Ovine Exaggeration, Trapper takes up Fishing, Vizzini Wins Top Prize, Folklore and May, School’s End

Well, I am back, like last year’s Christmas Fruitcake, from my brief trip overseas. The voyage to and from Copenhagen, home of Andersen, the Little Mermaid, tasty brined fish, and the occasional lost Swede, was uneventful. The only moment of excitement, well, comic relief, was watching some titans of capitalism turn green when we ran into heavy weather in the Belt. Socialism becomes more attractive after you’ve witnessed a member of the Oil Trust all peaked and curled up in a corner of the orlop deck. It is good to be home, and just in time to witness the arrival of the Giant Sheep tomorrow.

While on my trip, I did have occasion to enter into conversation with a few fellow-travellers with me in Steerage—which, curiously, the ship’s purser kept calling the “Service Department” and, remarkably, a few declared they had seen the Sheep in person. One man had seen it being loaded into a special wagon of the B&O Line outside of Fairfax, Virginia; another had spotted it in a special stall erected next to the Capitol in Washington. The consensus was that the Sheep isn’t nearly as big as we’ve been led to believe and, in fact, one of my companions, a solid foe of Imperialism and an advocate of Free Silver, even passed along a Kodak he had taken last year that pretty much proves them right:

I’ve been informed our Sheep is the one in the back by the tree. (I realize that is something that is hard for us to understand, a tree, I mean.) A few people I’ve shown this too already have claimed that the Sheep must be the one on the Right; I think, however, that is unlikely, since this one seems pretty vigorous and independent; no, I think, based on what I’ve been told about the Sheep, it would likely be in the back; it would also make sense that it would be near a tree since, by all accounts, it loves to have its back scratched. In any event, it is not big, not big at all, and more or less the same as all sorts of other sheep. But we’ll just smile, be neighborly, and endure until it and its entourage depart. I just hope they don’t spread mange.

It is with considerable regret that we have learned that Trapper Matt has decided to move to the Coast. We have long known his inordinant fondness for small vessels and the aquatic life; on more than one occasion he has admitted to this correspondent that it has been hard to “square” his trapping small furry creatures with his desire to “live the sailor’s life, aye!” We wish him well and hope that he will once and awhile find his way back to our desiccated plain. If he does, he better bring some snapper. On a far cheerier note, it is a delight to record for posterity what we have all known for the last few days. The Heroic Horseshoeman has won the Company’s Annual “Top Performer” award. This achievement certainly came as no surprise to Dustspec; Vizzini’s prowess in production has long been admired by one and all. That the Company, however, finally recognized this is a source of wonder and amazement. So far, he has only received one prize, a personally autographed copy of the Company’s latest manual:

But he has been informed that there is more coming his way.
It is May, May, May, a month that pretty much everone seems to like but me. Granted, it has some quaint traditions, traditions with deep roots in the rich loam of Anglo-Saxon and Teutonic lore. No doubt, the fair maidens prancing around the Maypole are being animated by the Folk Memory generated by their ancestors among the piney bogs of the Rhine’s mouth. If we had trees, poles, and maidens, we’d likely dance as well. Heck, I’d even settle for a bog. The problem is, behind every pole—well, in fact, every leaping maiden—there is always a darker side lurking. You don’t have to spend much time reading the Golden Bough to discern that many of our festive rituals, like the wax paper covering those new “Liver Cleansing Suppositories” available at Stuntz’s, merely hide something painful and likely of dubious value. Racial memory is all the rage these days. Sure everyone want to be Nordic, as long as you are not the victim hung up in the tree. Thus, rituals, like May itself, are deceptive. Haven’t had a satisfactory May since ’90. Now, I know some, indeed most, of you are far more sanguine than I. May, to you, is a time of renewal. I’ll grant you that, and since we still live in a free country, though the week is not over yet, you are welcome to your view. But what, exactly, is being renewed? Finally, school is out for the summer.

I commend our teacher, Miss Amy, and her pupils for their dedication and hard work. Should any have free time over the summer, I will, again, be offering my series of lectures on why the subjunctive mood must be saved. As always, there should be plenty of room. Until next time…

I’ve yet to meet a patriot behind a tree.