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.

Christine is Going to Homecoming.

Seventeen year old Christine Faucett-Myer lives with her parents and 14 year old brother Blink on Highway 1 two miles outside of Cloverdale. She woke up this morning to find her family’s dining room chairs missing. Her parents were out of town for the weekend on a business trip to Fernwood on the Moor. She was left in charge.
“What happened to the chairs Blink?” she stood in his bedroom door way demanding an answer. Blink was still in bed, pretending to be asleep from all indications. His shoes were coated in fresh mud. “Blink, there isn't much time. Mom and day are coming home this morning on the 11:10 Coastal Express.”
Blink pulled a blanket over his head. “What do you mean?” he asked. Christine could see the blanket quivering. He was clearly laughing, using his pillow to muffle the sound. That, and his muddy shoes were a dead give away of responsibility.
Christine knew it would take half the morning to coax an answer out of him and she didn’t have half a morning . There just had enough time to clean up the house to their mother’s standards. She went into the kitchen, pulled a spray bottle out from under the kitchen and filled it with ice cold water from the refrigerator.
“Blink, you know what I’ve got don’t you?” she spoke in a low, evil tone.
There was a pause. Blink pulled the blanket down and sat up. “Don’t you dare!” he shouted.
“You’ve got until the count of three to start talking or you’re going to be taking an ice cold shower.” She held the bottle in his direction. He dove under the blanket and pulled it tightly around. “TALK!” she shouted.
OK, OK....... look outside at the old oak tree.” Blink answered.
Christine put the spray bottle down on the kitchen table, opened the patio door and stepped outside. The old oak tree stood on the top of a small rise at the back of their yard. To her complete shock she found her mother’s dining room chairs hanging from the tree, each swaying gently in the morning breeze. She was speechless. A moment later, Blink stood beside her in bare feet with his blanket wrapped tightly around his shoulders.
“You did this?” she demanded.
“I only helped.” Blink answered.
“Who’s idea was it?” The questioning started.
“Danny Harts.” Blink spoke the name of the Comprehensive School’s Rugby Captain, probably the most popular 11th year student in the school.

Danny Harts. Captain of the school rugby team. He works for his father during the off season at Cloverdale Motors. He plans on attending Capital City University next year, with Christine at his side.

“What the..”
“He likes you.” Blink interrupted. “He came over late last night with a few of his friends. I let them in. Pretty cool huh?”
Christine’s heart leapt. She had a crush on Danny Harts since they shared a table together in Miss Loosey’s third grade class at Confederacy Elementary School. Of course in third grade Danny had no time for her which was pretty much the case for the last nine years. Suddenly she was in his cross hairs.
Christine needed to play a careful game. She had to play the part of someone really put out, yet not overdue it.
“You call Danny Harts and tell him to get his butt over hear and get those chairs down.”
“He’s already on his way. Look” Blink pointed down Highway 1. Danny’s blue pick up truck was racing down the road flashing its headlights. “He’s going to ask you to homecoming. I can’t believe he’d want to go with you when he can have any girl in the school. I think he’s mental.”
Blink dodged her fist and ran into the house. Christine stepped down from the deck and started walking around the house toward the front lawn. She crossed her arms and worked through several faces until she found the one which best suited the occasion. A face that showed displeasure and forgiveness. The eyes spoke for displeasure, a faint smile for forgiveness.
The pick up turned into the long driveway. She could see Danny’s smile. It brightened her day. Displeasure vanish and forgiveness filled her face. This school year could just well be the happiest in her life.

Cloverdale Weekend Television. A Night of Classics

Blaze and the Voices from the Flame

Blaze Bonn lives at #3 Weeping Willow Apartments on 5th and Elm Streets, Cloverdale. To the casual observer Blaze appears to be an average boy, unremarkable would be a fitting adjective. But if you looked at him closely, you’d see average doesn’t describe him at all. Blaze's eyes set him apart from everyone. They are nearly human brown in color, yet different enough to cause one to stare at them beyond polite’s limit.

When exposed to candle light, Blaze’s eyes breath sparks of purple trailing thin strands of white gold. As if by magic, the flame’s siren song draws the boy into a spell. Moments later he speaks. His sounds cannot be understood. They form syllables, which in turn become words with patterns that confuse the English ear. His communions can last several minutes before his senses surface and the land of the living reclaims him as its own.

Once his mother asked him what he saw in the candle’s light.
“It’s not what I see mommy, Its what I hear.........Listen!,” He finished his sentence by raising his hand and cuffing it over his left ear. At that moment a distracted motorist slammed into the back of a stopped car just outside their apartment window. “You see mommy.” Blaze pointed to his ear and walked into his room, leaving his mother wondering.

“I hear dead people,” Blaze once told his Lutheran Pastor. The Pastor’s suspicions of Blaze were confirmed. On his church record, Blaze was labeled Fringe Lunatic, unusual for a boy his age. Counseling suggested.

Once during Sunday School, Blaze disagreed with the teacher over a passage in the Gospel of Paul.
“We don’t know what Paul meant exactly. It was written a long time ago so we rely on our understanding of Paul as seen through his other writings. That window into his heart and mind help us with passages that seem odd to us today.” The teacher explained. Blaze pulled out a cigarette lighter, created a flame and stared intently.

