Samantha Torse Models for Donaldson's Department Store.

Samantha Torse was selected by Cloverdale's Donaldson's Department Story to model the finest in children's winter fashion. Donaldsons advertised the job opening in the Confederacy Times two Sunday's ago. At 5:00 A.M. the following Monday, thirty four mothers were lined up with their children at the department store's staff entrance. Mrs. Torse, a former child model herself for the Salvation Army Thrift Stores, was first in line - determined to secure a modeling position for her daughter.

Samantha was snatched from a deep slumber at 4:00 A.M. so she could be scrubbed clean, made up, dressed to the nines, wrapped in plastic wrap and rushed to the store to be first in line. Once inside, the girls were interviewed in alphabetical order. That gave Samantha's mother time to survey the competition. Half way through the line Mrs. Torse realized that her attempt to make her daughter glamorous might not be what the store wanted. The girls coming out of the interview were all made up to look older. Some were seriously over painted, a common mistake made by new modeling mothers. Those poor girls looked like they drank heavily, chained smoked and spent most evenings down at the docks waiting for the sailors to come into port.

Mrs. Torse thought long and hard while she polished her daughter's teeth with Vaseline. She stood and walked over to the advertising poster to carefully reread what it said. It stated that Donaldson's was looking for a young girl to model their children's winter fashions. Mrs. Torse reread the words 'young girl'. She rushed back to Samantha, took out her WetWipes and started removing layer after layer of make up. A few moments later Samantha was called in. Ten minutes after that mother and daughter walked out with the job. The 'no make up look' was just what they were looking for.

In the picture above Samantha is wearing a beautiful woolen coat from the department store's Dr. Zhivago Line of children's outer wear. The picture was taken near Victory Fountain in Capital City. Mrs. Torse couldn't be more proud of her daughter. This displaced pride motivated her to search the attic for her old Salvation Army modeling pictures. She found them in the box labeled 'junk'. They now hang throughout the Torse home.

The Torses are so proud. What started as Mrs. Torse's humble photo shoot using a donated instamatic camera for the local Salvation Army Thrift Store turned into the daughter's professional shoot for Donaldson's Department Store using a digital camera with multiple flashes and lenses. All in one generation.

Confederacy Times. Your Daily Funny

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Alexander Runs for Student Body President on the Republican Ticket.

This Picture hangs in the School's foyer and Lunchroom. It announces the Candidacy of
Alexander Mulligan Lords for Student Body President.

Alexander Mulligan Lords announced his candidacy for Confederacy Elementary School’s Student Body President for school year 2009-2010. He is a sixth grade honor student in Ms. Abigail Martin’s class and Chairman of the school's Young Republicans Club. His announcement was made yesterday during morning recess. In his speech, Alexander spoke on the theme of Change. Several times during his two minute speech he used the catch phrase of the American President Barrack Obama “Yes We Can!” The chant was quickly picked up by his audience of 19 fifth and sixth graders. Mysteriously there were few boys in the gathering. Most of the boys were found on the school’s lawn playing soccer and flag football.

“Yes We Can take back our school from an administration that doesn’t care about us kids,” Alexander was quoted as saying. “Yes We Can push for a four day school week with longer lunch time and extra recesses. Yes We Can put a cap on spending. Here we are spending a fortune on textbooks when the school governors could buy us all laptops. Think of the savings. Think of the paper saved. Think of the rain forests. Think of the little furry animals that run around in those forests.” The girls all clapped. A few standing closest to him screamed. It appeared Alexander had won over their minds, and more importantly, their hearts.

“He’s hot,” Emmileea Boones said when asked why she supported young Alexander’s quest for the presidency. All the girls in her circle near the tether ball court agreed.
“He’s the cutest boy in the whole school,” Kim Chun added. When asked if she understood what he stood for, she replied,”I just like looking at him. He sits opposite me during math. I’m failing because I can’t pay attention to Miss Blotchman. How can I concentration on math with him right in front of me?” Again, the girls in this unorganized Alexander Mulligan Lord’s Fan Club agreed that it would be impossible for them to focus on school if he sat beside them.

I was able to arrange a one on one interview with Alexander through his press secretary, sixth grader Daintha Pipplewhite. It cost me a sheet of unicorn stickers as a bribe. It seems bribery and education go hand in hand at Confederacy Elementary. Many of these children work hard in school only for the increase in allowance the Headmistress recommends to the parents. She believes schools should mimic the real world. She reasons that if adults get paid to go to work then children should be paid to go to school.
“To the workers go the spoils,” she says every morning during announcements.

“What do you think about the controversy regarding pay for grades at Confederacy Elementary,” I asked Mr. Lords during my interview during lunch. It was hard to hear his answer because of the ever present noise of a school lunch room.
He put his corndog down and thought for a moment. Then he pulled out an ipod touch from his jacket pocket.
“I bought this because of my straight A’s,” he said. “Now, take away the money and I take away my interest. Money talks in this world and bullcrap walks.”

A sixth grade boy sitting next to him corrected him, saying the world wasn’t bullcrap but bull...... I won’t include the word because it could offend our gentle readers. I’ll just say I was shocked to hear it come from the lips of the Lutheran pastor’s son.
“You see, education is all mixed up,” Alexander continued. “I just want to make money. Show me what I need to do to make money and I’ll do it. You can keep your social studies and math and english and everything else.”
“Except PE and recess,” Freckled face Tubby Moresby chimed in. Of course it brought a full round of laughter from the table. One boy laughed so hard milk poured out of his nose. That brought another hard fit of laughter. It got so bad the custodian shut off the cafeteria lights to try to regain discipline. it was useless. Things were spiraling out of control.

“Quiet!” came a strong shout from the dark. The room fell silent. The lights came back on. Alexander stood on the table before me staring at the other students. I was amazed at the power he seemed to have over the children.

“They really listen to you,” I said after he sat back down to continue eating his red jello crowned with artificial whipped cream.
“I’ve got ‘em. Kids don’t like to think. They’re naturally stupid. They follow me because they want me to become their friend and friends become more important than parents as kids get older. This gives me more power than their parents. Scary isn’t it?” he said as he stood to take his leave for recess.

The second he stood up two fourth graders were at his side wanting to take and empty his tray. He thanked them and produced a Tootsie Roll for each from his pocket. He went to the outside door and waited. He whistled, The migration started. Nearly one fourth of the children (mostly girls) in the cafeteria stood to leave, some had just sat down to eat their lunch. I noticed most of them wore a badge made of red construction paper pinned to their shirts. The badge said “Yes We Can” followed by a picture of a broken chain drawn by crayon.

Alexander smiled as he exited the lunchroom for his appointments outdoors. His campaign manager arranged for a tour of the playground with stops at the Big Toy to take questions and hand out Tootsie Rolls to the kindergartners through third graders. Another stop was organized on the north lawn. His schedule called for seven minutes of flag football with the other sixth grade boys. Recent polls taken by the sixth grade advanced math class indicated Alexander was slipping in his support from the average sixth grade boy. A few minutes with the boys should reestablished his athletic reputation (he was the quarterback on the Confederacy Hawks Flag Football Team). Once his position as the Alpha Male was back in place, Alexander could spend the rest of the recess in talks with the playground monitors arranging for a couple extra minutes of recess.

Alexander seems ready to take the helm at Confederacy Elementary. The teachers seem oblivious to this rising challenge to their authority. They paid no notice to his call for lay offs and the savings diverted to the Pay for Grades Scheme for the kids. The teachers see him as a harmless fly they wave away if his path comes too close. Alexander is fine with that. His campaign strategy expects apathy - until of course its too late and he is elected. Only then will they experience the full force of Cloverdale’s Alexander Mulligan Lords.

Confederacy Times. Your Daily Funny

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Dinner with the Franz Jordans

Dinner at the Franz Jordans of 45 Wilma Avenue, Cloverdale is something never to be missed. They are a couple that love to have fun with their food as evident in this picture taken at a dinner party for the couple’s special friends last Tuesday.

During the day Samantha Jordan is the librarian at Confederacy Elementary in Cloverdale. Franz is a butcher at the Red Owl Grocery Store. They met each other three years ago at a Wizard of Oz convention in Capital City. Samantha was dressed like Auntie Em. Franz as the Cowardly Lion. They both were invited to moderate a special panel discussion on the influence of The Wizard of Oz to the world created by JK Rowling. They claim it was love at first site.

Friends, I give you the Franz Jordans. It’s people like this that make Cloverdale such a special and happy place.

Cloverdale's Confederacy Time's Funnies Section

Tina's Wild Ride

The Martin Family of 231 Cottonthorn Way, Cloverdale celebrated Tina Martin’s 10th birthday last night. After enjoying birthday cake and ice cream Mr. Martin loaded the PVan with the party goers (Tina and her best friend Julie along with Tina’s younger brother and sister) and set out to entertain. Money was tight so Mr. Martin knew whatever they did had to be cheap.

He spent most of the day pondering the problem. Finally, one hour before the party began Mr. Martin stumbled upon an idea. while driving to the Piggly Wiggly to pick up ice cream and cones. Mr. Martin works as a pot hole technician for the Shire Road Works. He knows where the biggest and deepest pot holes are located. On his way to the Piggly Wiggly Mr. Martin hit one of the pot holes. He wasn’t wearing his seat belt. The impact sent him out of his seat causing his head and the roof of the car to come into direct contact. The party idea came to him at that moment.

After the refreshments Mr. Martin stood to announce the next part of the birthday party. He told them they were going on a roller coaster ride around the Shire. Of course all three jumped up and down with excitement. Little Mertle Martin was too young to understand. She sat in her high chair and chewed on her left big toe.

For the next hour Tina Martin with her friend and family enjoyed the best party ever. They experienced the worst pot holes the Shire could produce (and at this time of year there were plenty to go around). They were thrown about the interior of the Van like popcorn on a hot kettle. Not one injury to report except for little Sam’s swollen lip.

Finally, after saving the best pothole (which was three inches short of being labeled a sink hole) for last, the party started for home. Mr. Martin noticed the PVan was acting strangely but he paid it no heed. It was an old van and had seen worse in its day. He was just happy to be called the best daddy in the whole world by his precious little 10 year old Tina. It was a birthday she’d never forget.

Cloverdale Weekend Televison. Songs of Praise. Holiday Celebrations

The Vienna Boys Choir singing Maria Wanders Through the Thorn

Maria walks amid the thorn,
Kyrieleison!
Which for seven years no leaf hath born
She walks amid the wood of thorn
Jesus and Maria.

What ‘neath her heart does Mary bear?
Kyrieleison!
A little child doth Mary bear
Beneath her heart he nestles there.
Jesus and Maria.

And as the two are passing near
Kyrieleison!
Lo! Roses on the thorns appear!
Jesus and Maria.

