[Found in here and here. Related posts: This and especially This.]

Calling all readers, prepared to be amazed by the wondrous words of your host James Black!

NOTE: This project seriously existed.

Fortunately, it was cancelled, because, well, that was a stupid fucking idea.

Unfortunately, Ouija wouldn’t stay dead (!!!) and now it’s back with a $5 million budget, and now the joke around the internet is that the movie must suck to have such a huge budget cut. Meanwhile, I’m left wondering why they’re even spending twenty bucks.

SPEND AS LITTLE MONEY AS POSSIBLE ON THIS PIECE OF SHIT AND PEOPLE WILL SEE IT.

How fucking stupid are we getting as consumers? The bar is set so goddamn low now. All that’s required in a blockbuster movie is the bare minimum amount of plot elements possible to make it recognizable as a genre of some sort.

Exciting action movies just need to have things moving around while you hear explosions and shit. Have you ever seen a Transformers movie? I have no idea what happens in them. The point of the movie is literally “Look at that car, now it’s shaped like a robot and it’s HITTING ANOTHER ROBOT!”

They made a movie out of the game Battleship. It’s about alien submarines that jam our radar so we have to blindly shoot torpedoes at them…I actually think that’s kind of clever…Dammit…

So now Ouija Board: The Movie is back on track to dazzle audiences by having the same plot as almost every ghost movie ever, except they can use an OFFICIAL BOARD! Hooray!

Now I’ll be able to buy the “The official board featured in Ouija Board: The Movie” or maybe tell people that I was into Ouija boards before they got popular.

Fuck this movie (NOTE: I might see this movie)

Based on the Ouija movie, here are some great movies I just came up with ON MY OWN:

Where’s Waldo: Detective Waldo Johnson is an FBI agent gone rogue. He’s going to tell the media all of his Chief’s secrets unless they can find him NOW! Match the tone of the “Bourne” movies and we’ll all be rich!

Hungry Hungry Hippos: A mad scientist creates a super soldier serum, but accidentally lightly drizzles it on his pet hippo (I’m getting sick of writing this, so whatever) and it get’s big and mad…then it eats shit… I’m a millionaire!

Mr. Potato Head: A man has a horrible disease that causes his body to fall apart. There is no cure, and he doesn’t want to upset his family, so he tries to hide his illness. When his head falls off his body, he does his best to look normal by resting it on a pair of shoes and tapes little plastic action figure arms to his cheeks. He lives in a horrible world of pain, crying out in anguish and despair for the majority of the movie, while his psychotic children gleefully place different types of glasses on his face. He begs for them to kill him, but they don’t want to end the fun. Eventually the police show up to investigate the man’s disappearance because his boss at the Potato Factory (lazy) has reported him missing.

The police walk in to find the mans body discarded and rotting on the floor, and are delighted to see how much fun the kids are having. They join in, contributing a police hat for the man to wear. Eventually they realize that other people should be able to have the same fun as them, so they create a doll of a disembodied head that you can dress up in all kinds of silly clothes. The disembodied head is decided to be bizarre and inappropriate, so they change it to a potato once they remember that the guy worked at a “Potato Factory” (I MADE THIS RELEVANT).

Boom, I’m either rich or in a mental institution.

NOTE: THIS MOVIE WOULD MAKE ME RICH.

NOTE: I’M PRETTY SURE THIS IS ACTUALLY WHERE MR. POTATO HEAD CAME FROM.

NOTE: I’M SICK OF WRITING THIS AND INSTEAD OF A PROPER ENDING I’M JUST GOING TO STOP.

One last thing: They should call the Ouija Board movie “Ouija Movie” to mirror “Ouija Board.”

“Honey, which Ouija thing did we want? Was it the board or the movie?”

…I could have sworn I made it plural…

…oh well, I guess it works.

1. Patron saint of the city of Glasgow.

2. Cheap felted fabric made from waste wool.

3. A dumpster diver – one who extracts valuable things from trash.

4. A river in New Zealand.

5. A town and municipality in Huambo Province in Angola.

6. Mongolian monetary unit worth one hundredth of a tugrik (well, “mongo”)

The word has beautiful appeal, doesn’t it?  All definitions I’ve found, the above.  I think I like #3 the most.  Something about the idea of looking for value in the commonplace, the discards and rejections of more refined tastes.  Making beauty out of the hoi polloi.

