Saturday, January 8, 2011

Wee Willie Weenie and The Good Time Patio Band

It’s Carnival time in The South, that celebrated high season of costume balls, Mardi Gras, revelry and feasting that occurs between Epiphany and Lent. What, that’s not going on at your house right now? Pity, because I can assure you it’s a grand and glorious time over here. My feathered mask and velvet gown are draped coquettishly across my bedroom chaise, awaiting the whisper of my silk stockings as I slide them on before tonight’s diversion.

First, however, there’s business to be done, in the form of taking down the Christmas décor. Since the master of the house is away on a hunting campaign, the houseboys are engaged in polishing the silver and the downstairs maid seems to have absconded, I wrap myself in a peignoir and slip out to the porch to unwind the fading garlands from the columns.

Before I’m even outside I can clearly hear the sound of drums thumping steadily to music. Perhaps our neighbors, Creepetta and The Hamburglar, have started their fête early? A Saturday afternoon patio party to kick off the season? Perhaps that wretched absconded maid misplaced their houseboy’s hand-delivered invitation?

Alas, no, it soon becomes clear there is no patio party burbling merrily amongst the neighbors’ leaf bags, brambles, yard art, and nonfunctional vehicles. It seems their son, Wee Willie Weenie, is merely practicing his drumming somewhere within. He’s a dear lad, really, along in his high school years by now and still delicate as a downy thistle. He spends his brief outdoor excursions shrieking in terror at bumblebees and dragonflies, whimpering softly while raking leaves and creeping timidly to the mailbox, eyes bulging at the prospect of the narrow street ahead, stretching endlessly, tantalizingly in either direction into a world of possibilities far beyond the hairs of Creepetta’s disturbingly prominent mustache and The Hamburglar’s allergy-riddled rides on the lawnmower, huddled beneath wide-brimmed hat and surgical mask…

But I digress. Surely all this vigorous drumming will put vitality in the boy’s constitution, strengthen his Gumby arms and stiffen his knobby spine. In fact, I think it’s working already –- the drumming seems louder every minute. It’s certainly stiffening my spine, so imagine the benefits he’s receiving. Bravo! Wee Willie Weenie, and bravo! Creepetta and Hamburglar, for such insightful use of the discretionary income you gained from your latest litigious pursuits against your employers.

Laissez les bon temps roulez. 


  1. Let the good times roll and I didn't even have to google. Having been a child raised by laissez faire style parenting though never having studied French, I somehow figured it out.

    You are hilarious and I could read your writings all day long without pictures. You in peignoir (w/ furry heels, too, right?) pulling decorations down despite aching back all to the beat of a drum. Bless your heart twice, good lady.

  2. We, too, have a drum playing neighbor (he has no future). Since my husband is a Philharmonic trumpet player and makes noise of his own, we can't even complain. No bon temps roulezing here,

  3. Got a forwarded 'joke' email today, and thought of you for some reason! Enjoy!

    "The light turned yellow, just in front of him. He did the right thing,
    stopping at the crosswalk, even though he could have beaten the red light by
    accelerating through the intersection.

    The tailgating woman was furious and honked her horn, screaming in
    frustration, as she missed her chance to get through the intersection, dropping
    her cell phone and makeup.

    As she was still in mid-rant, she heard a tap on her window and looked up into
    the face of a very serious police officer. The officer ordered her to exit her
    car with her hands up.

    He took her to the police station where she was searched, fingerprinted,
    photographed, and placed in a holding cell.

    After a couple of hours, a policeman approached the cell and opened the door.
    She was escorted back to the booking desk where the arresting officer was
    waiting with her personal effects.

    He said, ''I'm very sorry for this mistake. You see, I pulled up behind your
    car while you were blowing your horn, flipping off the guy in front of you and
    cussing a blue streak at him. I noticed the 'What Would Jesus Do' bumper
    sticker, the 'Choose Life' license plate holder, the 'Follow Me to
    Sunday-School' bumper sticker, and the chrome-plated Christian fish emblem on
    the trunk, so naturally....I assumed you had stolen the car.''

  4. Because that WAS me, front page of the Sunday Splendaville Sentinel on January 28th. Did it include my mugshot?