Cloverdale Receives the H1N1 "Swine Flu" Vaccine

The Cloverdale Shire Health Department announces the delivery of the much anticipated H1N1 vaccine. The special shipment arrived yesterday evening on the Coastal Express. A crowd of eleven was on hand protesting the delay in the vaccine’s delivery. Morse Clubbard spoke on behalf of the protesters.

“We have people sick with the swine flu right now. People didn’t need to get the disease, but they did because we didn’t have the vaccine.” A general grunt of agreement washed over the crowd. Morse smiled at this sudden interest everyone was talking in his speech. Under normal conditions Morse would hardly be noticed at all.

Morse continued, “I blame the Swiss and Americans. The Swiss are to blame for being in bed with the Americans. The Americans are to blame for hogging all the swine vaccine,” Morse paused momentarily as he waited for his pun to take effect. After several seconds into an awkward pause, Morse continued. “What’s a Dunce to do? After giving this a great deal of thought, I’ve settled on a course of action. We boycott Swiss chocolate. That will get their attention.”

Morse raised his finger to silent an already silent gathering. Once he regained the attention he never lost, Morse pulled out a rather nicely packaged Toblerone Swiss Chocolate bar. He held it overhead.
“Today, we tell the Swiss to shove it. We don’t need their vaccines and we definitely don’t need their chocolate!”

Morse broke the bar in half. The crowd continued in silence, except for the barely audible gasps from the two elderly Milduw Spinsters. They were at the station’s package claim window waiting for a parcel of nicely sewn doilies that arrived on the same train as the vaccine. The sisters clutched each other’s arms in fear of being caught in a crowd showing such a disregard for civility. They collected their package and quickly moved to the back of the station’s waiting room and then out the door onto Station Street. Both sisters were so shaken by the experience they stopped at the Kicking Donkey on their way home for a pint of Cloverdale’s famous Scampy Ale to calm their nerves.

“The Swiss are Swindlers!” Morse shouted over and over again, hoping the crowd would pick up the chant. Some did but quickly became tongue tied. The chant died out as quickly as it started. Morse saw he was loosing the crowd’s attention. It was time to take the demonstration to the next level. He remembered watching Cloverdale Weekend Television's Special on the Anniversary of the American Embassy siege in Iran. An idea sprang from that memory.

“Those greedy Americans have all the vaccine. Look!” Morse pointed to Cloverdale’s two constables who were removing a small package from the train. One held the package while the other stood with a baton in hand to deal with unpleasantness.
Morse continued, “We have thirty doses. Thirty doses for all of us in this village. Who’s going to get it? Who will make that decision? It’s the Shire Health Department. America put us in this mess. America is responsible for all our problems. I’ve only one thing to say. Death to America! Death to America!”

The chant traveled from Morse’s lips and into the crowd of eleven where it was picked up by five year old Molly Muse, recently diagnosed with ADD. The rest of the crowd followed Molly’s example. Soon all eleven were shouting in unison “Death to America”.

Constable Willard became alarmed. In addition to his baton, he produced a can of pepper spray and threatened to use it on anyone that ‘got out of control’. The two constables exited the station and walked toward the village offices. The crowd followed them down Station Street shouting “Death to America”.

Demonstrations in Cloverdale are rare. A demonstration against America was unheard of. Everyone in the Confederacy of Dunces knew that America held a larger population of Dunces that the Confederacy itself. Chanting “Death of America” was like cussing out your own kin.

Half way down Station Street another crowd formed. This counter demonstration was composed of people exiting the pubs and restaurants, most still carrying their beverage of choice. These people were shouting “We Love America. We love the Beatles. We love rock and roll”. Their enthusiasm may have been caused by a bit too much too drink. The situation quickly spiraled out of control. The two constables were sandwiched between two competing forces. Constable Willard panicked and released several shots of pepper spray. Unfortunately he directed the spray into the Anti American group, which was upwind from his position. The spray blew back into the constable's faces. Their reaction to the pepper spray was immediate. Constable Jones dropped the package of vaccine.

The street fell silent except for the groans of those recovering from the pepper spray. Everyone stood staring at the package carrying the precious vials of H1N1 vaccine. Then, someone from the anti American crowd made a move for the vaccine and all heck broke loose. Everyone rushed to get their hands on the vials. Fists flew, hair was pulled, noses bloodied. The Constables sprang into action and emptied their cans of pepper spray to no affect. For awhile it seemed Cloverdale was doomed to descend into the abyss of chaos and anarchy. Many onlookers thought it was the end of civilization as they had known it.

The sound of a playground whistle rang over the assembly. The fighting slowed to a stop. Everyone in the gathering recognized that sound. It sent chills up their spines. Mrs. Tulla Trish, Confederacy Elementary's 83 year old former school headmistress, descended the steps of her modest two bedroom bungalow. She was blowing the very same whistle used to get her student's attention throughout her fifty years of teaching the children of Cloverdale, many of whom were present in the crowd.

“Shame on you all. Shame!” she shouted at the top of her 83 year old lungs. She hobbled her way into the street and pushed everyone back with the end of her cane. The crowd opened, freeing the disheveled constables.
“Move along, move along,” she warned. The constables picked up what was left of the package and ran for the village office. Mrs. Trish stayed behind with cane held high threatening to thump anyone that followed.

The demonstration was over. The vaccine was delivered. The following day it was administered to the children of Cloverdale at school. Mrs. Tulla Trish was honored as a hero by the parents of Cloverdale and vilified as a villain by the children on the receiving end of the needle. It appeared old Dr. Plopman’s hands aren’t as steady as they once were.

Cloverdale's Pink Motel

In 1942 Clive and Madge Sniffer moved to Cloverdale from the Other World. In those days Cloverdale was missing several of the finer amenities one would expect from a village along Highway 1. For example, back then Cloverdale didn't have a Dairy Queen, a motel or a coin operated laundry. Any community expecting to be included on a road map should have those three things. They compromise the basic standards necessary for a village to call itself a community. They are the three pillars modern civilization is founded upon. Can you imagine anything better than stopping at a Dairy Queen for a Chocolate Dipped Cone and a burger after a long day on a lonely stretch of highway? Further down the road you discover a nice roadside motel with joining laundromat. You leave the village the next morning with clean clothes and rested from a comfortable night's sleep.

In 1942 Cloverdalew was missing a Dairy Queen, a motel and a laundromat. Visitors to the village had a choice of either staying in one of the Kicking Donkey’s three private rooms above the Bar or Mrs. Lather’s Bed and Breakfast. Each location had favorable points and each had certain qualities not usually thought of as positive. The rooms above the bar were noisy and lacked clean linen. There was also the issue regarding connivence's. Overnight guests at the Kicking Donkey had to use the pub’s public restrooms located on the ground level.

Guests at Mrs. Lather’s Bed and Breakfast had access to private toilets. What they didn’t have was privacy. Mrs. Lather was a lonely widow and enjoyed three hour talks with her guests. Now I say talks only because she did all the talking and you did all the listening. Wo be to anyone caught in her web.

In addition to the hours of memories, her guests had to contend with the cats. She loved cats and took in all strays. Cat hairs covered every possible square inch of the B and B, including the linen and your meals.

On a warm day in August, 1942, an old Buick drove into town carrying the Sniffers. The back seat and trunk were filled with luggage. Clive was discharged from the American army with a war wound. He took a bullet in the tongue. Its a story never told. Clive was 19. Madge was 16. They looked for a motel to spend the night on their way to Tamworth on Tide. They ended up at Mrs. Lathers. The following day they were in the village office filing papers for a building permit to build Cloverdale's first motel.

One year later, after using all their savings and a generous loan from Madge’s parents, the Sniffers opened The Pink Motel. Folks from as far away as Dibley in the Downs and Fernwood on the Moor came to see this history making event. Many booked evening accommodations.

The Pink Motel’s reputation grew through word of mouth advertising. It was known for clean, tidy rooms - all nearly tastefully decorated in pink. Pink was the theme and Madge was very creative in its application. Guests received complimentary pitchers of ice cold pink lemonade at check in. Instead of leaving chocolate on guest's pillows the Pink Motel’s maids left a handful of those pink butter mints usually found in tiny paper cups at weddings.


As the Sniffers aged the Pink Motel fell into a state of disrepair . Today the Sniffers are in their 80’s and don’t get about much. Their son and daughter in law handle the daily operation of the motel. Last year yellow was introduced into the room’s decor. The new managers claimed it brightened up the place. Today there's talk of adding blue curtains and white walls. The Pink Motel isn't so pink anymore.

The changes are more than the Sniffers can handle. Just last night while enjoying a pint of his favorite Cloverdale bitter, Clive was overheard at the Kicking Donkey Pub saying he and Madge were thinking of packing up the Buick and continuing on their way to Tamworth on Tide. That is where they originally wanted to settle when they first came to the Confederacy in 1942. Those of us that love the Pink Motel are wondering what they'll decide to do.

I’ll be sure to keep you updated.

My Quest for a Couple Eggs

Hello Friends,
I was neck deep in cake batter, making one of my Red Devils Food Cakes for the Cloverdale LDS branch's annual Cake Walk to raise money so the branch's teens could go to Capital City for the district's Gold and Green Ball. The Cake Walk was tonight's MIA activity. You remember the Mutual Improvement Association. The Cloverdale Branch of the Mormon Church holds MIA every Tuesday evening at the Seventh Day Adventist Church. As you know, there aren’t enough Mormons in Cloverdale to warrant a building of our own. The Adventists are generous with the use of their building, as long as we leave it clean and tidy.

Our branch youth enjoy going to Capital City to attend the Gold and Green Ball held in the Confederacy’s one and only real LDS chapel. The chapel houses Capital City’s three branches. It’s the pride of all Confederate Mormons.

The chapel holds up to 100 people, and comfortably I might add. There is a small cultural hall with one basketball hoop on one end and a small kitchenette on the other. There are several classrooms. The Branch Presidents all share one office. The Relief Society Room is decorated nicely with a rose carpet, wood paneling and a piano.

During church last Sunday I was asked if I’d be contributing one of my cakes. I humbly agreed, claiming they “weren’t that good”. Of course, everyone corrected me by reaffirming the moistness and perfect balance I’m able to achieve between chocolate and the marshmallow frosting.

I started making the cake the moment I got home this afternoon . Half way through the recipe I discovered I was short two eggs . I thought to borrow some from next door but remembered I owe them a cup of sugar from last week. I didn't want to add a couple of eggs to my tab, it just wouldn’t be kosher. I had one alternative, a quick trip to the Piggly Wiggly.

I ran out the door and down the canal. I made a left, then a right and then another left. It was 5:02 P.M. The Piggly Wiggly parking lot was full. Everyone in town seemed to be shopping at the same time. I made it into the store and worked my way to the dairy section. The eggs were easy to find. Finding an open check out stand was hard.

