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.
Showing posts with label Cook. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cook. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Thursday, October 8, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
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.
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.
Friday, September 25, 2009
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.
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.
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