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.

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.

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.

ANYWAY.

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.

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,

Y.B.P.M.

"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)

All's "Fair" In Love and War!

See what I did there Diary?

Do you KNOW what today is? It's finally here! The Annual Gainesville Homecoming/Paternity-Fest!

I am already at my station in THE KISSING BOOTH (squeee!!!) but business has been a bit...well...slow.

I've worn my best vest, new button and all, PLUS a spritz (or seven) of Father's cologne. Until I can find a way to harvest the mannish scent of Young Siward, that's the best I can do. Luckily, I have brought you for company dearest diary.

I fear it is in fact Young Siward that is stealing my business. He's across the path from me at the Strong Man booth. Diary, you must imagine my exaggerated eye-roll. I just have to keep watching over, and over, and OVER again as the plebeians test their strength against his. And that BRUTE just keeps on dropping the hammer ringing that god awful bell, much to the unadulterated JOY of the local ladies.

OMG.

Methinks? He just WINKED at me.

:::shudder::::

No doubt his arms have been UNNATURALLY strengthened by the powers contained in his demonic hand. I know that he spends his evenings cavorting with THE THREE.

As afraid as I am to see their like again, I do hope they attend, even if it is to wreak satanic havoc on what appears to be a delightful day of deep fried Love Buttah Balls and high-flying kitten trapeze artists. For I MUST know, once and for all, which TTND it was that brought me heretofore unknown levels of bliss.

Oh! OH! Diary!! Diary, I must part with you for just a moment! I can see none other than my Sensual Swan, my Delectable Dish, my Lady McD approaching! Of course, she is arm in arm with her....husband....but it appears that he is distracted by the Cupcake Dispensing Machine next door! Look! There he goes!

Oh my.

I've never seen a man eat a cupcake like that before. I feel sullied an unusual by what I have just witnessed.

But soft! She comes!

BRB Diary!

.....

Oh Diary. I almost lost you! As it is, your cover is a might bit singed. Also, I can see so many droplets of blood scattered among your pages, I could just weep for looking at you. Although, Father will no doubt be pleased since you finally do look as though you've been to battle.

Oh, but a war it seemed today my dearest diary! A war on my poor, poor, heart!

When Lady McD approached my Kissing Booth, her bear of a husband taken off by cupcakes, I was just covered in little goose pimples with anticipation.

She sat across from me, her soft, silken arm resting gently on the ledge between us.

"Oh, Mal!" she said, her voice like a melodious bird song "You've got a little kissing booth! Oh, how charming!"

She then made some offhanded comments about Unca Macbeth's "unsettling regime of discipline" for his cats, whilst I simply gazed adoringly at her. Wondering when and if I should ask her for admission...and then commence with...well...with the kissing.

It wasn't long before I knew I was going to lick her face for FREE Diary!

Let me transpose our conversation VERBATIM for you here!

Lady McD: So, you know how I just adore hosting my weekly themed Cotillions don't you? Well, we've been shopping for the Wren Cotillion, right? I know that Mr. MacDuff just hates it when I go off on a tither with such things, but I can't help it, can I? I mean, these are Wrens, not Ravens. Must keep things classy, you know? Of course you do, dear boy.

Me: Yes, by the fire-like tresses that fall from your sainted head, I do sway and dip with your every move. Just say the word, my lovely Leche.

(Well. I didn't QUITE say that. I thought it though! What I actually wound up saying was something akin to "Lurr...lurrr...yes, yes...heeeee....LECHE.")

Regardless, I took her indulgent smile for what it was, an invitation to 7 minutes of Heaven in MY KISSING BOOTH and leaned just out of the booth where her soft, supple lips awaited me...tongue fully extended as Gilmer/NotGilmer had shown me....when her OAF of a husband came bounding over babbling about those ridiculous CUPCAKES.

ANYWAY, she turned to see him, covered in icing, and instead of caressing her ambrosial cheeks, chin, lips, nostrils, eyelids with my hungry tongue....I salivated all over her inner ear.

Luckily, and I use this term loosely, my humiliation was short lived as it was just at that moment that The Three Weird Kind-of-but-Not-Really-Sisters blew up Old Sow's Keg-o-Blood!

