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 Scrumptious Good Times. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scrumptious Good Times. 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.
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
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
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.
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