I love this word – say it again, draw it out: m u n g o….

The sound of it, an everyman’s sound.  Every village should have one.  Makes me think of a bit character in a Shakespeare play, in the wings and mentioned once.  A footnote in a history book.  Someone’s brother, less accomplished and passed away somewhere.  Once made it as an understudy. A lot of places in Australia.

Yet all those mungos have such disparate meanings!  Maybe that’s part of the beauty of it, the random throw together of flotsam, it just needs a name.  What to call it?  Mungo!  A reliable friend, a word impervious to judgement, a sound that won’t judge you for mispronouncing it.  A perfect name for a dog.

But digging a little further, I find the original of the one hit wonder In the Summer Time, by muttoned Mungo Jerry and his hap-pap-py hirsute friends.  Banjo and jug, foot stomp, yeah.  It may be February, but skip the flippin’ ad, get yourself a neck scarf and start stompin’!

Sing along with us, dee dee dee dee dee
Da da da da da, yeah we’re hap-pap-py
Da da da dee da doo dee da dee da dee da da, yeah
Da da da da da, dee da da de da da
Alright!

So we are in the process now of sending all the leftover books back to the publishers. There’s a ton of them – books that is. Then we will see the pathetic amount of books we sold. Won’t matter to the boss. He lives in a dream world. And he will insist that we do it again in September. On Monday he insisted that we were busy, and I said “Yeah Ed, if selling five books instead of three is your idea of busy, then we were busy.”

After getting your first corporate job, your subconscious thinks, “Okay. I’m half-settled now. I shall live in Bengaluru, have a car, party hard every weekend, work hard on weekdays, hit on female (male) co-workers… who knows I may get along with a beautiful (handsome), intellectually capable one and get fully settled.“

Well… my hearty congratulations! I agree with you on every single bit if the change excites you. Been there, done that — barring the fully settled part.

Newsflash 1! What your subconscious does not know is that half of that is never going to happen! I seriously hope it does not happen to any of you, but let us not get my high hopes of you get you delusional. When the truth strikes, you’ll find yourself frustrated or worse, and would want to go back to books/computers/college. At that time, some of you may realize how important it was to attend those last few months of classes that you safely ignored for that joker standing on the dais (as you may think) could not afford a life near TGIF, Airport Road, Bengaluru and most of what (s)he says is never going to work out in real life, especially if (s)he talks mathematics, philosophy or computer science theory.

When your wings are shot down by the drudgery –yes, that what you’d call “life”– and you hit the ground of reality, you’d ask yourself if this was what you wanted to do — write web-apps and test and debug software written by much more decisive people (read ‘academics’). Most of you would not have the courage to quit those fat salaries for some college’s meagre scholarship–irrespective of how deep red your heart bleeds–as your “loved ones” have gotten used to that life-style. Sorry. You’re finished! Live it. Become a VP of Sales in next 10 years, and may be the MD or CEO in next 20 years. Even then, you’d think why I didn’t jump off the sixth floor of the Administrative block in college days.

Some of you, mostly the “non settled” ones, would have the courage to go back and fulfil what they dreamt in those last few days in corporate life.

Well. Been there, done that as well. If, at this point, you’d think you’d be that “lucky one”, hold on to that thought for a moment.

In the graduate school, you’d keep high hopes of yourself. Well, why not? You were an IIT graduate after all, so it is your duty to settle ‘P vs. NP’ once and for all.

Newsflash 2! You’re too old by now. In the college, you’d curse yourself for not getting a long-time girl (boy) friend or a wife (husband). You’ll see beautiful new faces and bodies in hot pants and tank tops. Your hormones will rage, but no use. The “kids” won’t even look at your “mature” outlook. You’d start dressing yourself with the “current times”, but that’d only make your self-esteem dig a hole and bury itself in that. You’d invite “faggot” (if you’re too tacky) or “lassa” (if you’re too macho) remarks from your age group.