I stood in line and waited and waited. Buying groceries in Cloverdale requires patience. Our stores don’t have the fancy bar code reading computers. Our checkout clerks do it the old fashion way, they punch in the prices. Now, one must be alert because it is easy for a clerk to ring up the wrong price. Why, just last week I had a clerk try to charge me ten dollars for a can of 10 cent green beans.

I finally reached the check out. The clerk punched in the price, I paid and was back to my flat in no time. I was going to be late for the first few rounds of the cake walk. It didn't really matter. I knew once I walked in with my Red Devil’s Food Cake the tickets would sell out.

Ah, living in Cloverdale is paradise. Why would you want to live anywhere else?

Iris Brentwood Waits

Iris Brentwood sits on a chair outside Cloverdale’s Train Station. It’s the second Sunday of the month and she has come from Strawberry Field to visit her son and grandchildren. Iris Brentwood visits her son and grandchildren every second Sunday, and has been doing so since her son moved to Cloverdale five years ago.

She waits with a mother’s patience. Her son is never punctual. She expects he will be along soon. The Station Master came out 20 minutes ago and offered her a cup of tea and a double stuffed Oreo from the ticket window. She kindly refused. She knew if she took tea a restroom visit would follow and she didn’t want to make her son wait or think she had missed the train. As for the cookie, she had a bag full of her own.

Many of the passengers arriving for the 12:10 Coastal Express to Dibley on the Downs and Tamworth on Tide recognize Iris as a fellow Sunday traveler. A few stop to wish her a good day. She appreciates their kindness and offers each one a home baked devil's food cookie carried in her bag. Iris bakes several dozen each month. Many are given to the friends she’s made over the years on the train and at the station. The others are for the grandchildren.

Its a chilly Autumn day. Iris is glad she wore sweat pants under her skirt. She knows its a bit unorthodox and draws unwanted attention to her legs, but at her age comfort is more important than fashion. Beside, who cares about what an old lady wears? However, just to help distract unwelcoming eyes, she makes it a point to wear brightly colored blouses. Today she is wearing a purple blouse - her favorite.

Something has caught her attention. Its a coin. If she were younger she’d consider picking it up.

Her son is thirty minutes late. Another familiar face walks by. Good afternoons pass between the two grandmothers and another devils food cookie is offered. She’s asked for the recipe which Iris gladly produces from her purse. Iris hand writes several copies of the recipe on 3X5 cards before each trip. It’s not easy with her arthritis but she enjoys talking about her baking.

One hour passes. Iris stands with the help of her cane and shuffles to the end of the sidewalk to collect the coin. Its only a penny - which is why no one picked it up sooner. She removes a piece of putty from a sandwich bag kept in her purse for occasions like this and places the putty on the bottom of her cane. She stabs the coin with the end of her cane. The coin sticks to the putty and finds its way in her coin purse.

There’s a chill in the air. She sits down and watches for another familiar face. Her son will arrive soon. If not, she will walk. Her legs are good and she has her cane.

Cloverdale Weekend Televison. A Night Together.

The Arrival of Secretary of State Hillary Clinton

Hello Friends,
I was in Capital City today renewing my resident visa at the Foreign Ministry. Just like Israel welcomes Jews from all over the world, the Confederacy of Dunces encourages Dunces worldwide to consider the Confederacy their home. Any Dunce may obtain a resident visa by mail or at the nearest Confederacy Embassy (and soon at select Piggly Wiggly’s worldwide). A photograph and short written essay is all that is required to prove your Dunceness.

Non resident property owners are required to pay property taxes yearly when they renew their visas. I could do this through the village post office but prefer to travel to Capital City and do it personally at the Foreign Ministry. I enjoy the train trip and a half day sight seeing. I especially enjoy spending time at the Dunce Museum, feature the great Dunce achievements worldwide.

The line at the Ministry was shorter than I expected on a Monday morning. In the time it took to listen to three songs on my Ipod I found myself face to face with a Ministry secretary. She had a pleasant smile and beady eyes framed by crooked glasses. One eye was focused on me. The other, clearly with a mind of its own, stared intently on the ceiling.

“How may I help you?” she asked while extending her hand to collect my paperwork.
“Resident visa renewal,” I answered.
“And are there property taxes to pay?” she inquired while thumbing through my papers.
“Yes, unfortunately,” I replied. She mumbled something under her breath, reached into a side basket and produced a flyer titled ‘The Privileges of Taxation. Your Dunce Taxes at Work’.
“Read,” she ordered.
“Does anyone want to pay taxes?” I questioned as I shoved the flyer into my backpack.
“Me,” she snorted back while adjusting her eyes to read the fine print on my paperwork.

She pulled her reading glasses down from the top of her head and started to add the numbers from my tax statement on her ancient Addison Adding Machine. After each set of numbers she pulled a large lever which turned a series of gears which did the computations.

“You ever thought about an electronic calculator?” I asked, wondering if such a cheeky remark would upset her. One must be careful when upsetting a low level government bureaucrat. Some have multiple personalities. You never know which one you’re dealing with. And if you get the wrong one and really make them mad, they could strike back. Once I was charged for the air above my Cloverdale apartment after complaining about what I considered a poor appraisal of its value.

“This office is open even during power failures, which come regularly during the holiday season. Every Dunce decorates for Christmas. It creates a large power drain on the grid,” she reluctantly explained.

“Understandable,” I lied.

Five minutes later I was dismissed with a receipt in hand and a “Thank you”. I left a bit shell shocked at the large check I wrote. "Paradise has it's price," I thought.

As I neared the building's exit I noticed a group of foreigners near the elevator. They were Japanese or Chinese or something like that. Out of curiosity I stopped to see where they were going. The guide spoke in an alien tongue. I didn’t understand but stood behind the group and nodded as if I did. The elevator opened, my curiosity motivated me to join them. The door closed. The doors reopened in sub basement 4.

I continued to follow them. They didn’t seem to mind. We walked down two hallways, made a right turn and headed for a large set of metal double doors guarded by a Capital Constable. He knocked on the door as we approached. The door opened. We entered. It was a brightly lit room with several ladies sitting at what appeared to be old telephone connection devices. The guide explained our surroundings in complete gibberish. I was left to my own devices.

A sign near a drinking fountain read “World Capital Hotlines”. I understood where I was. This room contained the telephone hotlines used by the Foreign Ministry to contact the world’s capitals in a time of crisis. I scratched my head hoping the Confederacy never had reason to use this room. I’m not sure the lines were capable of handling the digital age.

I inched my way toward one of the operators. She sat intently staring at her controls.
“Busy day?” I asked, hoping not to be too distracting.
“Never,” she replied.
“Ever have a busy day?”
“Let’s see. I think the last real busy day was last year at the start of the swine flu epidemic. Our pork exports were being turned back at several ports world wide. Came close to sinking the economy - but keep that under your hat. Not common knowledge.”

Her supervisor cleared his throat - a call for her to return to her monitoring. I backed away and continued walking backward until I was out the door and back into the hallway. I’d seen enough. It was time for a bit of fun. While talking to the operator I memorized the phone number prominently displayed on her rotary dial. I dialed the number at a pay phone near a Wimpy Burger around the corner from the Foreign Ministry.

“Foreign Ministry Hot Line,” that same woman answered. She sounded out of breath. I could tell my call excited her.
“This is the White House in Washington,” I continued. There was a thud. She’d dropped the receiver. A second later she was back on.
“Is this for the Foreign Minister?” she questioned.
“Yes, we have a message. Please inform your Minister that Secretary of State Hillary Clinton will be landing at the International Airport one hour earlier than scheduled. She should land at 1:20 P.M. local time.”
“Are you sure, we weren’t aware of any visit by the Secretary of State?” She was panicked. I heard screaming in the background.
“You’re kidding, right? What Dunce messed this one up? I suggest you get moving," I said in closing. I hung up.

I spent the next fifteen minute in the Wimpy Burger enjoying a double cheeseburger and triple chocolate shake. I walked back to the Foreign Ministry on my way to the Dunce Museum. I was overjoyed by what I saw. Building maintenance was in a rush hanging American Flags out of the windows. Others were rolling out a bright red carpet down the twenty steps leading to the Ministry’s main entrance. I walked up the stairs and toward the doors. A large sign announced the building’s closure for the impending arrival of the American Secretary of State.

I walked back down the steps feeling very proud of myself. My taxes were giving me a day's worth of pure enjoyment.

It Isn’t Quite the Hatfields and McCoys...

By Jaleta Clegg,
Reporter at large

A local feud erupted at the Harvest Fair quilt show, after six months of relative peace. The feud began sixty-three years ago when Clementine Spiffledorfle moved in to the small town of Tamworth on Tide. Clementine was a petite blond child, with ringlets that were the envy of any girl. Her family moved into a house next door to the McBrighamduff family, immigrants to the Confederacy of Dunces by way of Africa, Ireland, Chile, Portugal, and Japan. Little Edna McBrighamduff inadvertently fired the opening shot of the feud the very day Clementine’s family arrived.

Clementine explored her new kingdom, blond curls dancing in the sunlight as she poked through the overgrown fish pond in her new backyard. Edna, curious about the strange child, stuck her face to the slats of the white picket fence.

“There’s frogs,” she said, conversationally. Frogs were a great source of interest to little Edna. She loved the slimy squishiness, their fat mouths, and their loud croaking.

“Frogs are disgusting creatures,” Clementine pronounced. She primly tugged her white, starched pinafore into place over her pink flowered dress. She approached the fence. “My name is Clementine. How do you do?” She held out one hand, fingers cocked at the appropriate angle for greeting a stranger. Her mother had spent hours instructing her on proper courtesies.

“Frogs eat bugs.” Edna pressed her face closer to the slats. “Why are you wearing that funny dress? Halloween isn’t for months.”

“It’s a day dress, acceptable for informal social calls in the afternoons.” Clementine twirled her skirts. “I can call on you if you like. My card.” She slipped a white card, neatly printed with her name in silver letters, through the fence.

“I can call you right now. What’s your name?” Edna stared at the white card.

“Clementine Spiffledorfle.” Clementine bobbed in a curtsy. Her mother would have been so proud if she had been watching.

“I’m Edna. Spiffledorfle is a funny name.” Edna decided the new girl was worth a second look. She climbed the fence, dropping into Clementine’s backyard. She brushed haphazardly at the dirt smears on her coveralls.

Clementine sniffed. “You’re not dressed for a social call. You have dirt on your knees, you ragamuffin.” It was her mother’s word. Clementine felt very grown up using it.

Edna wiped her hand across her nose, smearing mucus. “You calling me names? I think you’re an overdressed prissy girly pansy.”

