Changing of the Guard

For Sharon, Esther, Josiah and Raine the Paine

(with apologies to A. A. Milne, Christopher, Pooh (the swan and the bear), and especially Hoo)

Brought to you by Simpers, the disposable diaper favored by Beefeaters everywhere.

Author's foreward:

This is NOT, repeat NOT, a political statement. Like most of my work, it has a "life" of its own, and surprised even me with the ending.

They're changing the guard at Buckingham Palace
 Christopher Robin was told by Alice
  They're going to throw the old ones away
   And install the newer models today
    Said Alice.

We'll scavenge some guards from Buckingham Palace
 Christopher Robin shouted to Alice
  The old ones have dried out from too much sun
   And their marching's as rusty as their old guns,
    Dear Alice.

We'll fix up the guards from Buckingham Palace
 Christopher Robin heard from Alice
  Though their hats are growing a black fuzzy mold
   To us they'll be worth their weight in gold
    Said Alice.

Go grab us a dozen from Buckingham Palace
 We'll use them to clean up the yard said Alice
  We'll have them do dishes and pick up the floor
   I won't lift a finger again for a chore
    Sang Alice.

They're KEEPING the guards at Buckingham Palace
 Christopher Robin heard sobbed by Alice
  They've oiled them all, hydrated them, too
   And I've heard they're coming to look for you
    Shrieked Alice.

Say hi to the guards from Buckingham Palace
 Christoper Robin whispered to Alice
  And don't press the trigger until they arrive
   I'm ever so sorry that you'll not survive
    Dear Alice.

You do hate the guards at Buckingham Palace
 Christopher Robin, I know, said Alice
  But why leave me tied in this house with a nuke
   And expect me to die here like some kind of kook?
    Cried Alice.

I do hate the guards from Buckingham Palace
 My name's really Shamus O'Leary, dear Alice
  I'll never be getting a shot at the queen
   With all of those silly old guards in between,
    My Alice.

They were changing the guards at Buckingham Palace
 When numerous pieces of Shamus and Alice
  Came raining down in a nuclear glow
   Thanks to a patriot you'll never know
    Named Alice.

Copyright 1989, 1993 Miles O'Neal, Austin, TX. All rights reserved.

Probably the World's Only Song About Gall Stones

This was written on the fly in one take and recorded on my desktop keyboard in the office. Sorry about the quality; you may need to squint to hear it. They always say, "We'll fix it in the mix" but that almost never works.

(Fast paced, modern country song with prominent guitars)

Mama had her gall stones out;
She kept them in a jar.
They looked like big, fat olives
So I put them on the bar.

One day we found our drunk Aunt Tess
Unconscious on the floor...
Mama saw the empty jar
And bolted for the door!

Daddy called up nine one one.
They came and got Aunt Tess.
While she was in the ambulance
She threw up on her dress.

They pumped her out and dumped the stones
In a bio-hazard bin,
But she could smell the alcohol
And downed them all again!

(guitar break: 16 bars sizzling telecaster,
16 bars soaring steel guitar, 16 bars duel and duet)

Tess no longer drinks martinis,
Mom feels really bad.
But Tess told me, "Those olives were
The best I ever had!"

"Nothing can compare with those."
But soon she'll have some more;
The doc took my gall bladder out,
And I'm still kinda sore.

My stones are all the size and shape
My Mom remembers well.
I'll put the jar upon the bar
And never, ever tell!

(guitar solo, fade)

Dedicated to Betty Castleberry, who wrote in her blog that there are no songs about gall stones.

Old Age and Treachery, Lesson 1

A friend (let's call him Jack) who is hardly a senior citizen was given a senior citizen "free drink" at a fast food chain today. He then observed:

"Just try and get a refill. The machine is behind the counter and all of these young whippersnappers are ahead of me..."

My response? ``If you have chosen to grow up (you fool!) you must learn the wisdom of the ages: "Old age and treachery beats youth and skill every time."''

