Tag Archives: Oy Rodney

The Arrival of a Rival (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Image result for images of silly romance novels

Introducing Chapter CCCXI of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Violet Crepuscular exults:

“I have introduced a new stylistic flourish to English prose, dear readers! I shall call it the Crepuscularity. ‘The Arrival of a Rival’ is a shining example of the technique! Allow me to provide two more. ‘A Man’s Laughter at Manslaughter,’ and ‘Where Is a Wombat’s Womb At?'” Here she inserts several kissing emojis, which I am unable to reproduce here. For that matter, I am also unable to define “crepuscularity.” What the dickens is she getting at?

We were all waiting to see what would happen when the three seventh sons of seventh sons, expert morris dancers and all named Squeeb MacTavish, attempted to lift the curse on the vicar’s backyard wading pool, following the instructions of the Wise Woman of the Woods. But do we get that?

“Bear with me, dear readers,” Ms. Crepuscular confides in her readers, “as I heighten the suspense by introducing a necessary complication into the plot.”

The complication takes the form of a well-dressed but also very rugged-looking man who shows up at the door of Lady Margo Cargo’s luxurious country house.

“Who the devil are you?” demands her crusty butler, Crusty.

“I was Lady Margo’s girlhood boyfriend, pledged to become her husband after I made good in the world. I then went off to seek my fortune. Now I have returned.” The man pauses to scratch at a livid scar in the shape of an exclamation point. “Please tell her that Mr. Agamemnon Frizzle is here to claim his bride.”

Crusty, whose own marital ambitions have been thwarted by Lord Jeremy Coldsore, is in no mood for the arrival of a rival. (“There! I did it again!”)

“I don’t see no fortune,” he drools. (I cannot explain why Ms. Crepuscular chose this verb.)

Mr. Frizzle grins, a horrifying sight. “And no one saw the lost city of Shopworth, either,” he declares–“until I found it!”

Crusty is perplexed. The city of Shopworth, Saskatchewan, has never been lost, to his knowledge.

Here the chapter breaks–again “to heighten the suspense,” explains Ms. Crepuscular. Or maybe she just doesn’t know what to write next.


The Expert Morris Dancers (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Image result for images of silly romance novels

Chapter CCCX of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, is almost too exciting to read. Almost, but not quite.

To exorcise the curse placed by Black Rodney on the vicar’s backyard wading pool, the Wise Woman of the Woods has declared that it is necessary for the seventh son of a seventh son, who is also an expert morris dancer, to stand with his back to the pool and throw an orange beach ball over it while reciting something or other, it doesn’t really matter what. The detective hired by Lady Margo Cargo has found three men in Scotland, who are all each other’s uncles, who meet those qualifications. They have just arrived by train.

The Scurveyshire Brass Band welcomes them with a lusty rendition of “Great Balls O’ Fire.” Willis Twombley, the American adventurer who thinks he is Sargon of Akkad, chases the band away by shooting up their tuba. “I hate the smell of classical music,” he explains.

As the three seventh sons of seventh sons step off the train, Lord Jeremy Coldsore greets them and introduces himself and Lady Margo. The tallest of the trio introduces himself: “Squeeb MacTavish, y’r honor, and pleased to meet yer.” The other two are also named Squeeb MacTavish.

Meanwhile, Lady Margo’s crusty butler, Crusty, frantically warns Constable Chumley to stop the ritual before it can begin. “Our so-called Wise Woman of the Woods is an idiot!” he cries. “Thanks to her advice, I invested my life savings in Fli-Bi-Nite Hair Growth Creme For Men–and look at me!” Only disaster can ensue, he says, if the ritual is allowed to proceed. The constable races to the railway station in time to deliver an urgent warning to Lord Jeremy.

“Thar be shinnims all bymie, M’Lord, whiff dastle cremakins–avant weer doggles!”

“He seems upset,” says Twombley.

“It’s all right, constable,” Lord Jeremy replies soothingly. “We’ll get started as soon as we can get these gentlemen to the vicar’s pool.”

The chapter breaks off with a malediction against archaeologists. Ms. Crepuscular has very strong feelings against their profession.


Scurveyshire’s Shakespeare Festival

Image result for images of silly romance novels

Violet Crepuscular introduces Chapter CCCIX of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney, thus:

“I would be remiss, dear readers, if I made no mention of Scurveyshire’s annual Shakespeare Festival–a great tradition of English village life.”

Tradition has it that William Shakespeare once spent the night in Scurveyshire on his way to Oxford to buy candy, and rented a room at the shire’s most famous pub, The Lying Tart. Unable to get to sleep, he stayed up all that night to write his little-known tragicomedy, Two Damn Fools. “And one of them,” Christopher Marlowe reportedly said after reading the play, “is you.”

