Deepest apologies for the time it took to post this adventure, but as we all know, it's been a challenging year.
Well, for the rest of you. For me, it's been more or less rusticating at my vast, rambling, historically significant, luxurious yet unfortunately named country estate of Palmerwood. Can't imagine why anyone would want to be anywhere else. Although I will own that doing battle with the implacable enemies of the Republic over Zoom is a bit tiresome.
Anyhow, last Christmas, things got a tad stressful--a time of tribulation and testing belied by the bucolic simplicity of 2020's Official Palmerwood Nonsectarian Midwinter's Holiday in the Religious And/Or Cultural Tradition of Your Choice or Background Card:
Accompanied, as always, by a short poem:
Well, anyhow, the preparations were being made, my youngest sons, the Junior Partners, Agreeable Louis J. and Assertive Emmanuel J., were plotting to kill me, and the hols, as they call them in Britain, were progressing apace. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Until, one day, while I was enjoying a brisk, tweed-clad midwinter's stroll through the northern reaches of the Estate, as is my wont, when...
I'd been out stomping over the vast estate, Palmerwood, like the well-heeled country-squire I am, when I stumbled across a suspicious patch of trodden-down grass littered with suggestive traces: empty "Bartles & Jaymes" bottles. Crumpled Benson & Hedges packs. A "KC and the Sunshine Band" CD.
"Great zounds!" I shrieked (but in a decidedly masculine fashion. Like, totes masculine). "Yeti-spoor, or I've never seen the like!"
My heart chilled by the onset of the great, lumbering, shaggy, nouveau-riche Arctic hominids, I began dashing across hill and dale in hopes of reaching my mansion before the Yetis did.
Leaping like a gazelle (but like a decidedly masculine gazelle. Like, totes butch), I heard behind me the roar of engines. MGs. IROC-Zs. Trans-Ams. Yeti conveyances.
"Must... reach... vast and luxurious manor-house... before... Yetis do," I panted. "They always... come... empty-handed. They'll... never... leave and they'll drink up... all... the good... liquor."
I burst through the massive oaken doors of the mansion like gangbusters, startling my dimwitted but devoted manservant, Cubbings, so badly that he dropped the ancient, priceless Assyrian vase he was polishing, which drops to the floor and shatters.
"CUBBINGS!!!" I shrieked (but in a masculine fashion. Like, totes masculine). "THEY'RE HERE. THEY'RE HERE!!!"
"Who, sir?" Cubbings trembled. "The IRS auditors?"
"No, the... wait, what?" I demanded. "What auditors? What have you heard?"
"Never mind, sir," Cubbings said. "Who?"
"WHO?!? WHO?!?" I howled, sounding remarkably like Attorney General William Barr. "WHO ALWAYS SHOWS UP THIS TIME OF YEAR? WHO ALWAYS COMES LUMBERING DOWN FROM THE FAR ARCTIC MOUNTAINOUS REACHES OF THE ESTATE, STAY TOO LONG, DRINK UP ALL THE GOOD LIQUOR, GET SHNOCKERED AND INSIST ON SINGING CHRISTMAS CAROLS AT THE TOPS OF THEIR LUNGS, AND ALWAYS COME EMPTY-HANDED EVEN THOUGH THEY KNOW DAMN WELL THAT ENTENMANN'S CRUMBLE-TOP COFFEE CAKE IS MY FAVORITE?!?"
"Gracious Heavenly Days," Cubbings gasped. "The Yetis!"
"QUICK, CUBBINGS!" I shouted. "I'm not entertaining them THIS year. READY THE HEAVY-DUTY EXCUSES!!!!"
Suddenly, I had an epiphany--one which is bext expressed in verse.
With abject apologies to ol' Dr. Seuss,The yetis were coming and I had no excuse.The yetis were coming for a big Yuletide fest,And I had no way to dodge unwelcome guests.
"And they'll drink all the liquor! They'll eat all the food!They'll stay way too late, which is terribly rude!Why, for fifty long years I've put up with it now!I must stop these yetis from coming! But how?"
Then I got an idea! An awful idea!I got a wonderful, awful idea!
"It's the year 2020! I've got my way out!And it's sitting here waiting, just under my snout!It just hit me as hard as those bulls in Pamplona:I'll tell those damn yetis I've come down with the 'Rona!"
"Terrible houseguests," I moaned. "Horrific classless nouveau-riche bounders. Always come empty-handed. If they MUST descend upon me, would it kill them to bring an Entenmann's Crumble-Top Coffee Cake, which they know damn well is my favorite?"