This (true) example above is an easy introduction into this way of thinking. Let's first take the case where the soda machine is not behind the counter, simply because the reaction is more fun.

Jack: "Look out! There's a brown recluse on that handle!"
(stampede away from the machine)
Jack: "You have to drown them in Diet Dr. Pepper. I'll just refill my cup and..." (refill) "...flick her in..." (flick imaginary spider into cup). "Now, you wait three seconds, and she's dead and neutralized, and you don't even have to waste the drink!" (slurp)
(Youngster's eyes get really wide. At least one goes, "Gross!")

But in Jack's case, where the soda machine is behind the counter, the basic strategy still works.

Jack: "Look out! There's a brown recluse on that handle!"
(crowd moves nervously back from the counter)
Jack: "Sorry,. my mistake. That's just a speck on the handle. But since I'm here, more Diet Dr. Pepper, please!"

Diamonds Are A Girl's Worst Nightmare

I found out a little while back you can have your dearly departed's ashes compressed into a diamond. Seriously!

I got to wondering... If a guy's wife died, would he want to keep her around as a different sort of jewel than before? Then it hit me. What if he remarried? He could save money on an engagement ring and keep both wives! If he had the old one set into a new ring, that would be the old and new thing his new bride wore for the ceremony. "Yes, honey, that diamond is like a part of the family."

Of course, if she ever found out, he might end up with his former wife embedded in his forehead. This would give new meaning to the phrase, "always on my mind".

Or a Mom could give her former hubbie to her daughter at the point boys started noticing her. "Just remember, baby, your Daddy is always right there with you."

I am assuming, of course, that the raw material for each diamond is legally cremated. But if this technology fell into the wrong hands we could start seeing illegal diamond labs. Criminals, unhappy spouses, politicians, and parents who don't get their teenagers would love this. Pawn shops would be full of people who simply disappeared. You can't get DNA from a diamond.

Therefore I propose that the government turn this whole thing over to the same National Security Agency team responsible for disappearing the 100MPH carburetor. Soon the idea of turning Aunt Suzy into a diamond would be seen as just another conspiracy theory.

Aunt Suzy will sleep a lot better.

Don't Sit Under the Hippo Tree With Anyone Else But Me

I would love to publish this, but it's a kid's story, and I'm not sure anyone in their right mind would print it, at least before I'm a highly sought after author.

It was a beautiful spring day. The birds were blooming, the flowers were singing.

It was a great day to be in love.

Dave and Ginger went for a stroll in the fields and woods near the palace. They ended up, as always, in the great orchard.

Somehow, they always ended up under the hippo tree. Today was no different.

As Dave gazed down at Ginger, she looked up in return. Her eyes widened with joy. "Look!" she exclaimed, "The hippos are ripe!"

Indeed they were. They gazed fondly up at the hippos squirming amidst the leaves. Soon they would be falling, to prance off gaily in search of the nearby river.

Dave led Ginger to the base of the tree. He spread out his cloak and they sat down under an especially ripe hippo, the biggest they had ever seen. Tenderly he kissed her brow, then pulled out a small box. "For you."

Her face lit up with a smile; it put the sun to shame. As she opened it, a diamond glistened from a golden ring. "Will you marry me, Ginger?"

Ginger gasped. She looked deep into Dave's eyes and opened her mouth to reply.

The full, ripe hippo fell with a loud plop onto the lovers and their cloak.

ILLUSTRATOR'S NOTES
Ginger has the elegance and looks of Ginger from Gilligan's Island but her personality and demeanor are more like Mary Ann (but slightly less perky).
Dave is a tall, lean but muscular, dark haired cowboy who went to a university and started wearing polos.

 

Copyright 2013 Triple R Publishing, Round Rock, TX.

---

I went back to this for some reason and started thinking about who I would want to cast in the movie version. (Yes, I realize it would be a very short movie-- even shorter than Hardware Wars, but at least it would be longer than Bambi vs Godzilla.)

