Uncle Fun and Sparky Land

 

Aw, c’mon Moose, jus’ say “good eeeeeevening”, like we rehears’d, an’ kill me later.

‘Scuse my rusty crankiness, on account’a I haven’t bin on th’ writin’ end’a many’a these postin’s lately. Uncle Fun wood hafta pick this time’a year fer us ta visit th’ Kuzzents fam’ly. “Height of the tourist season in a world capital, and throngs of the unsuspecting and undiscerning all set for enlightenment and exploitation in myriad forms,” he sez — whutever that all means.

Frum where I sit (an’ “as much outta th’ way as possible” has bin drumm’d inta me as the prime locashun fer sittin’), ya kin take er leave Ottawa in th’ summertime — if it duzzent evapurrate in th’ hyoomiditty while yer takin’ er leavin’ it, that is. Whut with everyone ‘round here wrapp’d up head ta toe in th’ Ottawa Fringe Festival, an’ therefore otherwise too ockyoupied ta blog, suddenly they all ‘member I got time on my hands, since I’m too young ta get inta mosta th’ good shows with violence an’ swearin’ an’ ever’thing else that makes life worthwhile, so it’s “look, Sparky, no-one’s sittin’ at th’ keyboard an’ no-one’s lookin’, nudge nudge wink wink”. If that’s a bait an’ switch, there ain’t much in th’ way’a bait to it.

So while everyone else here goes off an’ has themselves a slap-happy ol’ time fringin’ ‘til their eyeballs fall out, I’m stuck here tellin’ ya ‘bout all th’ fun they’re havin’ which I ain’t. That ain’t even th’ short enda th’ stick — it ain’t no stick at all. Y’see, th’ neat thing ‘bout a fringe festival is that it’s one big sideshow, which is my favert kinda show ‘cuz it’s like a show, only off ta th’ side, which is usuwally th’ place where th’ real action happens inna show anyways, an’ plus th’ even neater thing ‘bout a fringe festival is that it offen has li’l sideshows within itself which are even sideshowier than th’ main sideshow. But do they invite me ta have a piece’a any’a this sideshow action, even ta one side’a ta one side’a the’ sideshow? I guess ya know my answer, but I’ll give it to ya anyway, in three parts:

N.

O.

NO.

Whut I’m drivin’ at here is that Mister Kuzzents did his world-famously third-rate Alfred Hitchcock imitashun at a late-nite fringe cabaret inna funky cool musty basemunt, while I sat lock’d by him in th' supply closet — and I quote, “for your own good, for the good of the audience, and for the good of the show …not necessarily in that order”. Him doin’ th’ quickie illustrashun’a Moose ya saw above duzzent make up fer th’ humillyashun, psyckalogickull scars, an’ possible lifelong after-effecks frum breathin’ in fumes offa bottles’a industriyull cleanin’ producks — not by a long shot. I cood have perm’nunt brain dammidge now, fer all anybuddy here cares.

Okay — I dunno who I jus’ heard say “or fer all anybuddy here cood tell”, but now I’m mad. Jus’ see if I let any of ya inta my musty basement fringe cabaret, when I have one.

Alfred Hitchcock, phooey. When it comes ta old-timey teevee mystery-horror-an’-suspense anthollagee serieses, I prefur Night Gallery anyway. B’leeve me — Rod Serling’s sideburns are scary enuf ta give ya nightmares fer a month.

Sparky