Belle Eva Unger

 
AUGUST
 
 

August 4 -- Heavens to Murgatroid, it certainly does feel like August! Here's a couple of events where you can entertain yourself in cold, manufactured air.

The Doolittle "Doodle" Lang Senior Center will present "Itchy for Italy - Scratching for Love" this Friday evening at 7 pm in the Otis Oldfurt Theater next to the dining hall. Narrators will be Marvin and Mitzi Gardens, who recently returned from their own Italian adventure. Italy is Mitzi's ancestral homeland and birthplace (maiden name, Bicci), and Marvin, who served under General Patton during World War II, revisited the places he saw in 1944 when the Allies booted the Nazis out of the boot. HOORAY for the booting!

Mitzi and Marvin, spry as a couple of love-struck teenagers, celebrated their 70th Anniversary while in Rome. Yes, Rome the city of fountains where Marvin swept his bride-to-be off her feet all those years ago. Rome, the eternal city where the eternally-wanting-Marvin Mitzi waited for Marvin's return at war's end so he could whisk her away to the good ol' U.S.A.

I just love love stories. Don't you, my sweating sweat-hogs? There will be a slideshow of pictures and moving films from their trip. Admission is free, but donations to the Lang Sr. Center are requested to help pay for running the air in the Oldfurt Theater, and believe you me, I, for one, WILL be watching very closely to see who does and who does not drop some coinage into the bucket. Residents of the Doodle Lang Center will, of course, be exempt from my judgmental eyes.

Saturday afternoon at 2 pm, the Let's Get Metaphysical Club will meet in the basement of 2nd United Methodicalist Church to watch and discuss the dream sequences of the movie, "Inception." I haven't seen this film, but dreaming is one of my favorite past-times, so Belle Eva will be front row and center... assuming the film will be in focus and screen centered.

It pains me to report this last ditty-bitty, but since my SSS was forced to be part of it, I'll spill it. Billy Clegg invited us to view his miraculously-healed arm, and so I told SSS to go take some shots. I was a tad skeptical that Billy could be doing what he claimed to be doing so soon after his unfortunate accident, and, tragically, I was right to be so.

Being the upstanding citizen he is, SSS called 911 operator Marva Lusky, told her to send an ambulance, and then rightly vacated Billy's place. Yes, he left bloody Billy to his own devices, which is exactly what I'm going to do. Honestly, my bubbly buttercups, I do believe we have all gone above and beyond the call of duty on Billy's behalf. I have now come to the conclusion that when the good Lord handed out common sense, Billy Clegg was standing in the wrong line... probably the beer line. Anyway, good luck with "Rehab, the Sequel," Billy!

And that, dear friends, is all I have for this week. Until the next, this is your Around Our Town editor, Belle Eva Unger. xoxo

 

 

August 11 -- Well, it appears the oppressive heat wave is frazzling the nerves of our Meddletonville citizenry. The first salvo came during Saturday's meeting of the Let's Get Metaphysical Club. Yes, there were rows, but not of the seating variety. Things got testy when Constance Pending veered off course from the discussion of dream sequences in the film, Inception, by showing slides of artwork by Salvador Dali. Her intended session of compare and contrast exploded into a divisive shouting match, spearheaded by Beatrice Bethune's sudden proclamation that Constance's pictures were the devil's work. Constance countered that such old-fashioned thinking is what keeps Meddletonville synonymous with Podunk, which was countered by Bea's declaration that Constance's way of thinking will lead us all straight to hell.

Good heavenly days, my fruity fly-swatters, how quickly was I jolted from my ecstatically-charged dream of Leo Di Caprio in Dali's Crucifixion (talk about compare and contrast! O-:), as one member after another stood to scream arguments for both sides. Honestly, the hubbub caused my cockles to creep from cervix to cranium. Their continuous cacophony nearly caused me to lose my own cool. Fortunately, I am proud to say that leveler heads did prevail... well, at least mine did.

Struggling to get my words heard above the fray, I reminded all present that we were in the basement of a house of worship, and that Jesus himself said there is no such thing as the devil. The only hell is the one we create for ourselves in our own heads. This, praise be, did force most of Bea's legions to sit down, shut their traps and reflect. As for Bea Bethune, she gathered the cupcakes she'd brought for all and stormed out of the church. Now, it is a church divided, because Constance's husband Pat and Bea's husband Beauregard are both deacons of 2nd Methodicalist, and being good husbands smart and true (key word "smart" (-:), each man took his wife's side in the matter. End result, attendance for Sunday's services was down 57%, befuddling Reverend Armand A. Clegg (yes, a second cousin to "broken-arm" Billy), but I convinced him it was due to the heat, vacations, and what have you.

