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!?

"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)

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.

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.

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.

That Tricksy Siward Boy.

Dearest Diary,
S.U.t.W. Part of the reason is that sketchy scoundrel, Young Siward. Diary, he has had me so worked up in a tizzy that my goals have lost their focus! I have been so heck-bent on revenge that I forgot about wooing my sweet dulce-de-MacLeche! Diary, I have been so remiss!

That low-lying Greensville spawn has had me so set on combat that I forgot my first love: Lady MacD and bleary-eyed romantic musings about Lady MacD! Diary, I have shelved my plans until further notice. As mean spirited as that note was, the feelings that Y.S. ascribed to Lady MacD must have had some sort of basis in reality! That will be the best revenge yet, I shall make it with Lady MacD and then thank Young Siward-Gainsville for bringing us together!

yes! YES! It could work...HAHAHAHA!!!!!!

I must set about wooing her with verse! First things first though, must set about listing attributes and poetic metaphors

• Her smile: white picket fence
• Her lips: Fluffy pink pillows
• Her eyes: two new pennies
• Her hair: the finest garnet thule
• Her...um..."lady bits:" *
• Her scent: blueberry pamcakes with boysenberry syrup and bacon...that one might get a bit long.

Oh well, Must continue later. I MUST have some of Cook's "Scrumptious Good Times" snickerdoodles, they always taste so good after getting poeticly lost in thought. Oh, Cinnamon.

Yours,

Y.P.M.

* Diary, I couldn't bring myself to come up with an artful metaphor for Lady MacD's...well, you know. Must think about it and come up with one at a later date.