You’d try hard to excel in sports like your golden old days, again, just to attract a few lovey-dovey or lustful eyes on you, but then, you’d find that you’re no match to the young legs and fresh lungs, as you had already burnt yours with the cigarette smoke during the days of corporate frustration.

Failing all your attempts to be the college stud, you’d resort to your strengths — your academics. Again, to create a visibility for yourself, this time not to attract the Lolitas, but to create “an image” among your peers. That special one of opposite gender being the part of that peer group of course! You’d set your eyes on a fancy and hot topic like ‘Complex Networks’. You’d find that you can’t pick up on the concepts being taught in the graduate class, since you chose not to attend the undergraduate classes on that topic in those days when your subconscious was really happy on the prospect of a change.

Don’t despair! Start coming to the class now. The instructor is too cool to notice individuals missing the class, though he notices a large chunk missing.

Twelve Days Before Christmas

(Sing to the tune of “Twelve Days of Christmas’)

Waldo Tomosky 12/13/11

***********

On the twelvth day before Christmas my boss, he fired me,

For stealing from the stationary stores cabinetry.

On the eleventh day before Christmas my boss, he called the cops,

Said I broke into his shops,

And stole toner from the stationary stores cabinetry.

On the tenth day before Christmas my boss called 911 to enquire,

“Can you extinguish a house fire?”

“Remove big nails from my tire?”

“And don’t steal anything from the stationary stores cabinetry.”

On the ninth day before Christmas my boss, he called my wife,

Only to cause me strife,

Asking if I had a knife,

Did I wish to end his life?

And “have you ever been in my stationary stores cabinetry?”

On the eighth day before Christmas my boss, he bought a gun,

Got a permit to hide and “carry,”

Bought hollow points, how merry,

Plus red laser sights, how scary,

Practiced shooting at brother Barry,

And hid all his weapons in the stationary stores cabinetry.

On the seventh day before Christmas my boss, he bought camouflage,

One rocket grenade,

One bazooka in trade,

Three ninja stars for a raid,

Handcuffs openly displayed,

Duct tape to brocade,

My sorry butt to the stationary stores cabinetry.

On the sixth day before Christmas my boss, he was stalking me,

Once I heard my dog bark,

Twice near the city park,

Thrice in the woods a lark,

Warned me of him in the dark,

Fifth I saw a car embark,

Inside it sat old Boss Shark,

And asked my psychiatrist “Did he steal stuff from my stationary stores cabinetry?”

On the fifth day before Christmas I got nabbed by the cops,

Made me spread my rack,

Put my arms behind my back,

Hand cuffed me, with great knack,

“Know Miranda, do ya’ Mack?”

Asked if I had any “crack”,

I had no idea, we called it “smack”,

Hauled me to the lock-up shack,

And told me not to steal from their stationary stores cabinetry.

On the fourth day before Christmas I spent the night in the slammer,

Looking at a holiday wreath,

Gnashing my brand new teeth,

Banging my head upon the wall,

The guards had that southern drawl,

Asked for my required phone call,

“Somp’en special, ya’ think, y’all?”,

Taught me the Alabama sprawl,

The Taser I can hardly recall.

While cellmate “Bubba-Jean” stole from the stationary stores cabinetry.

One the third day before Christmas I was standing before a magistrate,

I said “Not guilty judge”,

“On my record there’s not a smudge,

Lawyer gave me a little nudge,

And whispered, “Don’t try to fudge”,

Judge said “you have no shoe laces”,

“I have had similar cases”,

“No remorse on their faces”

“Mother nowhere to be seen”,

“Wife is only a teen”,

All while his hand was in the stationary stores cabinetry.

On the second day before Christmas I was incarcerated in solitary,

For punching out a “brother”,

And screaming at my mother,

Giving the finger to another,

Kicking the bailiff, a ‘soth’n’er’,

Ripping my toilet off the wall,

The pepper spray I can’t recall,

A nightstick I couldn’t forestall,

Once more I did the “sprawl”,

For kicking the warden in the crotch,

On my record there is a blotch,

While the guards were stealing from the stationary stores cabinetry.

