Foolyman plays a game of charades.

After dinner, the small group gathered in the living room, drank wine and played a friendly game of charades. It was Gordo’s turn to make mysterious gestures.

Foolyman shouted his guesses.

“A bird!”

“A chicken!”

“A chicken laying an egg!”

“A hyperactive chimpanzee!”

“You’re at a chalkboard!”

“Einstein!”

“No, you’re rowing a boat–a gondolier!”

“A pole vaulter!”

“You’re a knight who is jousting, and your poor old horse has a really bad limp!”

“Your horse has rheumatism!”

“YOU have rheumatism!”

“You don’t make any sense!”

“That must be it. You’re mad!”

“You’re the Mad Hatter!”

“No, you don’t have a hat. That’s obviously wrong. Forget that.”

“You’re a windmill.”

“You’re a windmill somewhere near Amsterdam.”

“You’re that windmill in Don Quixote.”

“You’re a windmill in a hurricane! A Category 5 hurricane!”

“You’re playing patty-cake with forty people!”

“You drank too much wine!”

“You’re my neighbor’s crazy cat and he’s got fleas!

“You’re wildly indecisive!”

“No? Okay. It must be something. But I’m stumped. Let me think. Let me think. You’re at an auction–no–that can’t be right. You’re a gigantic moth rampaging through the streets of Tokyo–but that’s would be completely ridiculous.”

“You’re Michelangelo painting the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel and you’ve lost your balance!”

“You’re a castaway on a desert island and you’re desperately trying to wave down a passing freighter, but they don’t see you, and your life depends on it! That explains why you’re jumping up and down!”

“It’s a bizarre ancient ritual, and you’re trying to summon the ghost of Methuselah!  The ghost of Hamlet! Nebuchadnezzar!”

“It’s a strange type of dance! It’s the locomotive! It’s the locomotive with spirit fingers! It’s a combination of the cha-cha and breakdancing! And the funky chicken!”

Poor exhausted Gordo finally surrendered.

“I’ve got it! I’ve got it! You’re surrendering!”

Foolyman reads a moo-ving human story.

Foolyman refused to read talking animal stories to Junior, back when his son was young and impressionable. Because animals don’t talk, obviously. And Foolyman didn’t wish to tell lies.

But what could he do? After putting on his thinking cap, Foolyman suddenly realized that he was related to several humans who talked precisely like animals.

So he decided to write a more accurate bedtime story.  And this is how it went:

Once upon a time, not so long ago, two uncles and two aunts visited their young nephew in a small cabin deep in the woods. Outside it was snowing. Inside a warm fire glowed. At the dining room table, the conversation was quite animated.

“Moo,” claimed Uncle Spike, raising his fork. A large forkful of pie disappeared into his mouth. “Moo moo moooooo.”

Aunt Gertrude shot the bitter old man an odd glance. She put down her fork and turned to Aunt Claire. “Moo,” she declared.

“Moooo!” exclaimed the latter.

Uncle Rich crossed his arms, nodded his head with enormous gravity and raised his voice. “Moo moo moo moo.”

You can imagine the reaction that ensued.

“Moo!” replied Aunt Claire. She made as if she would rise from her chair. But of course she didn’t. “Moo! Moo!”

Uncle Spike laughed loudly. “Moo!” He shot Uncle Rich a wry glance. Aunt Claire’s face turned red.

Aunt Gertrude seemed very uneasy. She awkwardly interjected: “Moo moo moo moo moo moo.”

“MOO!” Cried Aunt Claire. “MOOOOO!”

There was a harsh chorus of opinionated moos all around.

“Moo!”

“Moo moo.”

“Moo moo moo! Moo! Moo moo.”

“Moooooo.”

After dinner, everyone gathered in the family room to watch television. And they lived happily ever after.

Junior laughed. “Read it again!”

Foolyman rescues crazed catty Fluffle.

Mrs. Jingles, that ridiculous old neighbor, was nowhere to be seen. Her crazed catty Fluffle had wandered into Foolyman’s backyard, and was now yowling like some dickens high upper in that tipsy pine tree.

“Don’t worry! I’ll rescue you!”

Fooly stertled carefooly upsome that dangwrinkled tree. He clumbered branchers to branchers, hard grippling and fingersome, swingering his footsies. OOPS!

“My shoe!”

Crimpful, he clumbered sockwardly skyward, arm-loopily, apestyle. That dangtwisted treetrunk was awfool slipsided. Higher! Even higher! Them droopy branchers dingrot sappy and they gotsome teensy. Fooly lost his grip and descended a bit. RIP!

“My pants!”

Fluffle simply stared down at him.

Fooly’s legs engripped that trunk. It didn’t look good. He shimlimbered inch by inch. He tugged. He wumpled. He skewaddled. He bedangled. He slipwackered. He disenfolderfaddled. Dripsweating. Eyebulging. Teeth grittered. Even higher!

The tree began to really tilt.

