The Holy Grail Press
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Word of the Every So Often
plastic Mac brigade: (noun) It’s a fire alarm, often referred to as a manual call point, or, if you’re in a hurry, and MCP. In particular, it’s one of those red boxes where you pull down the lever that breaks a small glass rod, thus setting off the alarm. The red boxes are typically plastic, the alarm alerts the fire brigade, and if those firemen are wearing waterproof coats, then those coats can also be called “Mac’s.” There you have. So the next time you’re in a building and you see an MCP, you’ll have plenty to talk about.
The Almost Daily
Today, April 26, is nothing but birds! First of all, it’s National Pink Flamingo Day. The iconic lawn ornament was invented by a guy named Don Featherstone, in 1957 (a very good year). Rightfully so, the Pink Flamingo was awarded the IG Nobel Prize for Art in 1996. “Ig” more or less means “ignoble.” The various prizes (including for art) are awarded annually by the magazine Annals of Improbable Research, and presented by actual Nobel Prize laureates. I’m told it’s quite the ceremony.
And, of course, it’s National Pink Flamingo Day because it’s also John James Audubon’s Birthday, who was born in Haiti in 1785, and made his final migration on January 27, 1851. And, yeah, there’s a lot of folks who have soured on Audubon because he was not the greatest guy, to the point where in Portland they renamed the Audubon Society the Bird Alliance of Oregon. And, yes, Audubon owned slaves and he strongly opposed abolishing slavery, which may have a lot to do with having been born in Haiti. It still doesn’t excuse the guy of being a jerk. At the same time, is it a good enough reason to forget the guy ever lived? Is any reason good enough? After all, he was one helluva a birder, and one helluva artist.
Cartoon of the Week
The Emperor shows his appreciation for being told he was naked.
Stuff
A First Class Funeral
We gave Uncle Adolf one helluva send-off.
The ladies that had known him
before he was ninety
just had a wonderful time crying,
and we all got to take our turns
walking by and wondering
how in just three days
Uncle Adolf could be made to look
like somebody no one knew.
Father Bauer did it up, too.
All in starched white,
not the ordinary Sunday stuff,
swinging a fresh supply of incense
and saying the very best of prayers.
He had practiced.
Even the Altar Boys were top rate.
You could tell it wasn’t the first
really first class funeral they’d ever done.
It’s those little things,
like not dropping the Holy Water
just short of the Father’s reach,
while everyone looks on in terror,
and then having to go running back for more
that they’ll probably get out of the drinking fountain
because they’re too scared
to touch the real stuff
without having been properly blessed themselves.
And they didn’t even sit on their heels
when the Father dragged on,
saying wonderful things about Uncle Adolf,
who wasn’t even there,
because we had all decided
that the funeral home had goofed
and sent over the wrong guy,
but no one was brave enough to admit it,
at least not out loud, that is.
Even the pallbearers were a class act.
No one let on for a moment
that the casket was really heavy,
undoubtedly the deluxe model.
Made to last.
And not a one stumbled
while carrying that casket to the car,
where they slid it in without a hitch.
No broken feet.
No hernias.
No busted lid that refused to stay shut.
And I had this really wild idea,
that at the very same time across town
there was this other funeral
where Uncle Adolf really was,
and no one there would admit
that the funeral home goofed, either.
But somewhere on the way
both lines of cars would get all mixed up,
and we’d get the right coffin
under the right headstone after all.
But it never happened.
At least, not in real life.
Someone had called a cop
who knew the right way
to the right graveyard
and never once acted the least bit concerned
about getting lost.
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