“Blaze, put that out at once and give me the lighter.” She demanded. Her order fell on deaf ears. Blaze was gone - disappeared into the other world. The teacher reacted instinctually. With the lighter in one hand, and Blaze’s hand in the other, she led him out of the room and to his mother.

“Blaze, what’s gotten into you?” Mother asked as they walked home along the canal. “What were you doing with that lighter?”.

Blaze continued to walk, wondering if his answer would bring her relief or more anguish. He settled on being truthful and replied, “Asking Paul what he meant.”

She stopped in mid step, took his arm and led him to a park bench. They sat down for for a moment before she spoke again. “Blaze, do you really talk to the dead through fire? I want an honest answer.”

“Yes,” Blaze answered.

“OK, take the lighter. I want to see you do it. Talk to mother. She’s been dead for several years now. Let’s see what Grandma has to say.”

Blaze lit the lighter and peered into the flame. Minutes passed. His eyes sparkled in harvest colors. Then came the mumbling. His mother watched his eyes intently. This was his ultimate test. Blaze never met his grandmother and his mother never spoke of her. His divining would either confirm or refute his claim.

The flame with out. Blaze put the lighter into his pocket and looked at his mother.

“Well?” she asked. “What did Grandma say?”

“She wasn't very nice was she?” he answered looking surprised.

“You talked to her then?”

“Yes.”

“What did she say?”

“She said to stop talking and go away.” Blaze replied. His mother was quiet. Not a sound passed between them. Then she laughed, long and hard.

“My boy talks to the dead!” Mother shouted to the trees and the sky. “Grandma said that all the time. She never had time for anyone - especially children." She stood up, took Blaze's hand and led him back to the canal path. "Let’s go home and have some pancakes. Then we’ll decide what to do about you young man.”

They continued down the walk. Autumn leaves swirled in cool breezes around them.

Highlights of the Confederacy Harvest Fair & Festival

A Special Report
by Jaleta Clegg, roving reporter

This past week, all of the Confederacy was treated to the yearly spectacle known as the Harvest Fair & Festival. Held on Bowling Green, hundreds of Dunces gathered to ogle the best that the Confederacy has to offer.

Mrs. Davenport and Mrs. Ottoweiller enjoy a treat before the jelly judging.

The biggest upset came in the Jelly contest. Mrs. Livinia Davenport, 73, and Ms. Olga Ottoweiller, 74, have battled for the last sixty years to see who can make the best jelly. Mrs. Davenport’s strategy this year involved sizable bribes passed to the judges right before the tasting. Ms. Ottoweiller screamed “Foul!” and had to be restrained by her grandchildren. Her purse was confiscated by the authorities and classified as a deadly weapon. Both women were ousted by newcomer Tiffany Fweedicks, age 12, from Cloverdale Middle School, with her jar of “Hint of Elderberry Minted Fruit Jelly”. Mrs. Davenport and Ms. Ottoweiller were seen conspiring after the judging. “Bet that was a commercial jelly,” Mrs. Davenport muttered. “Not even true jelly. She had bits of fruit. More of a jam, if you ask me, which no one did. Little cheater. We’ll show her next year.” The two elderly women were last seen in a corner of Tubby Thompson’s Tea Emporium Tent. Tiffany Fweedicks was taken into protective custody by her aunts.

Mrs. Honoria Blakeley’s infamous “Half-Past Mass Berry Chocolate Parfaits to Make Sinners into Saints”

As the sun set over Bowling Green, the scent of baking floated across the fair as contestants scrambled to finish their entries in the Bake-Off. Hettie Toots of Strawberry Junction entered Berry Tarts, each one decorated to resemble one of the judges, if they were a berry and cream clown. The judges were not amused. Horace Haversack entered his prune tasties, for the fourteenth straight year. “Keeps me moving, regular like,” he explained as the judges sampled the misshapen blobs filled with dark brown sludge. “It would help if Horace discovered how to use sugar,” one judge whispered as they hurried to the next table. “And if his pastry weren’t the texture of wallboard,” a second judge agreed. Horace Haversack is very hard of hearing. He beamed brightly and waited for a ribbon that would never come.

Mrs. Honoria Blakely entered another of her gourmet concoctions. Mrs Blakely believes in the liberal use of spirits, both alcoholic and religious. The fumes from her Half-Past Mass Berry Chocolate Parfaits to Make Sinners into Saints knocked flies cold at thirty paces. One taste and the judges were definitely in a better mood. Three bites and they began regaling the audience with drinking songs not fit for young audiences. As they finished the parfaits, the judges were stumbling drunkenly. Perhaps that explains why Gumby Dodger of Dibley in the Dale won first prize for the dog biscuits he brought for his Great Dane, Hoobie.

First-place winner Gumby Dodger and his dog, Hoobie

The final contest of the evening was the watermelon carving contest. It was simple to judge since only one brave soul dared enter. Lester Pysogorski loves playing with knives and food. His piece, titled “Tropical Vacation on the Riviera”, brought home the blue ribbon. Lester has never been good at geography, although he can honestly claim to have the sharpest knife in the drawer.

Lester Pysogorski shows off his prize winning melon carving skills

Tune in soon for another update on the quilts, sewing, crafting, and animal contests!