A special stage has been erected on the common for the annual performance of this play, which, these days, is only performed once a year, here in Scurveyshire. It is believed that Shakespeare himself disowned the play and always claimed that Marlowe wrote it. This year Two Damn Fools will be performed by an amateur cast selected by Lady Margo Cargo and directed by Reginal Tosspot, the town drunk.

The plot involves a case of mistaken identity resulting in two damned fools inadvertently marrying each other’s fiancees. That’s really all there is to the plot. Had it been written today, it would have been a low-rated BBC sitcom. But during the festival in Scurveyshire, anyone caught attending the play is treated to as much free ale as he or she can drink. This leads to great merriment, and a high crime rate.

Lord Jeremy Coldsore, as current justice of the peace, busily makes his preparations, whatever they may be. “This,” he confides in his friend, the American adventurer Willis Twombley, who thinks he is Sargon of Akkad, “is an unsurpassed opportunity for Black Rodney to plunge the entire community into catastrophic chaos. I have instructed Constable Chumley to hire two dozen special constables.”

“Does he think they’ll be enough?” asks Twombley.

“What he said was,” answers Jeremy, “‘Aye frithin’ mickle dorbies an’ speed yon thores.'”

Twombley nods sagely. “Sounds like he’s got it under control,” he remarks.

[Note: My allergies are killing me today. If there is any fault to find with this installment of Oy, Rodney, it’s still Ms. Crepuscular to blame.]


A Letter from the Detective (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Image result for images of silly romance novels

When we last heard of the two-foot-tall consulting detective, Sir Ranulph Toadsome, he was headed north to Scotland to find the seventh son of a seventh son, an expert morris dancer, the only person who would be able to lift the curse from the vicar’s backyard wading pool. Now we hear from him again, in Chapter CCCVIII of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney.

Lady Margo Cargo, excited to the point of not noticing that her wig is on sideways, reads the detective’s letter aloud to her fiancees, Lord Jeremy Coldsore and the American adventurer, Willis Twombley, whom she thinks are the same person, and also to a casual passerby who looks like a Prussian entomologist.

“‘Dear Lady Margo (she reads), I have found not one but three men who are each the seventh son of a seventh son, and also expert morris dancers, and I will send them to you upon receipt of their train fare.

“‘You will, however, have to take care in dealing with them, because, by a family quirk that is rather difficult to explain to the layman, all three happen to be each other’s uncles and are extremely sensitive about it. Do not, under any circumstances, offer them any kind of food, and be especially careful not to make any small talk involving uncles. If you can avoid doing either of those things, you will have no trouble with them. Yours truly, Toadsome.”

The casual passerby mutters something in German and abruptly takes his leave.

“Isn’t this wonderful news?” exults Lady Margo. “At last we’ll be rid of Black Rodney’s curse. And then all we’ll have to do, Lord Jeremy, my dear, is find proof that you aren’t already married to someone else.”

“But I am not married to someone else!” cries Jeremy.

“I was, once,” mutters Twombley, “but she was one of those slippery Mede gals and I had to send her back. Every time you tried to hold her, she’d just squirt out of your hands.” Mr. Twombley believes he is Sargon of Akkad.

“We shall let the matter rest here for the nonce,” Ms. Crepuscular confides in her readers, “and take it up again at another nonce.”


The ‘Oy, Rodney’ Crystal Ball

Image result for images of silly romance novels     Image result for images of robert mueller

When I wrote about Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, on Sunday (https://leeduigon.com/2019/07/21/the-wedding-at-last-oy-rodney/), I had not the merest inkling that this immortal work of litterature would be peering clairvoyantly into our country’s political future.

If you remember the scenario, Lord Jeremy Coldsore was in a jam because someone had asked him to prove he wasn’t already married, and he didn’t know how. I mean, how would anybody actually prove he wasn’t married? It’s notoriously difficult, maybe even impossible, to prove a negative.

Which brings us to today’s Congressional extravaganza starring witch-finder general Robert Mueller, and House Democrats’ contention–which they rather wished Mr. Mueller to parrot for them, and were disappointed that he wouldn’t–that Mueller couldn’t “exonerate” President Donald Trump because he couldn’t provide evidence that the president didn’t commit any crimes.

Can Lord Jeremy prove he’s not married?

If those words in boldface type seem confusing, it’s only because they really are. But at the heart of the labyrinth lies the simple inability to prove a negative.

Democrats have a totally weird notion of “justice” and have displayed its weirdness many times. Suddenly it’s incumbent upon the accused to prove he didn’t do it? Well, my birth certificate, if it is accepted as genuine, proves I didn’t kidnap the Lindbergh baby; but I have no way to prove I wasn’t secretly married to someone else in 1972 and that my current marriage is therefor bigamous.