At last, Foolyman had reached the top. There was the sound of splitting wood.

The cat jumped down out of the tree.

Foolyman can’t undisentangle a power cord.

Foolyman couldn’t undisentangle the notty twistardly power cord.

“I can’t believe this!”

The uncordial cord catastrophe was so beknotted and clumpered, flusterable Fooly fripfumbled for ten minutes laboriously grip-grappling. Barely loosening the knotted cord with a fingernail, he dashdagnabbled dang stuperfied.

“Cripes!”

Loop-twist-loop-tug-jigger-dang-shove-tug-what-twist-huh-push-loop-study-turn-tug-swing-hammer-boom.

“That frickfrackyundisentwisterablebemiserablecussed power cord!”

Foolyman discusses politics with Gordo.

Foolyman and Gordo sat on the couch discussing politics.

“This is what I think!” said Foolyman.

Slowfully, with a fine show of greatsome gravity, Foolyman thoughtfolded double arms, redisunfolded, cradled his noddin noggin, pointilated pointy fingers, ruffed his chin. He clearified his throat. He hmmmphed, inhaled, engrossified big tongue all aplomb. Utterances commenced.

“Yes.  That’s right.”

He expounded, profounded, redounded, unbounded, explosing everything. He whippered grandilofied big knowsome gestures. Louder, blouder, puffering up swilling certainties. Factfooly he expunged, particularizing popolarizing yessers, undisentangling definite thoughtfeelness. He exposified, rectified, expooled fantastick wisdumb. He shifted on the couch, while demagoguestrating positankly enormuge seriosity. Gordo squeaked.

“What? What did you say?”

Foolyman jimped upper.

“You’re wrong!”

He wappled his arms.

“That’s crazy!”

Foolyman snorted. He made faces. He rolled his eyes.

“I’m right!”

Foolyman waits for Santa Claus.

Gordo wouldn’t leave.

On Christmas Eve, entirely uninvited, smiling Gordo had plunged in through the front door. Neighbors can be that way.

Twelve hours later, Gordo was still lounging on the couch. He wouldn’t leave.

Mrs. Foolyman and Junior had long gone to bed. The entire world had gone to bed. Foolyman tried to be polite, but sitting there stiffly on his own couch, listening to Gordo drone on, he could barely remain awake.

“And you know,” continued Gordo, “let me tell you just one more thing. You’re really going to enjoy this. It’s another of my Christmas stories. This one is really funny. This is a classic. I’ll never forget. Not in a million years.”

Foolyman stifled a yawn.

“I remember my little brother and I kept waiting and waiting for Santa Claus to land on the roof and come down the chimney. We couldn’t go to sleep. While everyone else was in bed, we sat on the couch, waiting. We just sat and watched the fireplace, waiting and waiting and waiting for what seemed like forever.”

“That’s interesting,” said Foolyman, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. “You know, it’s late.”

“Yes, extremely late. And time seemed to be going by very, very slowly. My little brother and I kept looking at the clock on the mantelpiece, because we knew Santa might arrive at any moment. He might appear literally any second! You know what that’s like? We’re talking about the one and only honest-to-goodness Santa Claus! Who wouldn’t wait for Santa? So we waited on the couch. And we waited. And we waited. And we waited.”

Foolyman squirmed uncomfortably, hoping that Gordo would go.

“All of a sudden a noise in the house made us jump!” enthused Gordo. “My brother and I sat there together on the couch, totally frozen, listening as hard as we could to figure out what made the noise. But then it was quiet. It became perfectly quiet. I mean absolutely quiet. And so we waited. We just waited for Santa Claus. Sometimes it felt like Santa would never come. But maybe he was nearby. It was possible! You know, Santa could arrive at literally any moment. So we patiently waited. We would look at the clock once in a while, but time seemed to be barely moving. But we didn’t care. Santa would be arriving that night! The anticipation is what made everything so riveting. So we waited and waited. We just waited and waited on the couch. What if Santa came down the chimney in the next few seconds? What if we blinked and Santa was there–boom–and then gone? Vanished right back up the chimney! He had magical powers, right? So we patiently waited on the couch, paying close attention to the fireplace. I’ll never forget how we waited and waited and waited. We kept looking at the clock, but no Santa. All night long, we kept waiting and waiting. But it would be worth it. How often do you get to see Santa? Not very often, right? While we sat there waiting, it occurred to me we might have to wait a really, really long time. Because Santa has lots of houses to visit. But, seriously, can you imagine? What if we actually saw Santa Claus with our own eyes? Wouldn’t that be something? Have you ever been lucky enough to see Santa Claus? Now that, believe you me, is something well worth waiting for. So we sat there together on the couch and waited. You know, he might appear any second!  So we patiently waited and waited and waited . . . “

Foolyman plopped over on the couch, unconscious. The sun had begun to rise on Christmas morning.

Foolyman explores a fascinating science museum.

