Fingerpainting
Ever since the Great Wall of China was put up, we've all had a certain morbid fascination with fingerpainting. I know that as a child, I was forced to paint picture after picture of birds and trestles, until I could stand it no longer. It made me the monster I am today. Y'all see, way back in the 70s, fingerpainting was the only fashionable way to make a quick buck. Down at the broadwalk, I would fingerpaint as Edmonde danced for Roosevelt dimes, playing his benchmark accordion. The people would stop and laugh, and I'd hand them poorly crafted works of postmodernist art; sometimes they'd let me take their boats for a spin.
But mostly, they'd just tip Edmonde while I sat in his shadow, peeling pecans. Once, and I remember this distinctly, a fat man in a red suit with a white beard came by. He saw how dehydrated I was and tried to give me a bowl of water, but Edmonde chased him off, yelling "Thief! Thief!" I never saw that man again, but I've always hoped he'd return to finish the job. I even built a little shrine out of an old barrel, so that I could practice various forms of primeval meditation. You know that I'm a spiritual guru, don't you? I mean, I've said it plenty of times that I am. Four years ago I won an award for being so spiritual, from the polytheists of Connecticut themselves.
Connecticut has always been a place of perpetual renewal. Though their polytheism is looked down on by the New Hampshirites and Vermontiers, by the light of the harvest moon, they're exquisite fingerpainters. The state seal of Connecticut itself is a patchwork of handprints from over 50 generations of corn-shucking pilgrims, starting with the colony's founder, Colonel Chickenpox the First. The Colonel Chickenpox I work with (or as he's more commonly known, "Bohemius B. Barnstrom") is the last descendant of Connecticut's royal scion (excluding his children and grandchildren). Blue blood flows though the colonel's veins, chocking him full o' fingerpaintin' ancestral power. Even now, the urge to fingerpaint... overwhelms his military sensibilities. It's not like he hasn't been overwhelmed like this before... back in the Crimea, his fingerpainting gave away his position and led his entire cavalry unit to be captured by wild turkeys. Not Turks, but actual turkeys. They've got quite the revolutionary movement going on, in the hidden barnyard underworld.
But mostly, they'd just tip Edmonde while I sat in his shadow, peeling pecans. Once, and I remember this distinctly, a fat man in a red suit with a white beard came by. He saw how dehydrated I was and tried to give me a bowl of water, but Edmonde chased him off, yelling "Thief! Thief!" I never saw that man again, but I've always hoped he'd return to finish the job. I even built a little shrine out of an old barrel, so that I could practice various forms of primeval meditation. You know that I'm a spiritual guru, don't you? I mean, I've said it plenty of times that I am. Four years ago I won an award for being so spiritual, from the polytheists of Connecticut themselves.
Connecticut has always been a place of perpetual renewal. Though their polytheism is looked down on by the New Hampshirites and Vermontiers, by the light of the harvest moon, they're exquisite fingerpainters. The state seal of Connecticut itself is a patchwork of handprints from over 50 generations of corn-shucking pilgrims, starting with the colony's founder, Colonel Chickenpox the First. The Colonel Chickenpox I work with (or as he's more commonly known, "Bohemius B. Barnstrom") is the last descendant of Connecticut's royal scion (excluding his children and grandchildren). Blue blood flows though the colonel's veins, chocking him full o' fingerpaintin' ancestral power. Even now, the urge to fingerpaint... overwhelms his military sensibilities. It's not like he hasn't been overwhelmed like this before... back in the Crimea, his fingerpainting gave away his position and led his entire cavalry unit to be captured by wild turkeys. Not Turks, but actual turkeys. They've got quite the revolutionary movement going on, in the hidden barnyard underworld.
--The Taker of Gist | 6:55 PM
3 broke it down:
Bohemius B. Barnstrom? Is that one of them psuedo names?
Did you ever know the King of Town?
Edmonde is going to hell for chasing Santa off like that.
Sometimes it's not enough that you tell Edmonde to stop chasing Santa with a golf cart. You also need to have a degree in meteorology and a gullet of fish.
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