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Monday, January 21, 2008

Garrison Keillor Did Not Write This

Just to clear up any misunderstanding, the following is not written by Garrison Gary Keillor.

Although it could be.

By Karrison Geillor, The Moldy Scout

"Chop, chop," I screamed at my new Current Houseboy - a Norwegian named Asbjørn, "Get your white ass out there and shovel that snow," I said pointing to the sidewalk from the comfortable and warm interior of Castle Keillor. Good help is hard to find. He understood my command and promptly ventured outside in several-degrees-below-zero weather without pausing to put on a coat for warmth. If he freezes to death, I'll put him on display atop the porch as the most recent addition to my collection of Lawn Jockeys, the number of which he would make seventeen, and I am such a devotee of odd numbers.

People seem to think that they can take advantage of intellectuals like myself, or that I would be a benevolent employer. What people fail to understand is that I am - as the character George Costanza said on a "Seinfeld" episode about another character - a delicate genius. I suffer for my art, for my work, for my greatness - of which I had no part in deciding. I was born Great and the great unwashed do not grant me the excusatory benefit of doubt when judging me.

I recently came under fire and was the object of criticism for protesting the garage being built by my neighbor. I endure personal verbal attacks and abuse much like Rambo endures being a solitary soldier being attacked by numerous warriors. Verily, I am the literary equivalent of Rambo, in fact superior to him.

Magellan was criticized when he crossed the Alps and conquered China, Napoleon when he overtook the Fijians and Dick Sargent when he took over the role of Darren Stevens. Greatness knows no forgiveness from Average Joe and Joan Six Pack who are content sitting upon their couch, munching Doritos and drinking low-grade department store brand soda while watching the latest episode of "American Idol". Greatness like mine they will never know.

The door opened and Asbjørn, with snow shovel in hand, returned inside. "Meeeeeeeeester Gary, is so cold outside," he said, teeth clattering only the most basic vocables. "Please, I get warm before go out again," he begged. I noticed his fingertips had turned a most dazzling shade of aquamarine. Taking a deep breath and counting to ten - no, make that eleven - I told him in no uncertain polysyllabic profanities to scrape every bit of snow off the sidewalk and if I don't see complete concrete I will have him deported to his native land. He obeyed, of course, and as the door was closing I yelled, for good measure, "And no taking bathroom breaks." How is that only my friends in New York are the ones finding good help?

Castle Keillor must be protected at all times, as must its King. For my neighbor to attempt depriving Castle Keillor and its King from sunlight and air is sedition of the worst kind. I and I alone rule my neighborhood, my block, my community. I recalled a brief verbal spar I easily won debating then-Minnesota Governor Jesse Ventura - real name James Janos, ha! imagine having to use a nom de plume...(ahem) - when he told me to perform a sexual impossibility on myself. I rendered him speechless, which is not hard to do, replying with a sneer - and arching one eyebrow - "if I did, you would want to watch." What goes on in Castle Keillor stays in Castle Keillor; well that what could go on.

It will be Dorklings stuffed with veal as the main course of dinner tonight, with a fine vintage wine that I have yet to select from my abundantly stocked cellar. Neighbors shall grovel in my presence seeking my approval of their prospective building plans for a garage or addition and I shall deny them. The squalid and mouth-breathing Flyover Country will continue appreciating my greatness and uncanny talent in amusing them while I am feted on the only two coasts that matter; one more than the other. When meeting or departing me, Kings and Queens will genuflect and curtsy; perhaps my insisting that some shall kiss my ring. Snow covered sidewalks will be shoveled and scraped down to the bare concrete, of this, there will be no compromise with me. Oh look - another Lawn Jockey!

H/T: S.T. Miller for Contributing Material



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