But the idea to dodge the holiday obligations by faking COVID-19 had burst like Pallas Athene full-grown from the skull of Zeus, and with a good will, I leapt wholeheartedly into the charade.
Now, decked out in my burgundy velvet double-breasted smoking jacket, my 1200-count Egyptian cotton pj's, my slippers, and an ice-pack for my phony fever, I felt ready.
"Let the momzers come," I growled around the Rothschild-sized Cuban Cohiba clenched between my full and sensuous lips. "Cast wide the magnificent oaken doors, Cubbings."
Now, although I am, probably, the most fearless person you know, I still tremble at the thought of having to entertain the Yetis each winter when the hulking brutes lumber forth from the far northern reaches of the estate and besiege, without invitation or encouragement, my obscenely luxurious mansion.
Plus, they always come empty-handed, even though they know damn well that Entenmann's crumble-top coffee-cake is my favorite.
Nevertheless, I was pretty confident that this year's tactic of faking the 'Rona will work. I adjusted the ice-pack on his head, straightened his lapels, and practiced a dry, hacking cough. Sounds good.
My feeble-minded but devoted manservant, Cubbings, trepidatiously threw open the vast oaken doors.
"And so it begins," I growled around the Rothschild-sized Cuban Cohiba clenched between my preternaturally white and even teeth (no braces. Ever. Good genes). "Showtime."
I steeled myself as the yeti horde, in a swirl of Oleg Cassini sport-coats, clouds of Paco Rabanne cologne, Benson & Hedges smoke, and Geoffrey Beene overcoats bustled through the foyer and into the South-Southwestern Gallery, where I customarily greet visitors to Palmerwood. Boy, you wouldn't believe some of the names who've been through here. You really wouldn't.
"What a pleasure to see you," I lied through his teeth. "Pity I'm slightly under the weather with this dry, hacking cough and low-grade fever. Also, I seem not to be able to taste anything. Which is odd."
"GAAAHHAHHAHHAHH!" howled the lead yeti, coming to a screeching halt. (I believe his name is Clyde. Or Warren. Maybe it's Ted, come to think of it. They all look alike, these hulking hirsute hominid holdovers from the Holocene. JP can't be expected to keep them all straight.) "HE'S GOT THE 'ROOOOOOONA!!!"
"No, no," I said in a weak and sickly voice (took a lot of practice, that weak and sickly voice. Usually my voice is the kind of stentorian baritone that inspires men to feats of heroism and melts women to quivering heaps of amorous jelly). "I'm fine. Probably just a head-cold. Here, get within six feet of me and let me breathe on you."
It must be admitted, I looked upon the hurried exodus of the yetis with no small satisfaction. Gosh all hemlock, did those rascals scamper like a possel of scalded cats.
"Cubbings," I drawled languidly to my dull-witted but steadfast manservant, "I call that a good day's work. It looks to be a merry non-sectarian midwinter's holiday after all. Be so good as to pour me a dram of Auld MacBlechaintochuan of 25 years."
I find, at times, minions, mere prose inadequate to express my feelings at certain intervals. It is in those moments when I turn to the immortal medium of poetry.
So, with apologies not only to Dr. Seuss but to Clement Clark Moore, the author of "The Night Before Christmas, I proffer my second poem of this installment of "Tales of Palmerwood":
"CUBBINGS!!!" I shrieked (but in a masculine fashion. Like, totes masculine). "THEY'RE HERE. THEY'RE HERE!!!"
"Who, sir?" Cubbings trembled. "The IRS auditors?"
"No, the... wait, what?" I demanded. "What auditors? What have you heard?"
"Never mind, sir," Cubbings said. "Who?"
"WHO?!? WHO?!?" I howled, sounding remarkably like Attorney General William Barr. "WHO ALWAYS SHOWS UP THIS TIME OF YEAR? WHO ALWAYS COMES LUMBERING DOWN FROM THE FAR ARCTIC MOUNTAINOUS REACHES OF THE ESTATE, STAY TOO LONG, DRINK UP ALL THE GOOD LIQUOR, GET SHNOCKERED AND INSIST ON SINGING CHRISTMAS CAROLS AT THE TOPS OF THEIR LUNGS, AND ALWAYS COME EMPTY-HANDED EVEN THOUGH THEY KNOW DAMN WELL THAT ENTENMANN'S CRUMBLE-TOP COFFEE CAKE IS MY FAVORITE?!?"
"Gracious Heavenly Days," Cubbings gasped. "The Yetis!"