On the first day of Christmas things seemed to go much better,

My boss dropped all the charges,

Shared with me his largess,

Hired me back once more,

“Forgive?” I did implore,

Forgave me for my slowness,

Gave me a nice big bonus,

And an office on a corner,

Where it was a little warmer,

Plus five weeks paid vacation,

He drove me to the station,

Hollered at the moving train,

Through the window pane,

“I did your wife on a shelf of the stationary stores cabinetry.”

• © Copyright – Waldo Tomosky

This weather is absolutely miserable, isn’t it?

Not because it’s particularly bad, far from it in fact (most people are going to have delightfully low heating bills this year, I’d imagine). The reason this weather is perfectly frightful, is that boring people with nothing better to say appear to enjoy talking about it. To everyone. Lifts have become a minefield, the office canteen a firing range and don’t even get me started on hairdressers… In fact if the weather doesn’t turn into whatever it is supposed to be like at this time of year, I’m going to start resembling a reclusive, lank-haired hippy, so keen am I to avoid that most painful of afflictions… I speak, of course, of inane small-talk.

The dedication to small-talk is a curious quirk of the human mind. Our brain is supposed to be stimulated by things that interest or challenge it, which makes it strange that upon meeting anyone we seem to veer instantly to the opposite. I’m not for a minute suggesting that when stuck in a lift with someone you should lecture them on Descartes or open up with “a train leaves London travelling 60mph, at the same time a train leaves Birmingham going at 45mph…”. That would be odd. But why, oh why, do we just head straight down the path of least interest?

“How was Christmas?”

Probably, like 99% of the population it was a mixture of chaos, happiness, excess and stress. Even if it wasn’t, do you really care? It would take a fairly extraordinary response to make you not just glaze over and nod before plonking “yeah, pretty much the same with me” at the end, as you desperately scramble to get off-topic.

“I actually went up to the Arctic Circle with the Pink Panther, Eddie the Eagle and the ghost of Winston Churchill, where we ate stuffed peacock under the Northern Lights and drank champagne drawn freshly from the nipple of a penguin…”

“Oh right, yeah. Did something pretty similar myself…”

Now a week into the swing of work after the festive period, I’m pretty sure I know what everyone in the office did over the break. But then again, I knew what they were doing from the pre-christmas water cooler small-talk, so it’s hardly enriched my life. I’ve just experienced the same information in an enthralling variety of tenses.

Of course, the boot fits perfectly on the other foot as well. The moment we leave the office, we find ourselves swamped by questions from people demanding to know what we do for a job.

At what stage did this become the most interesting thing about someone? When did we decide that upon meeting someone new, we have to know what they do with (presumably) the least enjoyable part of their day? I suppose that is all in the way we construe the question. We assume that the question of “What do you do?” is referring to career and answer it as narrow-mindedly as we can. Perhaps we should advocate more expansive answers:

“What do you do, then?”

“Oh, I wake up unnecessarily early, don a suit and sit at a desk for 8 hours, flicking between Facebook and some spreadsheet I don’t understand, before coming home and numbing myself from the harsh realities of my disappointing existence by watching a load of insipid crap on television, then going to bed. I’ll usually try to factor a few loo breaks into the equation too, while the weekend is the same but with more alcohol and less consequence. And you?”

It would be interesting to gauge someone’s reaction to that. It could be worth a try.

At the root of the problem though lies every human being’s fear of ‘awkward’ silences. I have no idea who organised the rebranding of silence from “golden” to “awkward”, but somewhere, someone is to blame. Everyone seems to think that by talking, they are comforting themselves. Friends talk, so surely it’s the right thing to do? Yes, but friends also have something to talk about, and crucially they actually like each other. That’s a moderately key factor in the whole ‘friendship’ lark.

But no, we’ll overlook those factors, the sheer idea of silence terrifies us. We’re worried that if we just shut up for a minute that we’ll be exposed for the terrible frauds that we are. Just look at The Apprentice (a show we point and laugh at, except that those idiots are just exaggerated and unfortunately-edited portrayals of ourselves). When the contestants have nothing to say, and this is especially true in the interview stage, they just spout complete bollocks. To its credit, the programme is very good at picking up on this and ridiculing it, yet the next morning you’ll essentially be doing exactly the same thing when someone asks you about the weather. Because, like the rest of us, you’re unbelievably boring and full of shit.

by Harry Harland

Crowd??