Rest assured, dear ones, Belle Eva is doing her best to play peacemaker, so we can all pray that the army of Constance and the army of Beatrice will merge with the army of Jesus for a reconciliatorial revival of good vibratorial tidings before next Sunday's hour (hopefully, it's only one hour, I beseech thee, good Reverend Clegg) of worship. Amen.

Next, a short message from Jasmine Finch, head nurse at the Charlie T. "Free" Wheeler Psyche Clinic and Terminal Happiness Home. She wants to express her gratitude, and that of all her patients, to whoever left a healthy supply of rapidly-deteriorating-in-the-heat cupcakes on their doorstep late Saturday afternoon. The generosity of our angelic citizens never ceases to amaze me. Pedestals of preciousness, that's what we are! xoxo

On a contrasting note, it seems a contempt of court order has been issued from the bench of Judge Wally Cronkletonkite for one Ethyl Veral, who apparently has abandoned the fulfillment of her community service sentence at said Wheeler Terminal Happiness Home.

Not surprisingly, she picked a fight with the wrong inmate... er, patient, at the Home, namely, Mike "Mayhem" Mayhew,

 

(File photo courtesy of the Wheeler Home)

 

whose medication requires daily changes of dosage in order to keep him under control. Word is that Ethyl felt Mike was purposely holding his poop until after he was bedded down and locked in his room at night-time. This so he could use his fecal pan instead of the toilet, which of course required her to empty his pan each morning. Ethyl's choosing to voice her complaint in Mike's direction, rather than to head nurse Jasmine Finch, produced a sudden expression of Expressionistic artistry from Mike, his canvas being Ethyl's face.

 

 

Looks like Mr. Mayhew's medication makes for some hasty-pasty pudding! xoxo. Now, I'm not saying Ethyl has no right to be upset, but as is usually the case with her, she made her own bed, and by golly, she should be forced to wallow in it, feces or no.

That's my two-cents worth, and even though two cents won't get us far these days, it's all I have to say for this week. Until the next, this is your Around Our Town editor, Belle Eva Unger. xoxo

 

 

August 18 -- What can BROWN do for you? Well, if the brown in question happens to be a spider, it can do this...

Yes, dear hearts, you can now say your Meddletonville Weekly Sentinel columnist has officially mooned you in photograph, because the location of my wound from this fiendish, night-time-while-I-was-sleeping attack is very near where no sun shines. It should also be noted that the poison of a brown spider is of the flesh-eating variety, and therefore, the antibiotics forced upon me are the strongest to which I have ever been subjected.

Cold chills immediately followed by hot flashes, and then right back to the cold shivers preceding another assault of heat -- my plight seems to be an endless cycle of suffering, but at least I should come out of it with my butt intact. (-:

So, with my deepest desire that you cut me some slack for my radically-altered thought processes, I will tell you of the only news to come across my desk of which I remember (or care!)

Constance Pending and her husband Pat made truce with Beatrice Bethune and her hubby Beauregard. All four did attend this past Sunday's services with the Pendings sitting far left middle and Bethunes far right. As for me, I sat second row center so as to avoid all of them. The entire affair seems so trivial now, since my bite greeted me on Monday morning. Come to think of it, conflicts involving churches and religions and differences of opinions as to who knows what is true and what is false, is all just a bunch of horsepuckey. When it all comes down to brass knuckles, there's only one question that needs to be answered: Does it work for me? I'm the only one who matters -- my church in my own head, my personal visit with my vision of whatever it is that runs this great big universe -- and that singularly-important question applies to all of us.

So, ask yourself: Does this work for me?