Clementine forgot her delicate manners. Edna had used words that could never be forgiven. She shrieked like a steam engine and launched herself at Edna. Yards of ruffled white eyelet tangled around them both as they rolled across the lawn, grabbing and punching each other. Frogs scrambled for their lives as the two girls splashed into the pond. Clementine, using her weight to her advantage, pinned the smaller Edna McBrighamduff in the mud.

“You take it back, Edna, or I’ll punch you in the nose!”

“Clementine Spiffledorfle!” Her mother’s horrified scream echoed through the neighborhood. “You get into this house this instant!”

Clementine leaned close to Edna’s face. “Don’t you ever call me a pansy again.”

“Pansy face!” Edna snarled. The fight erupted anew. Mud and frogs splashed wildly as the girls wrestled and clawed each other through the remains of the pond. It took another ten minutes and both mothers to separate the girls. Both were marched home, sporting black eyes and mud.

“I hate that Edna McBrighamduff!” Clementine declared. “I’m going to become a professional gelatin wrestler just so she will never dare call me a pansy again. And I’m not wearing a day dress ever again.”

Clementine’s mother knew better than to argue. Clementine out-stubborned even the most determined mule. She wiped mud from her daughter’s blond curls. “Yes, dear.” Her dreams of a gentle, refined daughter died even as Clementine’s career dreams were born.

Thus began the legendary feud of Clementine and Edna in the tiny hamlet of Tamworth on Tide.

Franz Schuller

It’s November 5. Little Franz Schuller of 354 Norton Lane, Cloverdale still thinks its Halloween. He has been on a grand sugar high for the past several days. Grandma Schuller gets to tend him for the weekend. She is not amused. I have a feeling Franz’s days as the caped cowboy crusader are over.

Wilbur and Edna to Wed at Bingo

The children of 81 year old Wilbur Zebrinski of 4 Willowby Lane, Cloverdale are please to announce the marriage of their father to 82 year old Edna Snopps of 6 Willowby Lane, Cloverdale.

The happy couple will make their home in Cloverdale.

Wilbur first met Edna at St. Bartholomew’s Church during Wednesday night Bingo in 1993. He claims it was love at first sight, although at his age its difficult to tell. At the start of 1994 they made a point to sit by each other during Mass and Bingo. At the end of 1994 Wilbur made his intentions known by holding her hand during a special showing of Gone With the Wind at Cloverdale’s Grand Theater.

In the spring of 1995 Wilbur moved next door to Edna in hopes of advancing their friendship. It was slow going. Edna didn't seem that interested, having just exited a bad relationship with 76 year old Fruper Melon. Fruper and Edna dated from 1975 to 1993. Edna, unwilling to hurt Fruper’s feelings by breaking off the romance, waited for nature to take its course. Which it did on the afternoon of March 13, 1993 when Fruper suffered a massive heart attack while trimming his lawn. Edna was now free to entertain other suitors.

In 1996 Wilbur decided to propose to Edna after a delicious meal of Edna’s famous Pot Roast with dumplings and rice pudding. He wanted his proposal to be unique, clever and witty. Just how to do it was the problem. Wilbur gave it a great deal of thought.

In 1997 Wilbur had an idea. He bought a gold ring and took it with him to Bingo every Wednesday night. He planned to give Edna the ring, along with his proposal for marriage, the next time she got a Bingo. It was a perfect plan. Wilbur would be Edna’s prize.

Twelve years later, and after many many games of Bingo, Edna finally got a Bingo last Wednesday. Wilbur, good to his word, pulled out the ring and asked for her hand in marriage. Edna accepted the offer. The proposal was sealed with a kiss on the cheek.

The couple will wed at St. Bartholomew’s during Bingo on the last Wednesday of the month. The reception will be held at the Kicking Donkey Pub. All are invited to attend.

Cloverdale Weekend Television. Eurovision Song Competition 2009

Norway wins! Norway - Points: 387 - Place: 1st - "Fairytale" by Alexander Rybak

Nolan Waterford Gates and the Christmas Inventory

With Christmas only seven weeks away little Nolan Waterford Gates of Marley House, Cloverdale started the yearly inventory of his play room. At breakfast this morning he stood and tapped a crystal glass with his silver fork bringing all other conversations to an end at the family breakfast table.

“Yes dear, what is it?” Lady Gates inquired of her son. She was working her way through a poached egg while reading the morning mail. Father Gates was completely hidden behind the morning paper, except of course, the ends of his fingers.

“Father, please,” Nolan spoke impatiently, knowing the effort it could take to divert his father away from the Confederacy’s news. Father Gates found the article he was struggling through rather tedious and lowered the paper far enough to see his son's face.

“I regretfully must close the play room to everyone, including the servants, so I can complete my yearly inventory of its contents in preparation for Christmas," Nolan said in a matter of fact voice. "I say this to illicit parental support. Young Martha and Matthew must stay out. You both know how they love to mess everything up."

“Nolan, must you do this every year? It seems so unnecessary," Lady Gates replied to her son’s request. "You know how much your younger brother and sister love playing, and we know how pleasant mommy is when these two darlings are occupied and not underfoot. You wouldn't want to see mommy upset would you?”

“Mother, the one year I didn’t take inventory I requested a Coastal Express Train Set for Christmas not remembering I already had a Coastal Express Train Set. It was a complete waste of your money...”

“Shhhhh,” Lady Gates held her finger over her mouth, then pointed toward the two younger children sitting opposite Nolan, both of whom sat mouths wide open at the horror of having the Play Room closed. Nolan stopped, looked at the two small Gates, and continued.

“It was a complete waste of Santa’s time, not to mention the Elfs,” Nolan corrected himself. Lady Gates nodded in approval of her son’s quick wit.
“The inventory therefore is necessary so we get new things, not repeats of things we already own.”

“Understandable dear. How thoughtful of you," Lady Gates said in her 'I don't want to be having this conversation voice'. "Isn't our little wonder something Maurice?" Father glanced at this wife over the top of the sports section, grunted, and straighted the newspaper for a better read. Lady Gates hated that morning paper. Its all she ever saw of her husband in the mornings. She turned toward Nolan, "Speaking for your father and myself, I promise no one will enter the Play Room during inventory. Although I wish you’d let the servants in to do their daily cleaning.”
Lady Gates was one who insisted on a spotless home.

“No, mother. Nobody.” Nolan reasoned.

Lady Gates returned to the mail and her poached egg. Father grunted and moved on to another page of the morning paper looking for something interesting.

“I'll leave the table and get started then,” Nolan said as he stood and bowed to both parents. He left the dining room. The two younger Gates erupted into screams of anguish at having lost the Play Room. Lady Gates rubbed the sides of her forehead, feeling one of her child induced migraines coming on. She rang the bell for an aspirin and the nanny.

Nolan stopped Minny, the housekeeper, on his way up the grand staircase. He gave her instructions concerning a sign he wanted painted and displayed outside the Play Room warning anyone who entered of his pure and uncontrollable wrath if they violated his privacy during inventory. Minny set her polishing rag down on the banister and rushed to the kitchen to carry out the young master’s order.

Nolan entered the Play Room and firmly shut the door. He made a visual inspection of its treasures then opened one of the sideboard’s drawers. He took out his Big Chief Tablet and pen, turned to the first sheet of paper, wrote the date on top and started the long process of cataloging the room's contents. From that list, he and his siblings would create their Christmas wish lists.

Nolan Waterford Gates is a peculiar and thorough boy.

Cloverdale Weekend Television. Festival of the Season.

November 1 begins Cloverdale Weekend Television's Musical Festival of the Season.  Highlights from today's broadcast as part of our Sunday Songs of Praise.


 

A Delicious Port in the Storm. Fernwood On the Moor's Pig and Whistle

Hello Friends,
I’m finally home after a chilly trek to Cloverdale on the Coastal Express. The weather in the Confederacy took a frigid turn today. Autumn was caught off guard by an early winter storm that progressively worsened the closer we got to the Boarder Station at Fernwood on the Moor.

Through my compartment's frosted window I watched the station emerge from the billowing snow. The carriage jerked to a stop at platform 1 twelve minutes behind schedule. A voice over the train's intercom informed us of an additional one hour delay due to track conditions ahead. Most decided to spend the time on board reading or taking tea in the restaurant car. Others, myself included, saw this as an opportunity to bundle up and venture out in search of a good hot meal.


The station clock gave us fifty minutes before the whistle blew and the great steam locomotive lurched forward to its next stop at Cloverdale. With both hands in pocket and head down low I slid out of the station and onto Station Street in search of The Pig and Whistle Restaurant and Pub. I’d been there before but lost my bearing in the fine snow spinning circles in the bitter night breeze. Luckily several other passengers shared my hunger for good food and led the way to this favorite night spot for Fernwood's locals. After a few minutes in the night air we saw the old pub’s lights. A few minutes after that came the happy sounds of music and laughter. What could be better than a hot meal with good people in a warm welcoming public house known for good food served in hearty helpings?

A jovial older waitress wearing a white blouse and black dress led us to a table near a old rock fireplace. She was rather stout, indicating to me her enjoyment for the food she served. The orange and yellow flames tickled our memories into forgetting the weather outside. A simple menu highlighted our choices for the evening. I settled on the special. She chuckled at my choice.
“I’m hoping your stomach is as large as your desire,” she said while finishing the order and putting her pencil back behind her ear.

The Pig and Whistle rapidly filled with locals all wearing their better clothes for a Friday night out. Soon finding a table became all but impossible. It wasn’t long before two couples made inquiries about the extra four seats at our table. We invited them to anchor with us. Three stories into dinner and it seemed like we’d known them all our lives.

The Special arrived on a large platter, consisting of a good section of meat, two kinds of mash, toast, a side of chips and a bowl of the best beans served in the Confederacy. I tucked in, eating as fast as swallowing would allow and successfully finished the gut buster in time to make it back to the Express for Cloverdale.

The rest of the trip found me squirming uncomfortably in my first class compartment. My extended belly needed release from confinement. I took a blanket from the storage compartment overhead and draped it over my lap. With the Scottish tartan in place I undid my belt buckle and top button, releasing my constricted waist. Thirty minutes further down the track the rocking motion, combined with the natural effects from the beans, caused an unusual amount of pressure to build in my abdomen. This resulted in two or three visits into the corridor to 'make wind' so to speak.

It’s 8:33 P.M. I’m home near the canal, pondering my schedule for tomorrow’s Halloween celebrations. Nowhere in the world is this night of ghouls and goblins more loved than here in Cloverdale. The village's children are home preparing for their nocturnal foray through the haunted neighborhoods searching for those illusive, and seldom captured, full sized Wonka Chocolate Bars. I may venture out myself, hooking up with a group of children, bag in hand in pursuit of these Wonkabeasts.
Must be careful though. Best to approach the doors on my knees to better blend in with the natives I'll be keeping company with.