YES! Those Vile Vixens and their Talking ManWitch used their pernicious powers to make that Keg shoot sky high and shower all the Fair-goers with blood.

It was just like when Mother was alive.

:::sigh:::

Chaos reigned, and Lady McD and her dripping ear were scattered to the wind, along with my dreams of kisses.

On top of all of that, my best vest is stained past all hope.

I can hardly even sign off.

Y.B.P.M.

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.

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.

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.

Work, work, work and a poop bush.

Dear Diary,
What an eventful week! I feel as if I'm slightly hollow, now. As if some integral part of my existence has since evaporated into the deep-dark abysm of time. I hope it's not getting La Gripe again. ANYWAYS (diary, I get so distracted sometimes...but you never fail to re-direct me; a papyrus Ritalin of joy you are.), yesterday Father was absent but left me chores to do. I had to work with a motley crew of nobles, Young Siward, "men of dubious morality...especially in the realm of knifing," and an androgynous man-witch (hmmm...suddenly craving spaghetti sauce on a hoagie) . It was an odd assortment to be sure.
I imagine that father wanted me to be exposed to hard labor and the "rougher element" because he says I too much resemble my saintly mother, only softer. Father said if I was good, he would return with my horse (whom I have decided to name "Madge"), so I set out with my wagon to help.
I was relegated to spare lumber removal. I loaded up my wagon (now named "Clyde"...the man-witch had an odd affinity for distributing nicknames...upon hearing me called "Bonny Prince Malcolm," I became "Bonnie." He thought the juxtaposition hilarious) and began to cart lumber back and forth. I was in terrible spirits Diary. I wanted to join the group of manly men with their devil-may-care clothing, their sweat-stained hats, their ability to lift more than a quarter of their own body weight, but ALAS. I just knew they were making fun of me by giving me a sledge hammer to nail in some errant staples. I was very low. My anger grew, my pulse raced, and my voice cracked from the strain. I had had ENOUGH! With Clyde at my side I began to feverishly pummel a bit of leafy screen into a mangled corpse of PVC and camo netting. I looked up and all my co-laborers (which, by the way, where were the Slavs in all this?!) stared in awe-faced amusement. I gave a final "Harumph!" in the direction of the tattered ruin and swaggered away in triumph.
Diary! SQUEE! They had finally accepted me! They invited me out to a tavern afterwords! Oh, I was feeling quite high on the proverbial hog. I was going to have a cold, malty beverage of sorts (perhaps something denoting my inevitable rise to royal status, like a "Surely Temple.") tell sordid stories (I would have to rely on my imagination for this one...as my illustratively educational etchings were at home), and generally cause a rumpus! Oh the times we would have had, had not some errant knave (probably Y.S.) decided to make a nasty in the bushes approaching the tavern. Diary, my very blood seemed to be contaminated by this unholy odor. it was oppressively potent. Everyone simply made a face and continued on, I tried but my gentle olfactory bulb nearly perished in the attempt! I was so overwhelmed that I simply sat on the ground and cried. I don't know how long I cried for but when I stopped, my co-laborers were exiting the tavern all stumbly-like. Also, it was now nighttime. I had lost all manly respect points I might have gained. I am sure Young Siward planned this...it would explain why he was late?
Though, on a side note, Y.S. seemed to be possessed and controlled by some daemon that had taken up residency in his hand. He was looking at it and, well, "communicating" with it as well. needless to say, I was mortified. Perhaps Y.S. isn't so bad after all, just possessed by a demonic presence. I must study up on demonology.

Until I am known to Woman,
B.P.M.

P.S. Just yanking your chain, I couldn't leave you for that long.

Begging For More!

OH DIARY! What a night I have had! I feel so awash with joy that I could sing like Audrey Hepburn's vocal double in "My Fair Lady!"