"QUICK, CUBBINGS!" I shouted. "I'm not entertaining them THIS year. READY THE HEAVY-DUTY EXCUSES!!!!"
Suddenly, I had an epiphany--one which is bext expressed in verse.
"How I Planned to Get Out of Hosting the Yetis for the Nonsectarian Midwinter's Holiday."
A poem by JP.
With abject apologies to ol' Dr. Seuss,The yetis were coming and I had no excuse.The yetis were coming for a big Yuletide fest,And I had no way to dodge unwelcome guests.
"And they'll drink all the liquor! They'll eat all the food!They'll stay way too late, which is terribly rude!Why, for fifty long years I've put up with it now!I must stop these yetis from coming! But how?"
Then I got an idea! An awful idea!I got a wonderful, awful idea!
"It's the year 2020! I've got my way out!And it's sitting here waiting, just under my snout!It just hit me as hard as those bulls in Pamplona:I'll tell those damn yetis I've come down with the 'Rona!"
"Terrible houseguests," I moaned. "Horrific classless nouveau-riche bounders. Always come empty-handed. If they MUST descend upon me, would it kill them to bring an Entenmann's Crumble-Top Coffee Cake, which they know damn well is my favorite?"
But the idea to dodge the holiday obligations by faking COVID-19 had burst like Pallas Athene full-grown from the skull of Zeus, and with a good will, I leapt wholeheartedly into the charade.
Now, decked out in my burgundy velvet double-breasted smoking jacket, my 1200-count Egyptian cotton pj's, my slippers, and an ice-pack for my phony fever, I felt ready.
"Let the momzers come," I growled around the Rothschild-sized Cuban Cohiba clenched between my full and sensuous lips. "Cast wide the magnificent oaken doors, Cubbings."
Now, although I am, probably, the most fearless person you know, I still tremble at the thought of having to entertain the Yetis each winter when the hulking brutes lumber forth from the far northern reaches of the estate and besiege, without invitation or encouragement, my obscenely luxurious mansion.
Plus, they always come empty-handed, even though they know damn well that Entenmann's crumble-top coffee-cake is my favorite.
Nevertheless, I was pretty confident that this year's tactic of faking the 'Rona will work. I adjusted the ice-pack on his head, straightened his lapels, and practiced a dry, hacking cough. Sounds good.
My feeble-minded but devoted manservant, Cubbings, trepidatiously threw open the vast oaken doors.
"And so it begins," I growled around the Rothschild-sized Cuban Cohiba clenched between my preternaturally white and even teeth (no braces. Ever. Good genes). "Showtime."
I steeled myself as the yeti horde, in a swirl of Oleg Cassini sport-coats, clouds of Paco Rabanne cologne, Benson & Hedges smoke, and Geoffrey Beene overcoats bustled through the foyer and into the South-Southwestern Gallery, where I customarily greet visitors to Palmerwood. Boy, you wouldn't believe some of the names who've been through here. You really wouldn't.
"What a pleasure to see you," I lied through his teeth. "Pity I'm slightly under the weather with this dry, hacking cough and low-grade fever. Also, I seem not to be able to taste anything. Which is odd."
"GAAAHHAHHAHHAHH!" howled the lead yeti, coming to a screeching halt. (I believe his name is Clyde. Or Warren. Maybe it's Ted, come to think of it. They all look alike, these hulking hirsute hominid holdovers from the Holocene. JP can't be expected to keep them all straight.) "HE'S GOT THE 'ROOOOOOONA!!!"
"No, no," I said in a weak and sickly voice (took a lot of practice, that weak and sickly voice. Usually my voice is the kind of stentorian baritone that inspires men to feats of heroism and melts women to quivering heaps of amorous jelly). "I'm fine. Probably just a head-cold. Here, get within six feet of me and let me breathe on you."
It must be admitted, I looked upon the hurried exodus of the yetis with no small satisfaction. Gosh all hemlock, did those rascals scamper like a possel of scalded cats.
"Cubbings," I drawled languidly to my dull-witted but steadfast manservant, "I call that a good day's work. It looks to be a merry non-sectarian midwinter's holiday after all. Be so good as to pour me a dram of Auld MacBlechaintochuan of 25 years."
I find, at times, minions, mere prose inadequate to express my feelings at certain intervals. It is in those moments when I turn to the immortal medium of poetry.
So, with apologies not only to Dr. Seuss but to Clement Clark Moore, the author of "The Night Before Christmas, I proffer my second poem of this installment of "Tales of Palmerwood":
"The Night Before the Nonsectarian Midwinter's Holiday of Your Religious or Cultural Background or Choosing."