These people have no business being in government anywhere in the United States. Or anywhere else in the civilized world, for that matter.


The Wedding–at Last! (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Image result for images of silly romance novels

In Chapter CCCVII of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney, Lord Jeremy, seeing that the vicar has somewhat recovered from his latest bout of conniptions, takes the bull by the horns and decides to go ahead with his wedding to Lady Margo Cargo, the richest widow in Scurveyshire. The quickly patched-together ceremony is held on the front grounds of Lady Margo’s luxurious country house.

“We are met together,” intones the vicar, “to join these two peoples in woolly matrimony. If there is anybody here who knows of any reason why these two should not wed, let him speak now or forever hold his pieces.”

Up from his chair springs a little bald-headed man whom no one has ever seen before. “Ooh! Ooh! I know! I know the reason!” Everybody stares. The vicar smiles benignly, as if he doesn’t fully understand the situation.

“And what, my good man, is that reason?” he inquires.

“It’s Lord Jeremy! He’s already married!

Appalled, Jeremy can only blurt out, “I am not! I am not already married!”

“Prove it!” demands the little man. “Prove you aren’t married!”

This completely stumps Lord Jeremy. He is not the first man to run afoul of trying to prove a negative. The best he can do is sputter, “Why, everybody knows I’m not married, and never have been! Everyone in Scurveyshire knows that!”

“That’s not proof, my lord! If that’s what everybody knows, then everybody is mistaken. You have deceived them!”        ******

Ms. Crepuscular breaks the chapter to bring her readers up to date on the major archaeological discovery made in her back yard.

“It now seems the funny stones are not Carthaginian ruins after all, dear readers, but only a lot of discarded modern bricks, clearly stamped with the label Allen & Bubenick Brick Yards Inc.! In fact, that company is still in business, over in the next township. And the squiggly writing is only a bunch of random scratches, not Carthaginian letters. So they have torn up my yard for nothing, and all those fools in the pith helmets have since made themselves scarce.”

“I am too disturbed,” she adds, “to finish this chapter as it should be finished.”

 

 


An Important Message from the Author (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Image result for images of silly romance novels

In Chapter XX of her epic romance, Oy, Rodney

What? Chapter XX? I thought we had Chapter CCCV last week! Why are we suddenly on Chapter XX? Violet Crepuscular explains.

“Dear readers, I am sure I have a Chapter XX in the appropriate place, between Chapters XIX and XXI, but I cannot recall that there was that much to it. So I might as well rewrite it here, and use it to help you to understand my difficulty in proceeding to Chapter CCCVI.

“In digging up my garden, the oafs from the police turned up some oddly-shaped stones with peculiar markings on them; and as a result, my whole back yard is now being dug up by all these men in pith helmets and I am forbidden to interfere.

“They say the funny stones are the ruins of some Carthaginian thingy and thus a major archaeological discovery–and the government expects me to fund their research! I don’t understand this. They say the squiggly marks on the stones are inscriptions of some kind, but all it seems to say is things like ‘Put this stone in such and such a place’ or ‘For a good time, visit Cindy.’ Meanwhile they’ve made a pig’s breakfast of my yard! I do not propose to invite them in for sandwich cookies.”

Moving on to Chapter CCCVI, what little there is of it, we find Archibald Cruxley, ace reporter for Upholstery World, rather cast down by his failure to interview Lady Margo Cargo about her upholstered wooden leg, the only one of its kind in all of England. He has not been able to stem the flow of Willis Twombley’s reminiscences of famous gunfights in America. Nor does he like the way Mr. Twombley waves his six-shooter every which way for emphasis.

“Man, I thought Ur was a rough town, all full of Chaldees who’d shoot you just to see if their guns was loaded!” Twombley believes he is Sargon of Akkad, on the run from Babylonian usurpers. “And there was fast times in Philistia, too! But there wasn’t none of ’em could hold a candle to Dodge City. You shoulda see what happened when Murderin’ Mike McGurk came to town! Did you know he was a Ghurka?”

On and on he goes. Lady Margo listens intently, lost in fascination. Lord Jeremy Coldsore listens somewhat less intently. And Mr. Cruxley isn’t listening at all. He is thinking he made a serious error in his youth, when he decided not to be a beggar.


Third Whopper (You Won’t Believe It)

Police said the mom was trying to keep the pool from flying away as she drove.

For those of you who’ve been following Oy, Rodney here on this blog on Sundays, you’re already family with weird stories involving wading pools. But this one’s from real life.