Last night, Father threw an impromptu party! Well, at least I didn't know about it until I saw cook baking an inordinate amount of hot wings. My soft heart naturally quaked at the thought of all those pretty chickens being deep fried in one fell swoop and I began to cry softly, clutching my ScrumptiousGoodTimes snickerdoodle to my chest with such ferocity I got crumbs on my favorite footie pajamas. Cook soothed me as she...he...often does by telling me that their sacrifice would be well worth it seeing as how they were for the party we were to have that VERY EVENING!

PARTY!

It is rather odd that Father hadn't said anything about it. ANYWAY, he was so thrilled at my excitement regarding the soiree that he let me wear DonalBORING's favorite seersucker suit! He said he was determined for me to "look like a man", however I'm quite sure he meant "gentleman." The suit was a little large in the waist however, so I was forced to wear a belt AND suspenders. It proved not to be a concern though. Unfortunately I had no occasion to get my pants off in a hurry.

So, S.U.T.W.

Everyone seemed to be drinking the Slav's funny water, and it was a veritable smorgasbord of ROLLED BUREK, if you know what I mean! ;)

But, despite the presence of so many fine, delicate lady-flowers....MY fair lady was not in attendance.

Despite this most poignant of absences, I feel as though I'm positively glowing. I stayed all the way until the wee hours of the morning...outdoing even Young Siward. While he certainly looked dashing in a jacket that looked SUSPICIOUSLY like my own, I'm afraid that GainesVillain was adding something with a little more punch to his Slavic Water. Last I saw him he was talking to his fingers about the varying flavors of Chex Mix and exactly what the difference was between "Regular" and "Bold Party Mix."

Diary? I even danced! Oh, how I danced and danced! Roxie didn't know what hit her when I did 'The Percolator" much to the enjoyment of the guests, and of course father, who had to hide his face in his hands so as not to reveal his blush of pride!

:::SIGH::::

It was truly a night to remember...I only wish that the mistress of my heart was there to see me in all my dashing glory. My faith is renewed though diary, for judging by the reactions of the OTHER ladies in attendance (who all PALE in comparison to my sweet, creamy, Lady Hazelnut Latte) the only reason I didn't have to swiftly come up with a way to unhook a pair of suspenders while simultaneously unbuckling my belt was because they merely stood in AWE of my incredible dancing skills. I read once, in an issue of Cosmo, that a man's dancing is an excellent indicator of his...well...PROWESS in the marital arts...wink, wink Diary! All I can say is, there wasn't another man there who could Cupid Shuffle quite like THIS handsome prince!

Farewell for now diary...I'm off to make my "Dancing Into Her Heart" playlist so that I'll be ready at anytime to bust a sweet groove, as they say!

Ever Yours,

Y.P.M.

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.

Famous Person

Dear Diary,
Unexpected bliss followed me, snuck upon me, and struck with most pleasant assault last night! I was walking around the plantation looking for some adhesive to accompany my pocket full of Chinchilla fur, when father stopped my search. He told me that we had a special visitor that he would like me to meet! Diary, I had been so preoccupied with Young Siward that I was completely oblivious to the world around me. I did not ask who was visiting (for fear of appearing ignorant), but expectantly walked at father's side. We came at last to the drawing room and who was there diary? You would never guess, in a thousand plentiful guesses, what man of men was standing in the drawing room. The Paterfamilias of the South! The Progenitor of well-nigh half the county of Scotland, LA! The man himself! JONNY GAINSVILLE!

THE Jonny Gainsville, dear Diary! He had heard that our town decided to stick with the name "Scotland" instead of "Gainsville," so he came to create a few more constituants before heading off to spread more joy and paternity.

Diary, not only was meeting this epic sower of men a most unexpected delight, it opened my eyes to a new truth.