Foolyman and family had an educational weekend.  In the big science museum there were so many buttons.

“What does this one do?” said Foolyman.

Wump-wump-wump-wump.

“Here’s another one with blinking lights!”

Bzzzzzzzzzt.

“I don’t know what that one does! It has something to do with magnets or gravity or something. Look at that thingy going up and down!” (Wife rolled eyes. Junior merely shrugged.)

Be-dump-boop.  Be-dump-boop.

Whirrrrrrr.  Wob-wob-kerplunk.

Click.  Click.  Click.

“That button doesn’t do anything.  Maybe it’s broken.”

Ding!  Ding!  Buba-buba-buba-womp.  Ding!

Chugger-chugger-chugger-mmmm-ringle-plink.  Clack-clack-clack-clonk-zoooo-ting!

“I get to press that one over there first!”

Wok-a-wok-a wok-a-wok-a-wok-a-wok.

Plonk plonk plip boing.

Rumba-rumba-rumba-rumba-rumba-sizzzzz-pop.

“Yes!”

Pucka-pucka-pucka-clank. Pucka-pucka-pucka-clankety-clankety. Pucka-pucka-clank.

Woople-oople-buzz-clop-zing-zing-crackle-clink-shugga-ugga-pop-pip-floopy-doopy-shmubble-bubble-woooosh-bing-BANG!

Foolyman gives Shakespeare a valiant try.

“Stand right over here. That’s perfect. As I recall, you mentioned that you’ve never played a character from Shakespeare. It’s only one line, so it shouldn’t be too difficult. Listen carefully.  And on set purpose let his armor rust until this day, to scour it in the dust.”

“And on set purpose, let his armrest–armrest?   Say what?  Sorry.  And on set purpose let his armor rust until Tuesday– Until this day.  And on set purpose let’s be amorous until this day– I’ll try again.  And onset porpoise– Purpose.  Of course.  What’s next? Scour the dust? On purpose let’s Tuesday scour the dust. It isn’t Tuesday? Onset a porpoise, this day–until this day–who scoured the dust.  Purpose!  And on set purpose let his armor rust until this day, he scoured dust. Scoured the dust. To scour it in the dust. Scoured what? The armor. I got it! Sat on porpoise amorous, let us scour Tuesday’s dust.  In Tuesday’s dust.  Why dust?  Doesn’t a porpoise need water?   And I don’t get the lettuce armrest. That doesn’t make sense.  And why on Tuesday? Sometimes I just don’t get Shakespeare.”

“Perhaps you’d prefer a non-speaking role?”

Foolyman stumbles upon shining pirate gold.

Foolyman and family were at the beach. A sudden gust blew their big red umbrella into the water.

“I’ll get it!” said Foolyman.

He jumped, flipper-gimped wrong-sided feets, scrumpled the blanket. Clammering quick sandward, he toppled crashbutt.

“I’m okay!”

Foolyman upzoomed, flumped and crabbled, plunk into a sandcastle.

“Hey!” shouted Billie.

The umbrella went out to sea.

Foolyman spied something shiny in the castle moat. A glittery-wittery sunbeaming coin. Sparksome gilder-gleaming. Fractual praystash coinage! Unbubbelievable!

Woohoo! Snozzers! Beduz sum fintastical pluck! Empiraticle plounder! Ten bajillion dollhairs!

Foolyman swipped the boy’s spade and plunged fast-fist-diggedy doglike wowcrazy. Sandscoops beflying! Done gonzo be frothy richers! Looksie all ingot I got! Looksie! Looksie! Me foundered lost frabjous treasure!

“But it’s only a penny,” said Billie.

Foolyman flubjumbles the dishes.

“Honey, would you please clear the table and wash the dishes?”

“Okay.”

Supper-stuffled Foolyman widdle-waddled for tackling them clattery tippystack dishes. Clitter clat. Clutter, clatter. Pick clat rattle clack. Ting, ting. Bang. Gurgle flump bubble bubble shmoop bubble bubble shmuddle. Dumble flop. Clatter. Bang. Floop. Swosh. Plop. Ping. Jurgle. Jangle. Swoooooosh. Flubjumble. CRASH!

“That was my favorite serving dish!”

Red-faced, drippy Foolyman dun twistered. “Oh, no. Oh, no. Where did I put the crazy glue?”

Out jumply to the garage Fooly clabbered. Dem dark-webby garage shelvers overhingled dangsump chaotic. Hubby cups, clampers, sawzers, hosers, bertilizer, doofle potsies, oldsome limpers, junkbinkers, a clammer, yucko weedbusters, a delated football, the buggy splayer, two spurious sprockles, clingwires, fletpaper, sprung rit trips, a rusty-bebusted chandelier, wiggly Barkle’s crunchbitters, squishicaulk, sank pluggers, err flitters, baggled screwsies… “Ah! Super glue!”

Fooly returned to the kitchen.

Bubbles everywhere!