Before I turn out my light I look out the front window at the lights of this village on Somewhere's frontier. How lucky am I to have found a sanctuary where everyone knows your name.

Ruggers Family Roadside Pumpkin Patch

Hello Friends,
One of my favorite places to visit when in Cloverdale in October is the Ruggers Family Roadside Pumpkin Patch operated by Ned and Abigail Rugger for the last 23 years. You can’t miss it if you're traveling south on Highway 1 about three miles out of town.

Ned and Abigail created a haven for Halloween enthusiasts and lovers of pumpkins in general. Inside their store you’ll find pumpkins for purchase in their natural state, ready for your carving knife, or you can purchase one of the many pre carved pumpkins. The decorated pumpkins are displayed on consignment. If they sell, the carver shares the profit with the Ruggers. Many pre carved pumpkins come from Cloverdale’s school children. The Ruggers are generous with the Shire’s schools. The Ruggers donate their profit from any school carved pumpkin back to the school.

In addition to the pumpkins, the Ruggers offer the Autumn lover a variety of pumpkin products. You’d do yourself a mischief if you didn’t walk away without one of Mrs. Ruggers 14 inch Great Pumpkin Pies. This specialty pie comes 3 inches deep, oozing with the rich smells of nutmeg, clover and cinnamon. In addition to the pies, the Pumpkin Patch Bakery produces exquisite loafs of pumpkin bread, dozens of pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, and dishes of pumpkin puddings.

Pumpkin cider is served hot at half price with the purchase of any pumpkin donut, frosted with a merry orange pumpkin glaze. This hot cider, pumpkin treat is best enjoyed after one of the Ruggers twilight hay rides out to the pumpkin patches to gather the next day’s display pumpkins.

Watch out, there are rumors the Rugger’s youngest son Eugene may be hiding in the brushes surrounding the patches dressed to scare the unsuspecting merry makers happily secure amidst the hay bales. Eugene has an assortment of Halloween costumes he uses for the occasion. His girl friend Misty helps with the make up.

The Ruggers want to invite everyone to the yearly Pumpkin Theater held just behind the roadside store this Friday evening. Pull up one of the wooden stools or bring your own lawn chair and enjoy hot slices of fresh pumpkin bread dripping with sweet cream butter while enjoying this year’s performance of Ichabod Crane, The Headless Horseman, brought to you by the Coverdale’s Repertory Acting Company.
I can’t wait!

Folks, I want to again urge you to visit Ruggers Family Roadside Pumpkin Patch the next time you’re in Cloverdale. Hurry though, Its almost Halloween!

Chester, the Star of the School's Haunted House Fund Raiser

With Halloween only days away Chester Lipperstein of 24 Evergreen Circle, Cloverdale spent Sunday rehearsing his part in Confederacy Primary School’s Haunted House Fund Raiser for the poor and unfortunate displaced mentally ill who walk the streets of the world’s cities. These are the forgotten people society ‘integrated’ into the general public as local and provincial governments closed their local mental hospitals in favor of outpatient treatment and heavy, mind altering medications.

Chester wrote a paper on the subject, as did all other students. Their papers were gathered in a binder and sent to the Confederacy’s Minister of Health and Asylums. Chester’s paper took first place in the Sixth Grade competition. Chester wrote:

Them mentally ill are scary. I seen them all the time at the Piggly Wiggly pushing them shopping carts. They eat stuff out of the trash cans. I think that’s gross. I seen one of them pissing on the wall outside the library. I think we should put them all back into them hospitals so they can scare each other and not little kids. I’m thinking that if you let little kids like me see people like that we might become crazy too and my mom wouldn’t like that and you don’t want to get my mom crazy because when my mom is crazy she does crazy things that I’m not suppose to talk about. My grandpa was crazy. They let him out of one of them hospitals. First thing he did was drop on all fours and start to eat the lawn. My dad laughed and said it was good because then he wouldn’t have to ever cut the grass again. My mom got really mad and locked grandpa up in the basement. I think he’s still down there but we are all afraid to go down and look cause he stopped making crazy noises about the time I had my last birthday. I asked mom about him but she said never mind and hangs up more of them air fresheners.

So in conclusion I think them hospitals should be opened up again for people like my grandpa so they don’t have to live on the streets or in the basements.

Chester tried out for the part of the half dead skeleton. Mrs. Pickle said the way he held his tongue cinched the part. She remarked how life like it was and imagined that all dead must carry their tongues in a similar fashion although she had never actually seen a dead person in real life. Chester said he got the idea of sticking out his tongue from his grandpa.
“That how he looked all the time when we used to visit him in the hospital,” Chester remembered. That was, of course, before he was released back to his family when the hospital closed.

When asked if he could hold the pose for the entire two hour fund raiser haunted house Chester replied,”Sure. Ain’t no different than what I do in class all day anyway.”

Friends, I give you Chester and his amazing rendition of the half dead skeleton for Confederacy Primary School’s Haunted House Charity. Be sure to attend. It will run every evening this week from 4:30 to 6:30 P.M. And to satisfy your post haunting hunger, the school’s PTA will be serving Sloppy Joes and home made root beer in the cafeteria. It is the highlight of the village’s Halloween celebration and the money will go to a good cause.

Carlos, Cloverdale's Singing Barber

Carlos waited for a customer. The chair was empty. He was on his third reread of the morning paper. Lunch was still two hours away leaving him with no other option than to put his jacket on, step outside and attract attention. He stood up from his chair, folded his paper and picked up the broom. He thought it best to sweep up the hair left behind by Dr. Fooper, Headmaster at Cloverdale’s Comprehensive School, before inviting someone else to occupy the one and only chair in Cloverdale’s Roman Way Barber Shop.

Carols thought as he swept. He pondered over the day’s musical selection? Yesterday he delighted the pedestrians on High Street with his rendition of ‘The Days of Wine and Roses’. The day before it was ‘Moon River’. The citizens of Cloverdale truly enjoy the voice of their very own singing barber and Carlos was grateful for that, but times were changing and Carlos was looking for a younger clientele. His regular customers were his age or older. And as the years pass more and more of them were dying, leaving Carlos with a dwindling customer base.

Carlos looked out the shop's large plate glass window at the turning barber pole hanging near the door. Last month It stopped spinning for the first time in 30 years. Carlos debated whether or not to have it repaired. A spinning barber pole usually meant a shop for old people serving antique hair cuts that were popular in the days when people didn’t care how they looked. At least that’s how one teenager summed it up as he walked by the shop on his way to school. Carlos had it repaired anyway. His old timers would be confused had he not.

Carlos walked up to the door and open it. A little tarnished brass bell tinkered overhead. It too was a faithful companion for the last 30 years, alerting Carlos to incoming customers if he happened to be in the back room or upstairs in the family’s apartment making himself a sandwich and cup ot tea.

He stepped down onto the sidewalk. Alma Flitter wished him a good morning as she walked by with her dog. Carlos commented on the weather. She didn’t hear him but nodded anyway. She forgot her hearing aid on her way out the door.

Carlos turned to look at the three posters in the window. One advertised the Harvest Festival and Fair. It needed to come down. Another urged everyone to vote in the Shire elections held eight months ago. He definitely needed to take that one down. The third poster showed twelve black and white head shots of a boy with different types of hair cuts. It was so faded from years of being exposed to the sun you could hardly tell what it was. Carlos decided to take that one down also.


“Good morning Carlos,” an older gentleman jabbed him in the ribs with his cane as he walked by.
“Oh, how are you Floyd,” Carlos answered. He noticed his ten year customer was wearing a suit. He thought that strange for a Wednesday.
“Why the suit?” Carlos asked.
“Funeral,” was Floyd's response. “One of your customers he was.”
“Who?”
“Marvin Melps.”
“When did he die?” Carlos was sincerely interested and not just passing the time of day. Marvin Melps was a fifteen year regular. He was just in last week for his regular monthly hair cut.

“Slipped getting out of the tub. Broke his neck. Same day he had his hair cut. I suspect he got his hair cut, went home to take a bath to wash off the clippings and slip bang.” Floyd slapped his hands together for effect.
“You’re killing us all off one by one.” Floyd said while waving his cane. He continued down the sidewalk toward St. Bartholomew’s.

Carlos was in temporary shock. Why hadn’t he known about Marvin? If he had known he might have considered going to the funeral. But that would have meant closing the shop - not a smart thing to do on a funeral day. The funeral rebound business was always pretty good. People had to take time off for the burial so why not get their hair cut that same day? It would save coming in after work or on a Saturday. Carlos decided to send a card to Marvin’s common law wife instead. The couple had been together since the free loving days of the 1960’s.

Carlos sat down on the bench in front of the shop. It was a beautiful Autumn day. He again considered his options. Would he sing from his wide repertoire of Andy William’s hits or try something more upbeat and modern to try to attract a younger clientele?

After a few minutes he stood, reached into his pocket and pulled out his mouth organ. He blew a note to get the pitch, put the organ back into his pocket and broke into full song - right there on the High Street's sidewalk. Cloverdale’s Singing Barber was in good form as he belted out “I Feel Good!” The song made famous by James Brown.

Carlos was successful in attracting a crowd, including 23 second graders from St. Bartholomew Primary School who were on a walking tour of the village Center with their teacher Sister Ina Wallop of the Convent of the Sisters of Every Increasing Hope. The sidewalk erupted in applause after the final note stopped echoing back and forth between the brick buildings lining the street. Carlos bowed deeply, glowing in their appreciation.

“You’re weird,” little eight year old Buster Williams shouted from the gathered onlookers. Sister Ina quickly and firmly put her hand over the boy’s mouth to stop him from saying anything else that would embarrass her.
Carlos smiled at the boy while pulling his scissors and comb from his blue barber jacket.

“Send him to me Sister. Send him to me,” Carlos said in his evil barber tone, complete with matching grin and hunch back walk. “I’ll have him sorted out in no time.”

Little Buster broke free from the Sister’s grasp and ran screaming down High Street. The spectacle brought another round of applause from the assembled gathering, several of whom stepped forward for a hair cut. Carlos pointed to the shop’s door and beaconed them in.

“It was going to be a good day in the barbering trade,” he thought.

Cloverdale Weekend Television. The Zombies

Cloverdale Weekend Television.

Tonight on Cloverdale Weekend Television. The Lord of the Rings.

Logan Humpster, Cloverdale's Caped Crusader.

The first thing Logan Humpster of 354 Whipple White Way, Cloverdale does when he gets home from school is change into his Batman Halloween costume. His mother found it last week at Donaldson’s Department Store. She planned on waiting and giving it to him the night before Halloween for good reasons. Logan Humpster has an over excitable imagination and an unquenchable appetite for all things Batman. After careful consideration (the time it took to drive home from the department store) she decided to ignore her own better judgment and gave him the package. She regrets that decision now but the cat is out of the bag and Logan seems to have lost a firm grip on reality.

