Sparky
That’s a matter of opinion, Sparky. If things are a little slow in the ‘getting off the ground’ aspect of this Friday’s posting, it has to do with what transpired yesterday. The second day of February, as you all know, is traditionally associated with the meteorological mantology peculiar to a certain member of the rodent family known as ‘Marmota Monax’ to zoologists, and plain old ‘woodchuck’ or ‘groundhog’ to its friends.
It’s important to know, before we proceed, that Sparky’s flair for malapropism stretches all the way back from his tongue to his ears. So, when I innocently (and as events would prove, mistakenly) entrusted Sparky with the task of obtaining the eponymous hibernating mammal for Funsville’s annual Groundhog Day observances, what he brought us back instead turned out to be a ‘grog hound’…
…this one, in fact.
This is Sudsy Beagle, bootlegger extraordinaire and purveyor of bathtub gin, beer, wine, and anything else that can be fermented in a bathtub to Funsville’s notorious Animal Alley neighbourhood. Sudsy’s penchant for serving as his own quality control monitor for his illicit liquor business has earned him a well-deserved reputation as not just an all-around bad influence, but an all-around canine dipsomaniac. Already five-and-a-half sheets to the wind when Sparky dragged him through the door, Sudsy proceeded to imbibe The Fortress of Funitude out of its plentiful stock of libations—up to and including a vintage bottle of peppermint extract that I had been saving for a special occasion.
While Sudsy was still able to maintain his balance by leaning on whatever pieces of our furniture remained intact from his previous attempts to do so, I attempted to press him into service in the capacity for which Sparky had erroneously recruited him. Incapacitated as he already was, he could only narrow down his decision on the question of whether or not he saw his shadow to a choice of three things which he was willing to try to identify as his shadow…if only they’d stop moving. Neither Sparky nor I moved quickly enough to prevent him from using a small-caliber handgun we should have guessed was concealed on his person to eliminate all but what he called “the %$#@*@# one in the middle” from the running.
Reliable accounts of what happened after that become hazier and hazier as the hours roll along. Suffice it to say that the general consensus is that The Fortress of Funitude appears to have been transformed into a temporary speakeasy, a status it still enjoys, pending zoning permits from Funsville’s always-zoning-permissive-for-the-right-price city council. We’re grateful for the extra revenue, as well as the good standing this will put us in with the Funsville chapter of the Euphemistically Named Completely Legitimate Business Community Association, but the fact is that the place is a mess, and the first knock on our new secret door (don’t ask how it got there…I have no more idea than anyone else does) is due any minute.
While we’re tidying things up as best we can, why don’t you all click on the blue letters and have a listen to the next episode of Science Boy vs. Professor Proteus. It has nothing to do with what went on here last night, but then, the less said about that the better.
Uncle Fun
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