Police in Dixon, Illinois, arrested a 49-year-old woman–old enough to know better–for driving around with an inflated wading pool on the roof of her car… and her two daughters sitting in it “to keep it from flying away” (https://abcnews.go.com/US/mom-arrested-driving-inflatable-pool-car-kids-inside/story?id=64248083).

Not even Violet Crepuscular could have dreamed up foolishness like this.

The woman is charged with endangering the children. The J-school genius who wrote the story didn’t give the daughters’ ages. Not that there’s any age that’s good for sitting on the roof of a moving car.

She didn’t tie it down. Didn’t deflate it, fold it up, and safely stow it in the trunk. No. This potential Democrat presidential candidate just put the pool up there on the roof of her car and had her kids sit in it. Happily, before anything really bad could happen, someone saw this pageant of folly when he happened to look out the window, and called the police.

How much public money, do you suppose, was spent on this woman’s education? Where do we go to get a refund?


The Plankton Kid (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Image result for images of silly romance novels

“I am much distracted,” Violet Crepuscular confides in her readers, “by police officers digging up my back garden. I am sure I haven’t buried any bodies there! But I must proceed to Chapter CCCV of my epic romance, Oy, Rodney.”

It seems the editors of Upholstery World have gotten wind of Lady Margo Cargo’s handsomely upholstered wooden leg, the only one of its kind in England, and sent a reporter to interview her. He arrives at her luxurious country house just as she is about to serve tea to her two fiances, Lord Jeremy Coldsore and his friend, the American adventurer, Willis Twombley. She thinks they are the same person. When she sees them together, she think she needs new glasses.

“Madam, my name is Archibald Cruxley and I am a reporter for Upholstery World–” But Twombley interrupts him.

“Well dog my cats–a reporter! You must be here to ask me about my famous shootout with the Plankton Kid!”

“Er, really, sir, I’m only here to interview–”

“I know, I know–it’s hard to believe!” cries Twombley. He digs into his back pocket. “But here’s a picture to prove it!”

Image result for images of plankton

Everyone stares fascinatedly at the array of plankton. “All them little critters–that’s why he was called the Plankton Kid,” explains Twombley. “He had all of Dodge City eatin’ out of his hand, till I came along and plugged him.”

“What was he doing with all that plankton?” wonders Lady Margo.

“Don’tchu fret yore pretty little head about that, honey! It was sort of a callin’ card–every time he shot someone, the Plankton Kid used to stuff some plankton up his nose.”

“I say!” Lord Jeremy explains. “Wasn’t that dashed disrespectful to the dead?”

“Not the victim’s nose. His own nose–he stuffed it up his own nose,” Twombley elucidates.

Ms. Crepuscular breaks in with some harsh words for the police, who have just uprooted her begonias.


Lady Margo Hires a Detective (‘Oy, Rodney’)

Image result for images of silly romance novels

Coldsore Hall needs a new roof, people are packing up to flee the shire, and Lord Jeremy has to find the seventh son of a seventh son (who must also be an expert morris dancer) to lift the curse off the vicar’s backyard wading pool. Does that say “Pick me up and read me!”, or what?

Welcome to Chapter CCCV of Violet Crepuscular’s epic romance, Oy, Rodney. Chapter CCCIV didn’t get written because the police came over to take samples of Ms. Crepuscular’s toothpaste. The less said about that, the better.

As the richest widow in Scurveyshire, Lady Margo summons up enough public spirit–and money–to hire Sir Ranulph Toadsome, London’s premier consulting detective (Sherlock Holmes is still a schoolboy). Sir Ranulph is only some two feet tall, but people pretend not to notice that.

“The seventh son of a seventh son, expert morris dancer, lives on an island off the coast of Scotland which only appears on a map in a church that’s not a church.” Sir Ranulph sums up the case. “And you need him as soon as possible! Is that the mission?”

“In a nutshell, Sir Ranulph,” Lady Margo replies.

“You got it, shorty,” says the American adventurer, Willis Twombley. Lord Jeremy kicks him in the shin. Sir Ranulph Toadsome glares hypnotically.

“The last man who called me that died in Broadmoor,” he declares. He is, of course, referring to the notorious high-security psychiatric hospital; but Twombley thinks he means an almost equally notorious township in New Jersey. He is about to say something about that when Lord Jeremy kicks his other shin.

“Cases like this only appear to be difficult,” Sir Ranulph says. “To the experienced deductive reasoner, they present only slight difficulty. In the meantime, why don’t your people just keep their distance from the wading pool?” To this question no one has an answer. They are not big on answers in Scurveyshire, these days.

“I must break the chapter here,” writes Ms. Crepuscular, “and clean up the mess those loutish policemen made of my bathroom. As if there could be anything wrong with my toothpaste!”


%d bloggers like this: