcomb.

"Oh, no, we don't play with mercy!" chuckled his Sauciness.

"meoooow," said the viceroy.

Saucy Tim and the Viceroy began to beat the poor rapscallion senseless. The evil Knight was defeated. So Viceroy Fishylips and Saucy Tim jumped into their Carriage de Voluptueux and sauntered back to their den of luxury.

"You have returned!" Squeeked his Sauciness' young apprentice; a sparkly eyed, dewy youth yet unknown to the ways of love (pssst...It's me, Malcolm....teehee!).

"Yes, sidekick CabinBoy" said Tim, "Prepare me my bath full of cultured buttermilk and red velvet cake crumbles!"

"Yes sir!" the boy said innocently.

"AND don't skimp on the live, blood fed eels!"

The End

King Kamp!

Oh DIARY!

I cannot express how happy I am to have my unnaturally wolf-like paws on you again!

The feelings I have now that am clutching you to my bosom are very much akin to those that arose in me when I accidentally stumbled upon my third cousin Marlena in the swimming hole 4 summers ago!

Of all the trials I have endured, having you ripped from me was surely the most trevailious.

That may not be a word.

Diary, to you I will unfold the latest chapter in the highly erotic novel of woes that is my existence. On the eve of our Kringlemash celebrations, while I was peacefully slumbering after sharing a pitcher of giggly water with Unca Banquo and being lulled to sleep by Unca Macbeth's Le Chat Chamber Choir, I was RIPPED from my bed, shoved into a sack, and thrown over someone's back.

By someone, I of course mean Young Siward. Or at least that's my assumption. I was clocked over the head shortly following.


When I came to, I was in a fairly rustic looking cabin in an unfamiliar patch of forest. It smelled a bit like a gerbil cage. The cabin was sparse, my fluffy hypo-allergenic down-comforter was nowhere in sight. I had been stripped of all my possessions (including YOU, my most treasured of all booty!) and they had taken my most favorite pajamas (the footie ones with the little duckies on them) from me and replaced them with a horribly tacky set of black and white striped ones. I will tell you, I've been wearing them for over a month now and the material STILL CHAFES. My skin is, after all so very delicate, and I haven't my lavender oil or anything at all.

More on that later...

ANYWAY.

That first day I didn't see a living soul, except for my roommate (or as we now call ourselves, "bunk buddy") who goes by the name "Saucy Tim". Thank goodness for him, I can tell you. He has been so very kind and welcoming, and showed me all the proverbial ropes.

Alas, Diary! I get a head of myself!

Yes, Saucy Tim.

I inquired of him as to where we were and he replied, after a few moments of mad giggling, that we were "In a vile wilderness absolutely devoid of any amusements, sweet meats, or cream puffs, but positively rife with scandal!" shook is lacy hankie at me and then fell to snuggling his pillow.

He keeps a cat named Viceroy FishyLips...but oddly, this cat doesn't sing OR play t-ball.

After three days of stacking giant boulders while in a large pit chained to Saucy Tim, without the comfort of your warm, open, vulnerable pages I began to feel rather morose. I cried daily and nightly to have you restored to me, my most particular friend, but to no avail.

UNTIL!

I discovered Saucy Tim violating your innocent prose by flashlight one night when I was started awake by another terrifying dream wherein I am mere second away from firing a loaded canon into a stone wall, upon which sits my Lady McDelicious calling out to me again and again and again!

Anyway.

I ripped you from his clammy fingers and now keep you safely tucked into my hideously distasteful pant leg. I had to of course forgive the fellow, for he has been ever so good to me. Always offering to massage my shoulders or tickle me until I smile.

You see, last week, Saucy Tim and myself were moved over to the laundry to fold undergarments all day. Saucy Tim was beside himself with joy, clapping gleefully and singing dirty songs while I pondered the WHY of it all. It was then I realized...

I had been sent to KING KAMP!

This is where young, noble, dashing, slightly sensitive princes like myself go to learn to bear the burden of Kingship! I remember several years ago when DonalBORING came here for a short stint right after he filled the trunk of his El Camino with Giggly Water and drove to Texas, and came back with a new car and a baby.

Anyway, I am determined to outshine his performance at King Kamp in EVERY way. Even if it means allowing Saucy Tim to draw a flaming heart in needles and finger paint on my chest. I think it's a fitting tribute to the loss of Frederick, PLUS it's ever so much more manly than the dancing lady on DonalBORING's bicep.

She made an angry face.

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.