Though it would be easy to cover the candidates (that will be done by every other media outlet), The Real Story will cover the process — or what was passed off as a process — to the community.

Unfortunately for the City of Columbus, City Hall never understood why you hire professionals to do important hiring processes. In a clear example of having absolutely no understanding of police work, city officials pitched softball questions at the candidates that would have been better suited for a Sergeants’ promotional test. Questions about the person’s strengths and weaknesses, such as, “Tell me your proudest moment in police work” were sophomoric at best and uninformed at worse.

And, that was the highlight of the night. Our city officials must begin to understand that everyone is watching them as well, and that neither being able to speak clearly nor mumbling is acceptable.  During the first candidate’s interview, Curtis Brame, the mumbling and not speaking clearly was so profoundly bad, Mr. Brame had to ask the Mayor and Councilmen to repeat their questions several times. Even people in the tiny audience began to murmur loudly that they could not understand the questions.

Curtis Brame

This complete lack of professionalism made the entire community look unprofessional. In a round-robin tournament of craziness, the council rotated asking inane questions such as: “What is your management style?” and “How do you get along with people?”  These are questions professionals would have already known.   And don’t ask strangers how they are going to solve our murders when they have not reviewed a single case of ours.  It makes you look like you have no real understanding of police investigations.

But wait.  It gets better!  In what appeared to be a total lack of understanding or inattention, all of the councilmen began repeating the same questions.  Even the candidates began pointing this out, and several audience members began questioning this obvious mishap.

It what seemed like a scene out of Back To School, the council grilled the unfortunate Rodney Dangerfield-like candidates. One could imagine them saying, “I get no respect.”

As one of the interviewees, Robert Spinks pointed out, “I am interviewing you and the community as much as you are interviewing me.” You have to wonder what he really thinks of us all now.

Here are many of the lowlights that occurred Thursday afternoon (not evening as some would have you believe):

Mayor Smith repeatedly asked what the candidates would do if they were elected chief. Really? Elected? Elected?? Does the Mayor know that chiefs in Columbus are not elected? Obviously not! He said it at least ten times. Be prepared. Know what you are going to say.

Each councilman proved on numerous occasions that reading a question from a piece of paper can be a difficult task to master. Time and time again, the candidates had to ask for clarification, because someone would read something so convoluted and incomprehensible that it could not be deciphered. Again, not what you want to show on public access television.

One of the most unprofessional problems was not having a standard set of questions. It was obvious that City Council members were making up questions as they went along and felt they had to fill up 45 minutes of time for each candidate. This scenario caused them to create questions as they went along.  They took Mr. Brame through two sets of questions, Interim Chief McQueen through three sets and Mr. Spinks through one set. More on that later.

This discrepancy was noticed by the audience, and many felt it was unfair to Interim Chief McQueen — they vocalized such in the hallway.

Police Chief Candidate Selvain McQueen

During one part of the interview, council and the mayor were notified by a city official that television viewers were asking if they could speak up. They were complaining that they could not hear the questions. Some of the viewers obviously did not know it would have been better to not hear them.

And last but not least, they gave Mr. Spinks an incredible advantage. He got to watch the circus show for the other two candidates and then had the opportunity to speak last. By this time, he understood that these guys were poorly equipped and mentally underwhelmed. He completely dominated the inept group from the onset.

They never interviewed Mr. Spinks. He stole their interview, and like little children who had just had their ice cream stolen by a bigger kid, they sat in wonder as he spoke for 45 minutes and never gave them a chance to ask questions. And, the saddest part? They had no clue it was happening.

Mr. Spinks was even ready for Kabir; when asked about the demographic and diversity of his last job, he told a wonderful tale about how his father’s co-workers saved his aunt with a baby in a stroller, two uncles and priest from the Ku Klux Klan years ago in Washington state.  And, then he called out Councilman Karriem for judging him by his color.  All Kabir could do was say, “Wow.”