Once in costume, Logan sprints through the house singing the Batman theme song from the 1960’s American television series. He circles the dining room table, the coffee table and anyone that happens to be in his way. He tumbles up and over the sofa. He jumps up and down on everyone’s bed then does a series of cartwheels and front flips out the sliding glass patio doors and onto the deck.

Logan jumps on top of the picnic table and scans the sky. He looks for the Batman spotlight against the clouds. The spotlight is law enforcement's accepted way of making contact with Batman. Logan spends several minutes on the table. Of course no spotlight doesn't mean a lack of crime. Logan knows Cloverdale is the hub of all types of illegal activities. He knows his uncle, the chief constable, is powerless against such evil villains without his help. His imagination convinces him that if his uncle isn't calling for him then something must be terribly wrong at the police station.

“Gotta Go,” he yells to his mother as he races out the front door. He is gone before she can ask where.

Logan’s bike is his batmobile. He cycles down Whipple White Way, then onto Elm and finally High Street. The Police Station is his final destination. Logan’s uncle is one of Cloverdale’s two constables. He is desensitized to Logan’s daily appearances. He knows how to handle his nephew.
“What do you have for me today Commissioner?” Logan asks as he walks into the station. He stands like a superhero, hands on his hips, feet apart and chin held high.
“Logan, I didn’t turn on the spotlight. Batman comes only when he sees the spotlight.” His uncle responded as he walked over to the boy and straightened his cape.
“I know commissioner, but I thought you didn’t shine the spotlight because you were tied up or something after being attacked by a criminal.”
“Logan, this is Cloverdale.”
“I'm Batman. Please call me Batman Commissioner.”
“OK, Batman it is. Listen Batman, this is Cloverdale. People here are law abiding." His uncle thought for a moment and continued. "Listen, I have a theory why we don't have crime in Cloverdale. Would you like to hear my idea?”
"Yes?” Logan responded. He took a seat in front of his Uncle’s desk.
“They’re scared of you. That’s got to be the reason we don't have crime. The criminals are too afraid to come to Cloverdale because this town is under Batman’s protection. You are the best crime fighter in the world.”
Logan face beamed with pride, although it couldn’t be seen under the mask.
Without a crime to solve Logan faced a dilemma. What would he do for the rest of the afternoon.
“May I look at the books?” Logan asked. Logan loved to leaf through the large binders holding the mugshots of criminals from all over the Confederacy.
“Go for it.” his uncle responded.

And again, as he has done every day since getting the Batman costume, Logan reviewed the mug shots looking for any familiar face. His uncle knew boredom would set in within five minutes and the boy would be on his way to fight crime somewhere else and he was right. Five minutes after starting with the ‘A’s Logan shut the book, bid his uncle goodbye, and shot out the door to the Batmobile. He was determined to stop crime before it started.

This is the time when Logan gets into trouble. Logan's mom warned him over and over not to bother people but Logan fails to listen due to an overactive imagination.
This afternoon, Logan attempted to arrest Mrs. Rudolph for crossing the High Street outside the crosswalk. The 76 year old Grandmother of 32 stabbed at him with her cane to put him off the scent. Logan got the message when she connected with one of his ribs. He jumped on his bike and rode away rubbing his side.

His last stop before home was Cloverdale’s Academy of Dance. Logan placed an order for black tights to go with his Batman costume one week ago. Madame Trudy promised they’d be in any day. They still weren’t there. She said she’d have them delivered to Logan’s house to save him the trip to the studio but Logan would have none of that.

“I’m Batman and you don’t know my true identity so how can you have something delivered to me if you don’t know who I really am?” Logan asked.
“You’re Logan Hump....” Madame Trudy was interrupted before she could finish.
“I’m Batman and you don’t know where I live.”
“OK OK Batman. Keep your shorts on. You come by and pick up the tights tomorrow. Now scram.”
With that, Logan shot her a dirty look and walked out the studio’s door. He picked up his bike and started for home. He smiled when her remembered what the Commissioner said. Yes, Cloverdale was a safer place because Logan Humpster lived there.

Josh and the Golden Ring

The days of Autumn are getting shorter here in Cloverdale. Shorter days bring colder temperatures and that means today was Josh Clifford’s last fishing day until Spring. Josh spent the day on Miller’s pond. When he gets home, his father will help him put his fishing gear away on the top shelve in the garage.

Josh had a couple bites but nothing more. It was disappointing - as far as the fishing was concerned. However, the entire day was not without its rewards. While casting his line Josh lost his footing and fell into the muddy pond. As he struggled to stand, his hand felt something hard and cold embedded in the mud. He clenched his fist to gather it up and crawled out of the water. Once back on dry land, Josh opened his fist and saw a sparkle that made his heart leap. He found a gold ring. He bent over, washed the mud away, and made a careful examination of his new treasure. He deducted it was a man’s ring by its size. On closer examination, he found writing, circling the inner part of the ring. The writing was written in a language he couldn’t read. The words were spelled with a strange alphabet with lots of swirls and curls.

There was something about the ring that drew Josh to it. He felt the ring calling to him - bonding with him. He took the ring and slipped it over his finger. To his amazement the ring shrank to fit. It was tight enough to stay on yet loose enough to take off. Josh's eyesight was also effected by wearing the ring. The world lost its color. Everything looked to be a shaded in blacks, browns and whites. Nature’s colors returned the moment he took it off.

Josh put the ring back on, grabbed his fishing pole and started for home. He decided to take the ring off before his parents saw it. They would take it from him to find the owner. Josh wouldn’t allow that. He was the ring’s new owner. He found it. It was Precious to him .

A Public Service Announcement from the Ministry of Health and Asylums

Everything seemed to be going her way. Its was the perfect day for so many reasons:

• The school’s Head Master called a Sun Day and canceled school due to perfect weather.
• She had her brand new birthday bike.
• She found her swimsuit in the summer box mom was about to put away.
• Her dog Lucky wanted to go for a walk and there was no better place than the beach.

And then....she encountered the world of "No".

Limits, fences, restrictions, and lower expectations are the concepts the people of "no" want you to accept when your young. Soon the girl pictured above will learn to downgrade her dreams, goals, and freedom. Instead of wanting the Moon, she’ll settle for a Moon Pie. The people of "no" understand it can be hard at first but soon she will adapt and accept a semblance of happiness if she hears "no" enough. Once conditioned to live in this multi layered cage, she will stop asking that annoying question, "Why Not?"

Think for a moment of the power embedded in the word “no”. It is fraught with fear, and fear is the primary tool of subjugation. If you do a “yes” in a “no” zone you could be overwhelmed by the fear of what may happen. That fear is what the leaders of a "no" society use for control. Accepting a "yes" attitude to the challenges of life can be a bit frightening when you are use to saying "no" and "I can't". It can be risky. You may fail.

Think of a canary just released from its cage. Take away the cage and what is the canary to do? Now it sees a world with no limits? It could get lost if it flies away. How will it eat? Where will it get its water? Who will listen to its song? How will it protect itself against unknown dangers? The captivity of strict limits gave the canary security, and in exchange for absolute security, the canary surrendered the joy of "yes" and freedom.

Now, to be honest there is a need for "no" in every society. Take away all the "no" and you get anarchy. There must be laws, rules and regulations to govern where our freedom and the freedoms of others start and stop. The word "no" is necessary to safeguard heath and safety. But taken to the extreme, "no" can limit human potential and stagnate a society. The key is moderation in all things.

The Confederacy Ministry of Health and Asylums urges you to consider the decisions you make in life. It urges you to strike a careful balance between the two worlds of “no” and “yes”. Only in balance and moderation may true happiness and freedom be found.

A Public Service Announcement from The Confederacy Ministry of Health and Asylums.

Cloverdale Weekend Television. Religious Programming

The Parish of St. Bartholomew's in Cloverdale presents Gregorian, a special television musical service for those unable to attend Mass. May you be blessed with health and happiness.

Harvey the Pooka and Charles.

Harvey is a Pooka. Pooka’s originate from old Celtic mythology, a fairy spirit in animal form, always very large. The Pooka appears here and there, now and then, to this one and that one. A benign but mischievous creature very fond of rumpots and crackpots.

Harvey’s sixteenth human friend was Elwood P. Dowd. To Elwood, Harvey appeared as a six foot invisible rabbit. Elwood and Harvey enjoyed each other’s company. It was a journey of much happiness. Then one day Elwood died, as is true with all humans, and Harvey found himself alone again. Elwood’s death was almost more than Harvey could bear. For that reason most Pooka’s shy away from human friendships. The cycle of discovery, friendship, sickness and death saddens the normal jovial Pookas.

Harvey and Elwood P. Dowd

With a broken heart, Harvey choose to break the cycle, leaving human friendships to humans. Instead Harvey travelled the world to see humanity’s wonders. He watched humans from the shadows. There were times he was careless and stayed visible too long, resulting in a sighting from the corner of someone’s eye. The bewildered witness would wonder what it was he saw in the boundary between light and dark.

Two years ago Harvey’s travels brought him to a country far away called The Confederacy of Dunces. It was a dark Sunday evening when he heard the sound of a human child crying from an upper window in a home on Willowby Lane in the village of Coverdale. He entered the bedroom of a small boy crying himself to sleep. There was something in the boy’s face that reminded him of a younger Elwood P. Dowd. He watched the boy until the boy’s tears stopped and the child fell asleep. His brain urged him to continue on his journey. His heart told him otherwise.
“ Humans and Pookas need each other.” Harvey whispered to himself. “Humans remind us of life’s beauty and wonders, something easy for immortals to forget over the centuries.” Harvey stayed. His seventeenth human friend was a young boy named Charles Chip.

Charles quickly understood that only he could see Harvey. He learned not to talk about his six foot rabbit friend. Nobody would believe him anyway.

Harvey knows Charles will die someday, and when that day comes he will cope with the loss. But until then, Charles fills a void in Harvey’s life, and Harvey is a friend the boy will learn to cherish.

Myron Loves Lucy

Myron Bane of 12 Sips Lane loves Lucy Sleet of 3 Tree Street in Cloverdale.
The school's Halloween Dance and Costume Party is a few weeks away. Lucy has her choice of any boy in the sixth grade. Somehow Myron needs to get her attention. With video camera in hand and jumble from every part of the house Myron's masterpiece is finished.

Good Luck Myron. I hope it works.




Cloverdale's Ice Cream, An Udder Delight!

Little Beulah Ford is the daughter of Delis and Dennis Ford, owners of Ford's Four Hoofs Dairy Farm on Highway 1 just outside of Cloverdale. Beulah is a proud member of Cloverdale’s award winning 4H club, an avid collector of Barbie dolls, a Brownie Girl Scout and 3rd grade class president at Confederacy Primary School.

