Tag: general silliness

The Funniest Book in the World (‘Oy, Rodney’) Reprint from 10/3/2021

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a gripping page-turner headed for the top of the NY Times bestseller list | Book parody, Book humor, Romance novels

Introducing Chapter CDXLVII of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, or, A Gentlewoman’s Malady, Violet Crespuscular–

Wait! What’s this “or” business? Since when is there an “or”?

“The subtitle,” Ms. Crepuscular explains in  a series of smoke signals, “is a staple of Victorian literature. I don’t know why I haven’t been using one!”

Be that as it may, in this chapter, none of Lady Margo Cargo’s folk remedies has sufficed to halt the vicar’s conniptions. “I have never seen more disgusting conniptions in my life,” says Lady Margo.

In desperation, Lord Jeremy Coldsore consults the Wise Woman of the Gaol, formerly the Wise Woman of the Woods; but she prefers the gaol.

“Ah, yes, conniptions!” she festiculates. “Constable Chumley has kept me well-informed of the vicar’s conniptions. They are of a special kind–Smythe-Peddington Conniptions, named for the first doctor who was unable to cure them. Fortunately, I know exactly how to cure them! And the method is simplicity itself. So simple, the patient will practically cure himself.”

“So what is this method?” cries Jeremy.

The Wise Woman lowers her voice and, almost whispering, replies, “You must read him, aloud, the funniest book in the world! That’ll stop the conniptions.”

“Excellent!” Jeremy exclaims. “And what is the funniest book in the world?”

She shrugs broadly. “So what am I–the London Times Review of Books? I haven’t read a book in 30 years. And that one wasn’t funny.”

MUCH LATER THAT DAY… A search of Lady Margo’s copious library turns up only one book that might be amusing, in a way: Baby-Talk Made Simple, by Benjamin Franklin.

“It’s our only hope!” says Margo… TO BE CONTINUED!

(“There! How’s that for heightening suspense?” crows Violet. We sigh in unison.)

 

The Accordion Man Cometh (‘Oy, Rodney’) REPRINT

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Oy Rodney – Lee Duigon

We are offered a rare glimpse into the creative mind at work, thanks to a notebook carelessly left on a windowsill by Violet Crepuscular, The Queen Of Suspense.

With the June Taylor Dancers, from the 1950s, lurking in the woods around Scurveyshire in the 1850s, what role will Lord Jeremy Coldsore’s 20-pound accordion play in saving the town? And don’t forget Mr. Pudding and his newts! A reader in Pastiche Grove, Michigan, forgot… and a giant spider got her.

The notebook, written in Cretan Linear A, provides tantalizing sketches of the June Taylor Dancers warding off the attacking newts while a bearded man with strange anatomical features (two left hands, for instance) plays a large accordion.

“Over the past 70 years,” she writes, reverting to English for the nonce, “I have found Cretan Linear B superior to the Indus Valley Script when it comes to keeping notes. And either one will drive would-be plagiarists crazy! Go ahead, sucker–plagiarize this!”

Cretan script linear hi-res stock photography and images - Alamy

“I like the Indus Valley Script for day-to-day reminders involving goldfish food, etc.; but as you can see by this example, Linear A has it beat.”

Indus Script - World History Encyclopedia Obviously not suitable for serious literary porpoises!

Some funnies to lighten up your day.

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The Peasants Are Revolting! (‘Oy, Rodney’) REPRINT from 4/1/2018

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Related image

Chapter CXLIX of Violet Crepuscular’s worst-selling romance, Oy, Rodney, is action-packed! Honest.

But before it all heats up, Lord Jeremy Coldsore’s friend, the American adventurer Willis Twombley, has a problem. He confides in Lord Jeremy.

“Germy, ol’ hoss,” he says, “you sure got a lot of creditors. I ain’t sure I’ve shot the half of ’em, and I’m afraid you’re goin’ to have to expand your cellar here at Coldsore Hall, ’cause I’m runnin’ out of places to stash the bodies. A few of ’em, y’see, they’re gettin’ kind of high, if you know what I mean. Especially that fella I parked in the closet in the billiard room. We need more space!”

“Oh, really, Sargon!” Twombley still thinks he’s Sargon of Akkad. “I am trying to prepare our wedding to Lady Margo, and I’m sure I don’t have the funds to hire a construction crew!”

“Who said anything about hirin’ ’em? You’re the nobility, ain’t you? And they’re the peasants. Just draft a bunch of ’em to dig out a bigger cellar. This is England, after all–you don’t have to pay ’em.”