Police Chief Candidate Robert Spinks

In one of the funnier notes of the night, Mr. Spinks said he had listened that morning to one of the councilmen’s radio shows, but he had forgotten which one. Councilman Karriem never fessed up that it was his show. Too bad. For the community’s sake, let hope Kabir did not say anything inflammatory that morning.

In conclusion, in what should have been Columbus’ finest moment, we looked unprofessional, unprepared and unwilling to learn. The interview started off poorly, and then was masterfully stolen from them.  Don’t try this at home kids…these guys are total professionals!

Notes:

The Real Story will get a copy of the program and place it on our webzine for everyone to watch. It will be too late to judge the candidates, but you can judge your elected officials. Watch it and ask yourself, “Is this our best and brightest?”

Mayor Smith did announce that the selection will be made Monday at 5pm! It should be fun!

Joseph B. St. John

A/K/A Mr. MoJo Rising

On January 1, 2001, John Douglas Brown, a rice farmer in Vidrine, Louisiana, bought a goat.

“Now, Mr. Brown, this here goat is crazy. It’s a dancing goat!”

“Good. The world could probably use a dancing goat.”

“Mr. Brown, I hope you know what you getting into.”

“Don’t trouble yourself with my affairs. Thank you and have a good day.”

During the thirty-five minute ride back to Farmer Brown’s farm, the goat paced around the bed of the truck, wallowing in the crisp winter air and wondering where he was headed. The goat was a male, only nine months old. His original owner named him Sugar, but he answered to Trope.  Farmer Brown was Trope’s fourth owner. The demand for dancing goats had waned over the years.

As soon as Farmer Brown pulled into his horseshoe  driveway, Trope jumped out of the truck. Farmer Brown followed. Trope went up to John, looked him right in the eye and jumped up with his front hooves  coming down on John’s shoulders. The goat, with both eyes closed, began to sway from side to side. Farmer Brown swayed along with Trope, smiling like a  fool.

“John, get in here. What in the name of Christ are you doing dancing with that goat. That ain’t natural. People are gonna start wondering about you. They’ll say ‘here comes John Brown, he dances with goats.’ Ain’t no husband of mine gonna dance with no goat”, shouted Louise Brown upon seeing the interspecies dance.

“Louise, darling, this goat is special. He dances. I  ain’t gonna be the one to tell him he can’t dance.  I don’t want no ornery or sullen goat. I want a happy, dancing goat. That goat was born dancing and  daggummit, he’s gonna live dancing.”

“Please, John, not in public. And what’s Cody gonna think of all this?”

“The boy’s gonna be fine.”

Cody Brown, the only child of John and Louise, was fine indeed. The love of Trope exhibited by Cody towered above the love his dad possessed for the goat.  Everyday after school, Cody, who had just entered the ninth grade, rushed home and completed his homework. Then it was out to the barn to dance with Trope.

At first it did indeed appear very awkward and unnatural to watch Cody and Trope dance a waltz, but the looks on their faces revealed the pleasure, the intensity and affection within these two. One couldn’t help but smile and wonder what it feels like to be following a  goat enthralled in a waltz.

For those who couldn’t get over a fourteen-year-old boy and a goat, hand to hoof, waltzing around a barn, there was always the twist. Cody would put the Chubby Checker ’45 his mom had as a young girl on the old  record player in the barn and that goat twisted like nobody never twisted before. That goat must have been part feline or rodent, the way his back could bend and shift. When it came to expressing the dancing prowess of Trope, words were too feeble. No matter if it was the twist, the jitterbug or line dancing, a permanent twinkle resided in Trope’s eye, casting all doubt away as to whether this goat should be dancing or not.

When Cody was in school, away at his grandparents or anytime he was unable to dance with Trope, Farmer Brown laced up the dancing shoes. John and Trope danced together at least three times a week. When they  did, there was no music. There was no talking. It was always completely  silent. The bond between a man and his dancing goat is one of the most  powerful bonds that exist. It transcends music and speech.

“Wheezy, I think I’m gonna take Trope to New Orleans for a dance contest,” John mentioned to his wife over dinner.

Cody blurted out, “Aw, man, that’d be awesome. I know Trope would win. Can I come?”