“Beulah is a girl that knows and speaks her mind,” her teacher said in a recent interview with the Confederacy Times, Cloverdale’s weekly newspaper - delivered to your home every Wednesday. To arrange delivery dial Cloverdale 3254. “She sets daily, weekly, monthly and lifetime goals and God help anyone that gets in her way.”

The teacher stopped for a moment to clear her throat and continued. “I’m proud to have her in my class, except for the rare times she corrects me in class. And there are times she purposely pesters the boys she likes with the sharp end of her pencil. Poor Johnny Heckle, She’s had a crush on him since the 2nd grade. His poor arms are covered in punctures. She drew blood last week and spent the afternoon in the Head Master’s office. Oh, she can be a trial........ but, what a dear. Her father is chairman of the school, community council you know. Yes, Beulah is such a dear.”

Johnny Heckle. Human Pincushion.

Beulah entered Cowpie, her prize milking cow, in the Harvest Festival and Fair two weeks ago . Cowpie won the blue ribbon. Later that same day, little Beulah won the coveted Little Miss Harvest Fair and Festival Pageant. The Pageant winner is obliged to have her picture taken with the blue ribbon winner in the Bovine division. Strangely enough, that happened to be Cowpie, Beulah's own cow. Many fair goers grumbled, complaining the competitions were ‘fixed’ and that Beulah’s father somehow manipulated the judges into giving his Beulah the fair’s top two awards.

“I deny any wrongdoing. I’m innocent of all charges and regret that my name and the name of my darling Beulah should be the object of scorn and ridicule.” Dennis Ford wrote in a editorial published in the Confederacy Times, where he owns the controlling interest. Strangely enough, not one letter to the editor insinuating the competitions were fixed was published.

“I blame the Confederacy Post Office. Not one single letter about the judging crossed my desk,” wrote Marvin Miller, editor of the Confederacy Times, in an editorial commenting on the widespread village gossip that he refused to publish letters criticizing the judging of the Fair's competitions. “I deny any wrongdoing and regret there are those that claim this newspaper is overly influenced by the Ford Family. Shame on them, and I quote myself on that!”

Last week Cowpie and Beulah posed for their official picture, sponsored by Cloverdale’s Dairy Association. The picture will be used as the cover photograph on the Association’s 2010 calendar. The slogan for this year's calendar is "Cloverdale's Ice Cream, An Udder Delight!" The Association is using the free calendar, delivered to your door with your Confederacy Times, to push an increase in dairy consumption within the Shire.To help with sales, Beulah was given an ice cream cone made with delicious Mint Chocolate Starlight Swirl ice cream made by the Mindfreeze Dairy, owned by Oscar and Olivette Mindfreeze.

It took several shots and many ice cream cones before an acceptable picture was taken. Cowpie disgraced one of the shots by seasoning the set with a digestive byproduct. Beulah was responsible for the rest of the bad shots. She was upset because the Dairy Association rejected her suggestion to have a Dairy King of her choice pose with her for this year's calendar.

The last shot of the day turned out to be the best (see above). Cowpie is back in her pasture and Beulah’s life has returned to normal. She still corrects her teacher and never fails to carry a sharpened pencil.

The Quilt Festival

by Jaleta Clegg
reporter at large

The dust has finally settled. The Senior Center is finally clean. All quilts have been claimed and returned to the loving arms that created them. The contestants have resolved all police charges. It was just another quilt show at the Annual Harvest Fair & Festival.

It all began two weeks back, when the Fair opened. No one knew who would judge the quilt show. The position of a judge is a highly coveted job, though it involves no monetary gain. Bribery is strictly forbidden. Quilt judges have the distinct honor of awarding the most coveted prizes at the Fair. Because of revenge visited upon previous judges, all identities for this year’s judges have been disguised.

Prospective judges are equipped with bags, generously donated by our local airline. At the signal, all prospective judges hide their faces in the bags. The select few are secretly tapped. Only they know their true identity as Quilt Show Judges.

This year’s entries ranged across the spectrum, from the humble offerings of beginners (ages 7 and 11) to the long-awaited entries from venerated grandmothers (ages 98 and 103). The judges were impressed by the utter lack of quality exhibited by the workmanship.

Maisy Dimpleton explained her quilt this way, “Well, me mum, she had these boxes of old fabric left over from the war that she was given by the GoodWill Ladies the summer I was born. Inside was these absolutely loverly fabrics. I couldn’t resist working them up into me first quilt ever.” Maisy Dimpleton, 7 years of age, lives in a small cottage near the Coast of Despair. Her eleven siblings share three beds between them. Her older brother, Pat, said, “It’s ugly as a black dog, but it keeps us warm even when the wind blows through the gaps in the north wall. Maisy can sew me a quilt any day.”
Mrs. Beatrice Alma McDuffy, age unlistable at her request, has been quilting since 1934. “I was only four years of age, an itty bitty thing at my great-aunt Gertrude’s knee. She put a needle in my fingers. After I stabbed it through my thumb, the rest is history. There’s blood in every quilt I ever stitched.”
Beatrice’s eye sight is failing. Her quilt, an abomination of a Cathedral Windows pattern, was nicknamed the “Holy Quilt” by the judges. Not only does it describe the quilt, it is a brilliant play on words.
The most controversial piece was a strange conglomeration of soft sculpture and quilting created by Clementine Spiffledorfle titled “Edna’s Face should be on a Quilt”. Edna McBrighamduff, the intended subject of the quilt, was mightily offended by the lack of similarity between her own face and the quilt. She launched herself at Clementine, pulling her hair with both fists. Clementine responded with a full body slam, learned in her days as a professional gelatin wrestler. The two women rolled across the floor, wreaking mayhem on the quilt displays. The owners of the other quilts joined in the fracas, beating on anyone in range with their purses. The constables were summoned but were not in time to save the children’s flower arrangements from total destruction. Tears and assault charges followed. The constable’s office is happy to report that all fines have now been paid and all charges resolved.
Clementine Spiffledorfle claimed in her defense hearing that she meant the piece to be flattering. Edna McBrighamduff was not amused.
Newcomer Rainbow Sunshine Butterfly, of Cloverdale in the Shire, entered a strange piece entitled “Artsy Fartsy”. The judges were extremely puzzled by the stuffed denim rear. Rainbow’s explanation is not suitable for all audiences and had to be removed from this post.

And now for the part you have all been waiting for: the winners.
The second-place ribbon was awarded to Miss Nancy Newcomb for her Kaleidoscope quilt. “I’m so overwhelmed,” she gushed as the ribbon was awarded among the rubble of the riot caused by Miss Clementine and Miss Edna. Police ringed the judge’s stand, batons at the ready to stop any further rioting.

And now, the piece-de-resistance, the winner of the Quilt Show. Drum roll, please.
Mrs. Lacey Abtwittle of Dahlia Lane, Fernwood on the Moor, for her piece “Sadie in Repose”, a lovely concoction of piecework and appliqué sure to impress any aficionado of the gentle art of quilting.

And so, we close another year of festivities, glamour, livestock, and matronly arts. We await next year’s offerings with bated breath.

Jaleta Clegg, reporter at large

Curbside Recycling from our Roving Reporter

By Jaleta Clegg
Roving Reporter

Attention all residents of the Federation of Dunces. The citizen’s group, Momentum for the Environmentally Concerned, sponsored by the Sisters of Ever Increasing Hope, have started a new curbside recycling program to help save our planet from the ravages of uncontrolled landfills. Sister Mary George “Big Bertha” states, “Landfills are an eyesore, a scab upon the face of our glorious planet, created for us by a loving God who not pleased with our treatment of His great gift. Therefore, we have created a group for concerned citizens interested in recycling to help save our planet and keep the landfills from becoming too unsightly. And to avoid God’s wrath. He’ll smite you if you throw out those empty soup tins.” Sister Mary George “Big Bertha” has perfected the art of glaring people into submission. Her extremely large fists really don’t count, since she’s sworn to a nonviolent calling. We think.




Sister Mary George “Big Bertha” caught in a lighthearted moment with Sister Eustacia Toob last winter.

The Sisters of Ever Increasing Hope sincerely hope that others will join them in their efforts. Please place your recyclable items in the bins they will provide. Please do not join Horace Gunther. He apparently does not understand the purpose of curbside recycling.


When constables questioned him regarding the porcelain fixture placed in front of his home, he responded, “It’s my contribution to recycling. See? Total curbside, total convenience. It’s waste, so therefore, it should be recycled.”

For further information, please contact the Convent of Ever Increasing Hope located next to the Cloverdale-in-the-Shire John Crapper Memorial Landfill and Sewage Treatment Center.

Dink's New Dunce Mini

The Binkerhoff’s of 2214 Marley Avenue in Cloverdale purchased a used car yesterday at the Dibley in the Downs Flea Market held every Saturday at Dibley Commons. Its a 2002 DunceMini, the Confederacy’s answer to the Volkswagen Beetle.

Dink Binkerhoff was bursting with pride over his family’s new Mini. He spent yesterday's early afternoon giving the car a wash and a polish so it wouldn't look out of place next to their neighbor’s Land Rover. For the rest of the afternoon, every 15 minutes or so, he'd go back outside to brush off any accumulated dust or dirt that happened to drift onto the bright red surface.

At 4:00 P.M. Dink watched The Addams Family on Cloverdale Weekend Television. He never misses the Adam’s Family. Its an American show that makes him laugh and laugh. He thinks Uncle Fester is the best. He plans on Trick or Treating as Uncle Fester this Halloween.

At 4:30 P.M. Dink went outside to give the Mini another touch up. He circled the car, brushing it off and wiping away smudges with a wet index finger. He heard a whistle blow at the end of the lane. The afternoon shift at Cloverdale Bakery was over. He wanted the Mini to look its best when the employees walked by on their way to catch the number 3 bus for the train station.

“My dad bought a new car today.” he said to a group of stout women wearing hair nets and white bakery coats with blue collars as they passed his house.
“That’s nice love,” one of them said.
Another stopped to give it a good look over. “A Mini. What do we have here ladies? This Posh gentlemen has a new Mini? Care to take a group of ladies out for a nice meal at the Savoy?" They cackled at the suggestion and continued walking down the pavement.

He did another lap around the car. It truly was a sight to behold. He glanced down the street. A teenage girl was half running and half walking his direction. She looked like a 12th year student at the Comprehensive School.

“My dad bought a new car today.” he said. The girl stopped and walked over to him.
“A Mini. Oh doesn’t it look a treat.” she said as she removed her hair net and stuffed it into her pocket. “Bet you’re proud aren’t you? Bet you plan on driving it when you’re older- don’t ya? Hey I know. How about you and me take it for a bit of a spin. I've got a license. I’m late and if I miss my bus I'm dead. Come on, help a girl out?”

Dink thought for a moment. It seemed like a good thing to do. His parents always said everyone should help people because you never know when you’re gong to need help yourself.

