Your pal and mine Mr. Cousins has been
having a bit of foot trouble lately. By “lately”, I mean “over the past two
years”, which is roughly the time he’s been suffering in silence (not counting
the more-than-occasional swear word) with plantar warts. The most recent part
of “lately”, however, has seen insult added to injury. Now that they’ve upped
the dosage of the treatment (i.e., something akin to battery acid, only less
gentle) used to cure (i.e., burn away) the aforementioned plantar warts, Mr.
Cousins’ every step has become an exercise in uncompromising dolor. Desperate
for succour (and remember, folks, there’s a succor born every minute), The Feet
of Cousins have sought solace through regular dunkings in a solution of the
crystalline panacea known to the world of science as magnesium sulfate, and to
the rest of us luddites as plain old Epsom salts.
Curious
about the efficacy of this traditional remedy for tortured tootsies, Cousins
conducted an exhaustive web-search lasting upwards of a minute, before making a
momentous discovery. It would appear
that Epsom salts are far enough up The Great Chain of Being to warrant the
existence of something called The Epsom Salt Council to maintain and defend
their interests. You can find the website of this august institution by
clicking on these pretty blue letters.
From The Epsom Salt Council, you can learn
of the myriad uses for the eponymous mineral compound, beyond its most obvious
ones as a pedal palliative. The Council touts Epsom salts as a must-have for
every corner of the home and garden, as well as extolling their virtues as an
indispensable aid to household arts and crafts (Christmas is coming—take note,
all ye merry fabricants of homemade ornaments). They even offer a link to something
called “The Epsom Salt Song”.
It’s agreeable enough to listen to, if
you’re in the mood for that sort of thing, I suppose. I can’t say I’m not
disappointed that neither Mr. Cousins nor the Epsom Salt Council ever looked us
up here in Funsville. They’d have found out that one of the town’s unofficial
anthems is a much more tuneful paean to Epsom salts, sung to the melody of
“Edelweiss” from The Sound of Music.
The visual of Christopher Plummer gives
you a rough idea of the flavour of this little ditty, but to get the full
effect, you have to hear it played by the 112-piece Funsville Epsom Salt Sinfonia
and Chorus. This is an experience you will scarcely fail to have at least a
dozen times during Funsville’s annual week-long Salute to Epsom Salts, the
indisputable highlight of which is the Epsom Salt Derby. This is not a horse
race, but a hat, worn by the Grand Marshal of the parade which runs (or limps,
as the case may be) from the swank but hilly Footsore Promenade district on the
edge of town to Funsville City Hall’s communal sitzbath. Due to a hearing
defect (and other impediments to comprehension) on the part of the chairman of
the inaugural Salute to Epsom Salts, the parade Grand Marshal is referred to by
the title “Buddy Epsom”.
Random googling of the sort that turned up
the photographic basis for that cheap gag also yields unexpected nuggets of information, such
as the existence of multiple images for the name “Jedi Clampett”.
The one above (minus the semi-amusing speech
balloon) can be found at the MySpace page of quite a fine little bluegrass
combo called (it should come as no surprise) Jedi Clampett (click link to see and hear more).
But I digress. And as long as I am
digressing (and there’s no point in doing anything else—we’ve come too far now
to turn back), it’s worth noting that Buddy Ebsen (a.k.a. Jedi…er, Jed
Clampett) was the first choice to play the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz.
He had to stand down after nearly
asphyxiating on the aluminum powder used for his make-up. That’s something not
even Epsom salts could help with, I’m afraid—song or no song.
Uncle Fun
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