“Good grief, John. Now the boy’s all excited. I just don’t know. A dancing goat in a dance contest. That just ain’t right.”

“That goat was put on this earth to dance. Just like I was put here to grow rice and you was put here take care of me and Cody. There’s no need to be so hardheaded about it. I admit a dancing goat is pretty strange, but believe me you, that goat can cut one mean rug.”

“I don’t know why I’m allowing this but you and Cody can take that goat to the dance contest. But I don’t wanna hear about no trouble y’all get in down there.”

“His name is Trope, mom. Oh, and thanks, mom, you’re the best.”

The two weeks before the dance contest flew by evoking mixed feelings of anticipation, nervousness, and confidence. There was no denying that Trope had the ability to dance. That’s all he ever did. Wake up, dance, eat, dance, dance some more, and go to bed.

In preparation for the dance contest, Cody and Farmer Brown taught Trope three new dances: swing dancing, ballet and the Lambada. Although it was forbidden, the Lambada was Trope’s favorite. Trope was ready. However, John was supposed to be Trope’s partner but a severe case of the shingles put him out of commission. It was now Cody’s job to dance with Trope.

“I don’t think Cody needs to be out and aboutin’ all over New Orleans with that goat. People are gonna laugh at him,” said Louise.

“Daggummit, the boy’ll be fine. Let them dance.”

The contest was held at the Royal Siesta Hotel in downtown New Orleans. The contest, which was followed by a dance marathon, was scored upon originality, execution and spirit. Farmer Brown and Cody escorted Trope down to the contest, Louise being too embarrassed to attend.

The first couple, a local husband and wife combo from Kenner, played some big band music and swing-danced a number that was a little bit Happy Days, a little bit hepcat, and a whole lot not so good. Nobody clapped.

The second couple, two semi-professional dancers from Venezuela, named Javier and Claudia shook their hips to some salsa and meringue. They were good but lacked pizzazz.

Trope and Cody were the third act. Just before the  announcer could finish announcing Trope, the lights went out, a disco ball dropped out of the ceiling, David Garza’s Disco Ball  World began pouring out of the speakers. Trope, wearing roller skates, entered the dance floor from the northwest entrance with Cody waiting  nervously in the middle of the floor. Thus it began. Trope, who looked as if he were on a higher mental plane, began swirling his body in every which way. He mixed the blatant disco moves, with some ambient-trance moves along with old-fashioned rump-shaking plus a hint of ballroom dancing that would’ve made Fred Astaire smile smugly. Cody, also on skates, just followed Trope’s steps directly in time. Cody knew Trope so well; their connection was so  unique, so private that Cody, totally unprepared for Trope’s moves, could anticipate his dancing goat’s next move. For eight minutes, all those in attendance knew what they were witnessing was something that was never to be seen again, never to be forgotten and never fully understood.

As soon as they finished dancing and caught their breath, a sea of applause, cheering and whistling rose from the spectators.

The contest master of ceremonies, a skinny man just over six feet tall with a lazy left eye and smile that looked to cause him pain came on the loudspeaker, “Ladies and gentlemen, I think that we need not to see the remaining acts. Trope, the dancing goat and Cody Brown are this year’s  dance champions. We gladly give you a check for $500 and remind you that as  champions, you must attend next year’s competition.”

“Thank you for giving Trope this chance to show everybody how much he loves and appreciates dancing. If he could talk he’d tell you”, said a teary-eyed Cody.

“Cody”, whispered Farmer John, “let’s get outta here. Before things get crazy.”

“But dad, me and Trope could win the marathon.”

“I know, son, but Trope’s worked enough magic today already.”

For the two and one-half hour trip back to Vidrine, Trope got to ride in the cab with Cody and Farmer John.

“Dad, you think mom’s gonna be excited about Trope totally amazing those people.”

“I don’t know, Cody. Your mom was never to keen on Trope. She doesn’t understand.”

“Why?”

“Well, son, the world is kinda weird. Some people just don’t understand. Others can’t understand and some, well some, just don’t want to.”

Spike and I had an argument this afternoon over whether or not celery is actually disgusting.

Eventually the argument shifted to peanut butter (which totally tops my list of ew!).

So random,
Snarky