Dave: Spencer Davis
Ginger: Joanie Anderson
Hippos: my nieces and nephews, with me in a cameo
Falling hippo: a piñata

If we were forced to use big names, I would be tempted to go with Brad and Angela, looking for the intensity they brought to Mr. and Mrs. Smith. I would use piñatas for the hippos, and Tim Conway as the falling hippo. My cameo would require my death as I would be the diamond in the ring.

Who would you cast? Would you have a cameo?

Life of Pie

(Inspired by Leigh Ballinger's constantly taunting me with pictures of pies.)

Pie's earliest memories were of extreme heat. Gradually he became aware of a red-orange glow. He grew and his skin toughened. Suddenly, the light changed. Cooler air washed over him. He shivered. Something fuzzy grabbed him and he flew through the air to land softly on a veritable ocean of wires. The great vessel in which he had lived was gone. He felt shipwrecked.

Pie was roused from sleep by noises. He was saved! A boy crept up from Pie's left. A tiger crept from his right. Surely one of these would help him, perhaps both!

The boy made a sound Pie didn't recognize, a snarl. The tiger replied with a louder version. The boy whipped out something bright and sharp and dangerous, a knife! The tiger unsheathed several dark and dangerous claws. Each moved closer, still snarling. Pie was confused; how would this help him get back into a nice, warm vessel to go home?

The boy, closer than the tiger, leaped suddenly, the knife descending. Sharp pain split Pie from one side to the other. By the time the tiger got to Pie, the boy had pulled half of him out of his metal exoskeleton. The tiger took the rest.

Rapidly finishing, the boy and the tiger licked their lips, grinned at one another, and fled the ship's kitchen before the baker returned.

THE END.

The Case of the Missing Balloon

On Valentine's Day each year for some time now, Sharon has snuck a gift into my office, or at my current job left it at the security desk. Last year was no different; she brought a giant, helium-filled frog that barely sat on the ground and hopped when I towed him, attached to a dozen, large, bright red, heart shaped balloons.

As usual, I put him up on my top shelf in my cube.

Meanwhile, our upper management, realizing that some people had been working long hours and forgotten to get their Significant Other anything for the holiday, brought in bunches of flowers, candy and cards for the miscreants to take home. Our CEO announced this in an email beginning, "In many ways I think it is the company's best interests to help our employees achieve a reasonably high level of domestic tranquility." The man has wisdom beyond his years.

Not having forgotten the holiday, I didn't need anything, which was a good thing, as the scene downstairs afterward was a wasteland; the marcomm group handling distribution looked stunned and a bit frightened.

Sitting at my desk the next morning, happily working away, our travel person (let's call her Carol) walked by. She smiled and said, "I took one of your balloons last night."

I laughed. "No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did!"

"Nonsense, there are still twelve..." I counted. Eleven. I counted again. "Oh, so you did. Why?"

"I wanted a little extra something for my husband. But you don't know how many balloons there are!"

"Of course I do. My wife sent me a dozen."

"She did not! You got those downstairs!"

"No, they didn't have balloons."

Consternation. "Are you serious?"

Steve popped his head over the cube wall. "They didn't have balloons. Those are from his wife."

"Oh, no! I thought you just grabbed a bunch of extras from downstairs!"

I teased her a bit, then realized she was really upset. I assured her it was no big deal. I thought it was funny. So, of course, did Sharon when I told her.

The next morning when I got to work, there were two really nice, red roses in a wine bottle. Carol had felt so bad she wanted to try to make it up to me! "I'd have brought it back, but I had written on it with a Sharpie[tm]." (She didn't say, "[tm]".)

She must have apologized a dozen times that day.

The frog is now flat, like roadkill. I released the rest of the balloons into the wild (either outside to disappear into the sky, or inside with their ribbons trimmed so they floated around about chest high). The roses withered and wandered off into a trash can.

The wine bottle sits on my desk. I still grin when I look at it.