Oh, Lordy, here comes the shakes. Time for me to whip out my heat pad and suffer through another trip to Freeze-my-ass, Alaska, as I wait until it's time for my transport to Cook-my-goose, Nevada. Until next time, (hopefully, on time), this is your Around Our Town editor, Belle Eva Unger. xoxo

 

 

August 25 -- Greetings, my bellicose belligerents. I know that you are, because most of you got fresh paint on your clothing while riding the egg scrambler at the Crocker County Fair. Cheap paint, no doubt, but none left on me. I was in no mood to be scrambled, not after my blood was more than sufficiently stirred by a viscious little spider. On that front, I do believe I'm nearly back to normal, although the after-effect of my medication does at times make me feel as though I might swoon. Or maybe it's simply because I NEED A MAN! Eligible bachelors of Crocker County, are you reading me? (Billy Clegg, this does not include you!) On the County Fair front, the Weekly Sentinel has that more than covered, so I've said all I have to say.

I can only assume things have calmed with the folks at Second United Methodicalist Church. I've heard nothing to the contrary, and even though I was feeling well enough on Sunday morning to attend services, my personal prayers told me to attend services more charitable than the sort where people's main objective seems to be outdoing one another parading about in their fancy attire.

No, my visit with the God of my choice gave me the idea to visit some of the unfortunates at the Charlie T. "Free" Wheeler Psyche Clinic and Terminal Happiness Home. Specifically, some of you newer residents wrote in to ask me if I knew anything about Mike "Mayhem" Mayhew. Seems he's become a bit of a celebrity since his pinpoint accuracy painted the face of Ethyl Veral (who, in case you haven't figured it out, has made many an enemy in this here town) with his morning fecal matter.

I do remember the Mayhews from my childhood. Theirs was a sort of "Radley" existence, as in the novel To Kill a Mockingbird, with Mike, of course, playing the Boo character. The Mayhews kept their son mysteriously hidden from the public, and like the book, we "youngins" all had our own theories as to the what's and why's. Few had ever seen Mike until the time came when foul odors seeped from their house. Responding to complaints, the sheriff entered to find both of Mike's parents expired... kaput... nada more... dead and bloated.

Autopsies said rat poison did the trick, and even though Mike claimed it was an accident, psychiatrists deemed him a paranoid schizophrenic of the extremely dangerous variety. A jury convicted him on both counts and judge ordered him confined to the Wheeler Home until the end of his days, or until doctors certified him as cured and no longer a public threat (the latter being highly unlikely )-:).

That was 1976, my dear, freedom-loving citizens, and poor Mike's existence ever since has been limited to his barren, padded room at the Wheeler Home. He gets a one hour stroll (escorted by two staff members with sedative-filled syringes at the ready) on the grounds or in the day room, depending on weather, per day. This I learned from Head Nurse Jasmine Finch, told to me when she so graciously arranged for my visit with Mike after his Sunday exercise.

Since Mike had no other family besides the two he killed, his only interactions with normal folks have involved doctors or other staff members at the Home. I do believe, my curious crocuses, that Mr. Mayhew was smitten with me! xoxo

I was allowed ten minutes with him (never fear... two staff members stood nearby), and I did most of the talking, telling him who I was, where I'd lived and my memories of his house. Ironically, once I'd finished and shut my mouth, he asked me if I liked scrambled eggs. Such an odd fellow! xoxo

Anyway, Jasmine said that since I seemed to have a calming effect on Mike, I can visit with him fifteen minutes per day as many days as I wish. I told her that since Mike seemed to have a calming effect on me, I will visit with him every day starting on Thursday after his walk. Isn't this exciting news?! Belle Eva gets to pick a brain, prod and probe, play therapist, with the grand illusion (or de, strike the i and the l (-:) that I might actually give a very sick man a few brief moments of arousing joy.

I'd love to end my column on a similar note of joy. Maybe I am and maybe I'm not. I'll leave it for you to decide. Ethyl Veral got over her indignation, came to her senses and presented herself to Sheriff "Ruff" Rausch, who promptly marched her over to the chamber of Judge Wally Cronkletonkite, who promptly ordered her back to her community service at the Wheeler Home, where she could start her ninety-day sentence anew. That's right, however many days she'd already completed were nullified. Plus, the judge ordered her to wear a muzzle, a Hannibal Lecter type of device, when performing her duties.

That way, Mrs. Poop on a Stick won't be tempted to spew her poopy comments at the patients, and they, in turn, won't be tempted to hurl their drug-infused poop at Mrs. POASS (oh, sorry for the typo... Mrs. POAS xoxo). Perhaps those nostril holes aren't quite big enough. She seems to be struggling to breathe. Pitiful pearl!

Until next time, this is your Around Our Town editor, Belle Eva Unger. xoxo

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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