Meanwhile, Miss Lizzie the spider girl has been crying for action vis-a-vis the vicar’s mysterious, dangerous backyard wading pool. In the taproom at The Lying Tart, her heated oratory inspires the rustic patrons to snatch up scythes and torches and form a mob to attack and destroy the pool–which is now believed to be the “nest” of the ancient sorcerer Black Rodney, from which he periodically emerges to devour his unsuspecting victims.

Howling and roaring, the mob streams toward the vicar’s property. But when the uproar dies down for just a moment, Albert the Daft Old Minstrel asks a daunting question.

“Er, I say! What are we to do if Black Rodney comes out and gits us all?” The mob is a mere twenty yards from the hedge marking the border of the vicar’s yard. Behind it lies the pool.

Albert’s question stops the mob in its track. Everybody looks at everybody else. Suddenly they all drop their makeshift weapons and run away in every conceivable direction.

Constable Chumley, alerted by the noise, arrives too late to see anything but a large pile of scythes, pitchforks, and guttering torches. He shakes his head.

“‘Tis a froffin’ mair dindle hereabouts, this verning,” he soliloquizes.

And if you are shopping for a home…

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Violet Crepuscular’s Fan Mail (‘Oy, Rodney’) REPRINT

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Lord of the tube socks | Romance novels, Funny romance, Book humor

From January 31, 2021

Introducing Chapter CDI of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular takes a break from the plot and inserts extractions from some of her fan mail. She is hampered in this exercise by an inability to read. Otherwise she would never have let some of these letters see the light of day.

“It’s not that I can’t read at all,” she hastens to explain. “It’s just that I can’t read stuff that people write.” We are glad she’s cleared that up. “Fan mail,” she adds, “proves that you’ve got readers.”

From Cindy Indy, Rawalpindi: “Dear Ms. Crepuscular, your novel proves to be an effective decay-preventive dentifrice when used in a program of conscientious oral hygiene and regular professional care.”

Ozzie Spore, New York: “Your book is the only thing that keeps me living.”

Ms. June Spumoni, Bad Axe, Michigan: “My pet emu bit and kicked me after I lined his cage with pages from your wretched novel.”

Tom Popocatepetl, Jurassic Park, Hawaii: “How do you spell your name?”

“I have taken some flak for the elegant way in which I got rid of the monsters that had overrun Scurveyshire,” Ms. Crepuscular confides in her readers. She has run out of fan mail and needs to fill the rest of the chapter somehow. Harking back to her days in grade school, she writes in longhand, 100 times, “I must not waste paper.”

Violet Crepuscular: A Living Legend REPRINT

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Oy Rodney – Lee Duigon

We are  coming up on the climax of Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance–over 700 chapters so far–and it seems the conclusion of the saga cannot be more than a few light-years away.

How will the story be wrapped up? Lord Jeremy Coldsore marries Lady Margo Cargo, and their first child looks suspiciously like a chicken… The Royal Millipede Inspector is rescued from the Picts… Small, creepy dinosaurs infest Coldsore Hall… Man, how will the epic romance end?

Ms. Crepuscular has achieved a literary monsterpiece. She has already been nominated for the Beef-Boy Kollowski Award. (The person who nominated her has since gone into hiding.) She has appeared as a guest in Mr. Pitfall’s back yard. Fame is just around the corner!

Ms Crepuscular admits that regardless of how or where or when she finishes her novel, there are bound to be loose ends left hanging. “This is how you achieve realism!” she pulusticates. “Holy moly, the loose ends left in my own life–you could paper the walls with them. I’m still trying to find out whether I ever graduated high school!”

With honors, we’ll bet.

Alas, Mr. Pudding! OY RODNEY, REPRINT

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Oy Rodney – Lee Duigon

From March 2, 2025

We expected great things from Mr. Pudding and His Newts. Violet Crepuscular, the Queen of Suspense, had promised them to us! Sort of, at least.

But as we enter Chapter DCCCXXXI (or whatever–ask me if I care), we are informed that Mr. Pudding has been trodden underfoot by the stampeding mammoths, and then picked up and eaten by the Cyclops.

Meanwhile, we have a letter from one of our readers… a Mrs. Hobbity Smith from Fort Mange, North Dakota [sound of envelope being torn open].. I’ll read it for you.

“Dear Ms. Crepuscular, Whoever you are–

“Your misbegotten novel, Oy, Rodney, once seemed likely to blossom into great things. It was wonderful! But I’m afraid the last hundred chapters or so would have turned out better if they’d been written by monkeys.

“I challenge you, I dare you, to write one–just one!–reasonable, entertaining, and coherent chapter of this so-called romance. Ye gods, how many chapters has it been since the title character, “Rodney,” was even mentioned?”

That’s as far as I’m going to read. It really is a very harsh letter. I am told Ms. Crepuscular’s mother used to write even nastier letters to all sorts of people who weren’t expecting them.

How do we keep Violet from seeing Mrs. Hobbity Smith’s letter? That could wind up in a duel!

Violet Crepuscular: ‘I Have No Ideas!’ (‘Oy, Rodney’) REPRINT

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Oy Rodney – Lee Duigon

From September 29, 2024

Sooner or later it comes to every writer (with the notable exception of Edgar Rice Burroughs): that conviction of utter hopelessness, that inability to write another word. We call it “Maria.”

Everything is set up for Violet Crepuscular, The Queen of Suspense, to embark on Chapter DCCXLIV of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney. The June Taylor Dancers are lurking in the woods around Scurveyshire. Lord Jeremy has his 20-pound accordion. {“Does it weigh 20 pounds, did it cost 20 pounds, or both?” we hear you ask.) Mr. Pudding has organized his newts.

And there’s poor Violet, stuck in neutral.

“A Greek fortune-teller told me this would happen!” she confides in her rapidly diminishing host of readers. “How told me in great detail how to avoid it; but I don’t speak Greek, so I didn’t understand a word of it.”

The publisher is thinking of bringing in a ghost writer, but that would require a seance.

“I have to break through!” Ms. Crepuscular agonizes. “There must be dozens of readers waiting tensely for my next chapter!” Will the newts run wild? Will the June Taylor Dancers dance to Lord Jeremy’s tune? Has the evil medieval sorcerer, Black Rodney, come back to stay? Is the theater really dead?

[Advice to Violet: You need an agent, kiddo. Binky Fong Associates is looking for new authors to introduce to a largely Manchurian audience. Tell ’em A Guy sent you.]

Johnno’s Injury (‘Oy, Rodney’) REPRINT

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Image result for images of silly romance novels

From September 22, 2019

Before we look into Chapter CCCXVIII of Violet Crespuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, we have a note from the author.

“Dear Reader,” she writes, “as you know, I have acquired a pet clam named Farfel. I plan to build a new aquarium specially tailored to his needs. I wanted to show you the plan, but someone at the temple ate my template.” She pauses slyly. “Voila!” she exults. “Another crepuscularity!” Just what we needed.

Moving on, Johnno the Merry Minstrel is doing his best to become an oracle, but thanks to a careless remark by Lord Jeremy Coldsore, he insists on doing it while standing on his head. “I think it’ll work better, my lord, if I can play my harmonica while I’m doing it,” he confides in Lord Jeremy.

“By all means, my man, by all means,” replies Jeremy.

Surmounting several acute difficulties, Johnno succeeds in executing a head-stand and begins to recite an oracular pronouncement while playing his harmonica. This is not as easy as it looks.

“The vicar’s gol-darned wading pool–” he begins.

“Gol-darned?” wonders Jeremy. “What kind of word is that for an oracle?”

Distracted by the interruption, Johnno accidentally swallows his harmonica and tumbles down the stairs. Jeremy chases after him.

“Johnno! Johnno! Are you all right?”

Johnno tries to answer, but all that will come out is some rather feeble musical notes.

Meanwhile, Willis Twombley, the American adventurer, repairs to Ye Olde Shoppe of Curious Curios to buy axolotls. “I’ll take half a dozen of ’em,” he tells the proprietor, Mr. Twittle. He waves his six-shooter for emphasis. The other shoppers dive for cover.

“I’m very sorry, sir,” says Mr. Twittle, cringing, “but we’re fresh out of axolotls. Someone came in yesterday and bought them all.”

Twombley is abashed. “Who was the varmint that did that?” he demands.

“The Wise Woman of the Woods, sir! Said she wanted ’em for axolotl pudding.”

Twombley senses some dark purpose at work…

Here Ms. Crepuscular breaks for a new chapter, not yet written. “I do this to heighten the suspense,” she explains. “Toothpaste sandwich cookies, anyone? I’ve made a new batch!”