A second poem by JP.
I was right pleased that, all through my house,
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
I'd faked the 'Rona, with coughing and hacking,
And successfully sent the damn yetis a-packing.
Smugly, I'd sucked down a whiskey night-cap
And was just settling in for a long winter's nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
I sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
When what to my wondering eyes did appear
But something that clenched up my kishkes with fear.
All my good feelings were instantly gone
WHEN I SAW ALL THE YETIS A-GROUPED ON MY LAWN!!!!!!
"We're sorry, JP, you're in plague-quarantine,
But we'll give you the best holiday you've ever seen!
Since in terror we from your house went a-barreling,
We'll make it up to you with lots of loud caroling!
We'll stand outside your window and bellow in song,
AND WE'LL KEEP UP OUR CAROLING ALL WINTER LONG!!
Now, Warren! Now, Clyde! Now, Ted, and now Eddie!
LET'S GET THOSE WINDPIPES AND CAROLS ALL READY!"
"Oh God," I groaned, "this did NOT go as planned,
If under my window all winter they'll stand,
Belting out carols and harshing my mellow...
How COULD I have been such a dimwitted fellow?!"
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
I'd faked the 'Rona, with coughing and hacking,
And successfully sent the damn yetis a-packing.
Smugly, I'd sucked down a whiskey night-cap
And was just settling in for a long winter's nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter
I sprang from his bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
When what to my wondering eyes did appear
But something that clenched up my kishkes with fear.
All my good feelings were instantly gone
WHEN I SAW ALL THE YETIS A-GROUPED ON MY LAWN!!!!!!
"We're sorry, JP, you're in plague-quarantine,
But we'll give you the best holiday you've ever seen!
Since in terror we from your house went a-barreling,
We'll make it up to you with lots of loud caroling!
We'll stand outside your window and bellow in song,
AND WE'LL KEEP UP OUR CAROLING ALL WINTER LONG!!
Now, Warren! Now, Clyde! Now, Ted, and now Eddie!
LET'S GET THOSE WINDPIPES AND CAROLS ALL READY!"
"Oh God," I groaned, "this did NOT go as planned,
If under my window all winter they'll stand,
Belting out carols and harshing my mellow...
How COULD I have been such a dimwitted fellow?!"
I hadn't truly realized the depths of the horror of my predicament--yetis caroling outside my window--until I recalled this passage from "A Field Guide to Furry Hominids and Other Near-Human Species" (by Augustus Frotts, Ph.D. Paskudnyak & Sons Publishing Co. Waukepetonsett: 1967):
"One of the most singular, and, frankly, disturbing characteristics of Homo Annoyicus, the Common Yeti, is that, although they adore Christmas, they only know one Christmas song. That song is 'Silver Bells.' Perhaps even more irritating is that they only know two words of 'Silver Bells.' Those two words are 'silver bells.' Experienced travelers in the Himalayas or in the northern wooded reaches of a certain region in the Mississippi Valley of the lower Midwest know that, if they should hear the words 'silver bells' repeated over and over on a winter's night, and off-key, their single-malt Scotch whiskey and other luxuries are in grave danger."
Ladies and gentlemen, I was in a mighty tight spot.
Well, there was nothing to be done about it. The brutes were encamped beneath my window, and, buoyed by holiday cheer and lots of whiskey, there they'd stay all... season... long.
Morosely, I reflected on the perils of faking illness to get out of social engagements and entertaining. That's not to say I learned anything. Most likely, I'll try it again, because I'm a slow learner, but for the moment, I just had to cope with a chorus of yetis bellowing "Silver Bells" outside my window until the season lurched to a weary end.
"If only... if only," I sniffled to himself, "if only they'd been thoughtful enough to bring... an Entenmann's Crumble-Top coffee cake. Which they know damn well is my favorite."
Here's hoping your holidays ended on a more upbeat note than mine, minions!
Morosely, I reflected on the perils of faking illness to get out of social engagements and entertaining. That's not to say I learned anything. Most likely, I'll try it again, because I'm a slow learner, but for the moment, I just had to cope with a chorus of yetis bellowing "Silver Bells" outside my window until the season lurched to a weary end.
"If only... if only," I sniffled to himself, "if only they'd been thoughtful enough to bring... an Entenmann's Crumble-Top coffee cake. Which they know damn well is my favorite."
Here's hoping your holidays ended on a more upbeat note than mine, minions!
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