“Sure,” Dink replied.
“You're a pal. Where are the keys?” she asked.
“In the car ?” Dink answered.
“Smart boy, Smart boy,” the girl patted him on the head and jumped into the driver’s seat. Dink opened the door and jumped in beside her.
“Now remember, it was your idea to give me a lift to the bus stop....... right?” the lady asked.
“Well, I thought you were the one that asked.” Dink replied.
“You got it confused. Remember, you offered me a lift. You know, poor girl needed a ride and you having this new car and all. You offered me a ride because you’re a proper gentleman. Right?”
“Ah, sure. I offered you a lift because I’m a......”
“Proper Gentleman.” she interrupted, helping him get the lie squared away in his head.
“Yea, a proper Gentleman.” Dink smiled at the thought that a pretty girl called him a proper gentleman.

She stared the Mini. They backed out into the road and started down the street.
“You know, I don’t know what my boyfriend will do if he finds out I went out driving with a good lookin bloke like yourself. He might go mad. Better get down so no one sees.”
Dink slouched down in the seat until they got to the bus stop.

“Thanks. You’re a sweetheart.” The girl said as she kissed her index finger and placed it on his lips. She was out the door just in time to catch the bus. Dink sat up. She waved goodbye from the bus window.

Dink got out of the Mini. He did a good deed. He knew his mother and father would be so proud of him. Now, all he had to do was figure out how to get the car back home.

Helmut and Cloverdale's School Picture Day.

Helmut Smelling. Cloverdale Middle School. 7th Grade 2009-2010

Research shows that students handle picture day one of three different ways. Caring Students get up early on picture day and shower, shave, fluff, pamper, trim, groom, powder, cover, mask, moose, pluck, and primp for an hour or so in front of the bathroom mirror to ensure a perfect representation of their idealized state. The Non Caring students crawl out of bed at the last minute and put on the same pair of jeans they left crumpled on the floor beside the bed the night before. Any old T-shirt found in the pile of clean clothes on the floor between the closet and the dresser will do to finish off their miss matched ensemble. The Non Caring Student generally spends ten seconds or so in a half hearted attempt to clean their teeth with a toothbrush that should of been disposed of years ago by a certified hazmat team. Their non caring attitude is their way of sticking it to the man and bucking the establishment.

Forgetful Students make up the third group of students for picture day. They go into panic mode once they get to school and realize their mistake. They end up in the restrooms, standing beside the Caring Students doing a final, desperate touch up before meeting the camera's unforgiving lens. Except they must do it with the tools nature gave them - their fingers and tap water.

Failure to do a final ‘touch up’ could result in a bad picture and we all know a bad school picture hanging on the wall going down the stairs into a family room can haunt you until your parent’s pass away and the picture is destroyed. Of course, there are cases when other family members get to the picture first, resulting in - how do I put it nicely........ getting screwed. That horrid picture will be broadcast across the universe on Facebook, shattering all the lies you told your children and their friends about how 'hot' and 'popular' you were in school.

******************************************

Helmut Smelling lives two blocks from the school on Whitmore Street in Cloverdale. He never forgets the trauma of school picture day. For the past eight years Helmut's portraits came out in black and white while everyone else's were color. Every year he complained about his picture and every year his complaints were brushed off with what Helmut considered 'lame excuses'. His mother and father considered complaining but didn’t. Mrs. Smelling works the graveyard shift at the meat packing plant and is too nackered to bother after a full night of packing ‘Plucking Clucking Chicken’ for the Piggly Wiggly and Red Owl grocery store chains. Mr. Smelling is color blind, so all the pictures look fine to him.

The photographers give Helmut a series of excuses they rotate through every year. On even numbered years they tell Helmut his black and white pictures are the result of a malfunctioning camera. On odd numbered years his black and white pictures are shot deliberately to hide Helmut's freklely and blotchy complexion. They say black and white photography is the only medium capable of making someone photographically challenged, like Helmut, look reasonably human.

This year Helmut decided to take a stand. He would do whatever it took to get a good picture. He set his alarm for 6:00 A.M., ran downstairs and made his mom’s breakfast. It had to be cold cereal. She wouldn’t be home for 30 minutes. Once the table was set with bowl, glass, cereal, milk, and toast he ran back upstairs and jumped into the shower. He scrubbed extra hard to removed anything that might cause a bad picture.

He spent the next ten minutes on his hair and face. Dressing came next. Finally, his trademark, the popbottle cap. He looked at himself in the mirror and nodded. This was Helmut at his best, in the prime of life. He knew this was the day he would make a perfect picture, as long as he didn’t blow it. The clock showed he had 30 minutes before he needed to leave for school. Plenty of time to practice his poses.

Helmut pulled out the magazine clippings he kept in the bathroom vanity drawer. He secretly clipped pictures of male models from several magazines kept at the Cloverdale Public Library that catered to young females. He taped the pictures on the mirror and started mimicking their poses. There was the ‘I’m a rebel’ pose - without smile. He had that mastered from last year’s picture day. There was the ‘I’m too sexy for my shirt’ look he never really mastered but wasn’t going to give up on. He was partial to the ‘I’ve been a bad boy, please forgive me’ pose. He practiced trying to get his eyes just right, you know, the bad puppy look. He felt good about it after ten minutes. Finally, there was the model running on the beach with drop dead gorgeous girls chasing him. The smile on the model's face was perfect - something Helmut knew he could replicate. His plan was solid. He would sit down on the stool, envision the hottest girls in the 7th grade chasing him, and produce a smile that would shock the camera into producing a colored portrait.

It was two minutes to blast off. The pictures came off the mirror and back into the drawer. He ran downstairs and kissed his mother goodbye. She said something confusing while crunching her corn flakes. He stopped to listen but couldn't understand a thing she said. She gave up, pointed to her full mouth and waved him off with a half hearted thumbs up.

Helmut’s walk to school wasn’t as traumatic as it was for several of the other students. The wind was blowing in an early storm. The unlucky students who walked to school had their hours of preparation destroyed in the swirling gusts. Once everyone got to school all the girls and 40% of the boys went straight to the restrooms for an extra touch up and redo. Helmut had his popbottle cap. His hair was fine.

At 10:00 A.M. Helmut's class was called to the gym for school pictures. Many students took careful steps to the gym, walking with perfect posture to ensure a good picture. The Non Caring slithered down the hall. Several pulled their pants further down their behinds to be sure to demonstrate their hatred for this lame social requirement.

An elderly woman greeting each class just outside the gym door. She took your picture money and handed you a card telling the photographer what kind of package you purchased. Helmut noticed she smiled nicely to everyone who looked like they were prepared to produce a good school picture. She frowned at the Non Caring.

Helmut expected a smile. For two reasons.

• He was purchasing the most expensive packet, using a large portion of his lawn mowing money from the summer.
• He was properly prepared to produce a perfect school picture.

He repositioned his cap two people from her. He broke into his wild beach smile one person from her. Then it was his turn. He handed her the packet. She looked at him and smiled. "YES!" Helmut muttered to himself. It was really going to happen. He was destine to take a good picture. Then, the old lady's smiled transformed into a chuckle. A moment later the chuckle evolved into a laugh. A laugh she quickly covered by her white handkerchief with pink lacing.

Helmut was noticeably shaken. He wondered if his decision to go with the wild beach smile was wise? He heard his named called. He stepped forward. The aide took him by the shoulders, spun him around and sat him on the stool. She took him chin and moved it to the left while pushing the top of his head to the right.
“Will this do?” she asked the photographer.
“It’ll have to won’t it? I mean there isn’t much to work with - is there?” He replied.
“Grayscale?” she suggested.
“You read my mind. Grayscale for human reasons.” The photographer pushed a button and held up his hand. “Helmut, don’t move. On the count of three. One....... Two........

Helmut suddenly broke out of the trance he was in and started to form the wild beach smile.

“Three!” The flash captured the moment. He was just short of time.

Today Helmut's black and white picture hangs in the stairway. His mother says it’s his best yet. His father says it was a waste of money. As for Helmut, he agrees with his mother. It is the best yet. Now, he knows what to do for next year’s school picture day

Cloverdale Weekend Television. The Confederacy's Kelley Family

Our Failed Olympic Bid

Cloverdale Weekend Television was on hand last week to broadcast the village's reaction to the International Olympic Committee's announcement on what city will host the 2016 Olympics. The Confederacy of Dunces was in the running with its bid to host the games in Capital City. This was the Confederacy's third attempt to win the bid. Our bid committee promised results this year. They were counting on the sympathy vote usually reserved for the serious underdog.

At mid day the first round of voting was announced. Capital City was the first city eliminated. Chicago was the second. The photograph above shows the residents of Cloverdale suffering shock and disappointment after hearing the news. The banners reading "Dunces for 2016" and "Dunces and Olympics - a perfect partnership" littered the ground after the gathering dispersed. Most folks went home. Others made a bee line for Cloverdale's two pubs, The Kicking Donkey and the Hairy Lemon. It was nearly lunch time. They wanted to get tables before the students from the Comprehensive School took them all.

"I get the feeling us Dunces get no respect from that Olympic Committee," said Lou Natters, long time resident and former Dunce Olympic pole vaulter in the 1936 games in Berlin. Lou took last place but brags about shaking Hitler's hand when he was mistaken as the silver medalist.

"What am I going to do with all these t-shirts?" Muke Shoubroom sadly said as he loaded his farm cart with box after box of t-shirts he had specially made for the winning bid celebration using his earnings from last year's harvest. Each shirt had the slogan 2016. The Dunce Olympics. Filbert and Fellina Owl, the official Dunce Olympic mascots, sat on the Olympic 5 ring logo waving their wings to welcome to the world. "My wife's going to kill me," he said over and over as he stacked the boxes. He was last seen downing several pints of Cloverdale Scrumpy at The Kicking Donkey.

Trup Migworm, Dunce Minister of Sport and Gambling gave the official Dunce response to the sad news.

I know I speak for all Dunces in the Confederacy when I say how sad we are at not being selected to host the 2016 Olympics here in Capital City. It was a battle we fought for, and sadly lost. We had the ambition. We had the drive. We had the spirit. Money might have been a problem, but with creative financing and the sale of DBonds, the Finance Minister guaranteed the money would be available.

Take heart fellow Dunces. There is always 2020. And in the meantime I'm happy to announce our intention to bring the Goodwill Games back from bankruptcy and host them here in the Confederacy! And let's not forget our very own Dunce Games, held every year at Capital Stadium, where the best athletes in the nation gather in spirited competition. We will however need a better turnout. Ticket sales last year just didn't cut it.

Now everyone go home. The party's over. There's nothing to see.

And so life in the Confederacy of Dunces returns to normal. People will go back to their daily routines and soon this pothole in our road will be long forgotten.