I was staring into Jonny's face wrapt with dewey eyed awe, when I noticed that he reminded me of someone. Now, I have seen my fair share of Gainsville Jr's (I mean, who hasn't? You could throw a rock in a crowded market and be guaranteed to hit one), but this was different. I noticed the semi-long flowing locks of hair, the sparkly eyes...the scent of goodness and dewy morns. It was here that my bleary eyed idol-lust turned to cold discovery. "Surely not, there is no way," I said in disbelief. I ventured too far in my curiosity when I plunged my nose into Mr. Gainsville's ample mane. Father immediately pulled me off and sent me to my room without dessert (which was a shame since we were having bundt cake), but before he did I managed to get several deep wiffs of Mr. Gainsville's scent to confirm. Diary, I believe Jonny Gainsville is Young Siward's actual father! This is most exciting news! While the son of a legend, this hardly makes Young Siward special. Outside of having a veritable army of brothers and sisters, Y.S. has no claims to royalty! He is as common as historical bushes around uncle Macbeth's mansion! This is a most blessed arrow in my quiver of revenge...now if I could just successfully get a shot off. Maybe next time. After I sneak some delicious bundt cake.

yours in exquisite pedigree,

Y.P.M.

Never.Again.

Oh DIARY.

I will never, ever, EVER eat JuJubes AGAIN.

I know. They were once a favorite. I used to love to put them on ice and then spit them like hard sugary pebbles at the pigeons outside the kitchen.

But NO MORE.

For just moments ago, as if this week could get ANY worse...what with the passing of dear Frederick...I was chewing on those delicious lumps of gummy goodness when I passed Young Siward in the hall. I was positively alive with excitement, for I had been rehearsing my Barb Of Epic Wit and Deviousness in front of the mirror the entire evening previous. Was I ever ready! There he was! Strutting about in his fancy pants, and fancy vest, with his fancy man-pistol. UGH. It was all I could do not to vomit all over his silly,shiny, (and cheap!) loafers. My only consolation was the fact that I was about to make him so enraged and shamed that he would likely peel off his own face rather than be recognized as Young Siward a moment longer!

As we met, I slowed my steps and turned a cunning eye to address him. But as I was trying to speak, I realized, I could not open my jaw! Those dastardly JuJubes and their unnatural penchant for hardening into fruity stones in one's mouth had practically glued my teeth together!

Oh, Diary! You cannot begin to imagine the frustration I felt. The manly levels of super testosteroniffic rage as Young Siward stood over me and watched me struggle! At first he looked quizzical, but then he just kicked me in the knee caps and laughed like the brutish English dog he is. To simply stand there and watch as a young, handsome, soft-skinned prince struggles to speak and do nothing? Truly he is a disgrace to the name Siward. As if they needed any help disgracing themselves.

I will say that with my mouth held shut by JuJuGlue, my sense of smell was heightened and Young Siward gave off a delightfully mannish scent that I'm sure must be how he woos the ladies.

Note to self: Raid Young Siward's toiletry bag to discover it's origins!

Yours ever,

Y.P.M.

Scheme

Dear Malcolm's Diary,

Still unknown to woman - or razor for that matter, but I do believe Frederick is a sign that after twenty-five years of boyish softness, I shall soon become a man!

Onwards! Diary, with my newly fertile follicle (and the hope of a quickly-sprouting mane of manly chest hair) I have begun to plot my revenge in a manly fashion. You might have noticed that your serene, powder-blue exterior has now become enwrapped in a firm layer of camoflauged fabric with gold fillagree on the outside binding. Thomas the Tank Engine, who once occupied your front cover - and my heart, has now been replaced by a gun wielding Benson- his magical narwhal horn newly glistening with the gore of his enemies, astride his unicorn death-steed! Oh, Diary, such schemes we shall hatch together!

My plan is as follows (note to self, must be careful not to leave you around dear diary should my little plot be unrightously purloined by that carpy English brigand) : Young Siward, being a good English boy, is quite taken with his wit. Oh, how he goes on and on diary! I have been the proverbial butt of many of his witticisms, but no longer! I have devised a retort of such cunning and guile (no small feat considering both are foreign to my nature) that upon its utterance, Young Siward will wet himself with shame, the men will hold their manhoods cheap, and all the ladies' corsets will rupture as their desire for me outgrows their own physical bodies!

The key for this successful endeavor is to engage Young Siward in a conversation about laundry. As Young Siward cannot help but seize every opportunity for a naughty comment, I have the advantage.

For fear I may be discovered, I shan't record the barb (but rest assured...it is sharp). Wish me luck Diary, I am off to practice in the mirror! And possibly give Frederick a bath.

With much love,
Y.P.M.