Cousin Harold And The Real Ventriloquists.. by Dean J Baker

For a time, Harold was known as Sir Poopy Pants   in his childhood, and it came back to haunt him when he was grown up.
Harold was not someone girls would look at and feel themselves getting tingly alerts anywhere; neither was he pugly enough you’d find him staring at you from some Post Office wall, or FBI bulletin.
You sort of looked and wondered hmm what’s this guy going to do next.

I recall one time in that lost world when we went out to a restaurant. My brother, Harold, myself, and my brother’s recalcitrant girlfriend who had a child thing accompanying her. Sort of like a lump, but not cancerous.
My brother had been getting on my case about so many girls.
“She just has nice tits, and wants to fuck you. There’s no future there.”
“Yes, and your point is?”
“And that other one, she’s a slut!”
“I can hope.”
“Well, don’t you want a girl you can be faithful to?!”
“I’m faithful to them all.”
“And what about how you introduced Starr and Ni to me? This is my past girlfriend, and this is my future girlfriend! Do you think they enjoyed that?”
“Not my fault. I’m just very accepting.”
At which point of course he grimaced, shook his head, and surrendered me to the Devil.

We proceeded to the table, where the child lump was granted a special high table for himself.
Having gone through the meal, I noticed that the little twerp had stopped smiling, and kicking his legs. He was now squeezing his fists, getting quiet and concentrating.

I asked my brother what was going on.

“Hey, what’s the nimrod doing? Lookit him. His fists are all tight, and he’s getting red in the face.”
“He’s taking a dump.”
Damn. Talk about the advantages of being pint-sized. Eat your fill, then squeeze and spill.

“Hey Harold, you sure this isn’t your kid? He’s filled up, and now he’s barking out his ass.”

Harold could only look enviously at the little turdburglar.
“Well, I’ve invented something for that, for all those busy office dickheads.”
Hmm… Harold inventing. Ruhroh, this ought to be good.
“So what did you invent, Harold?”

“I call it the NapperCrapper™2012. An office lounge chair, with a fridge on the side, and an offering pot on the bottom. I’ll be able to stock up, watch tv, eat and obtain relief without ever moving.”
“Gee, Harold, inspired by the witless nimrod here?”
“Well yes, who doesn’t want a return to a childhood of innocence, that misplaced sense of ignorance and reverie? Look at the little bastid. He fills up, he gets relief, and feels warm for awhile. People tuck at his chin, coo at him, and all he does is smile. Meanwhile he’s carrying a load of nuclear poo.”
“Now, Harold if you put a motor on that, powered by methane, and a top, you’d be the energy conservateur deluxe. Green Man, celebrated everywhere!”
“Dean, I’d be on my throne, in my home, and therefore, the new Renaissance Man.”

Philosophy was always Harold’s strong point.

We got up to leave, and I scurried over toward the baby nimrod, all gurgly and smiling now that he’d unloaded. Looking off to both sides, I pointed The Toothless One at him and gave voice to the oracle.
A nice mumbler, sort of like another kid with bad breath going nyah nyah.

The miniature Gumby stopped moving and squeezed his fists together a moment before starting a howl heard throughout the restaurant.
“I bless you,” I muttered to the little house pest, before running off about a dozen feet away, as if nothing had happened.

My brother and his soon to be ex-girlfriend started scowling. I almost felt remorse, but cheered up immeasurably when Harold gave me the thumbs up.
She squealed, what happened. And my brother of course said, well what do you think, my brother the seagull farted on the kid.

“Well, the little bastid took a shit at the table,” I grumbled.
“He’s just a baby! What’s your excuse!?”
“I was trying to help. Show him that’s the proper way to blow gas in public. After all, we know a fart is just shit without the mess.”

Harold just grinned, and said, “Come on Plato, they have to clean up the genius. We have already spread the gospel.”
“What do you mean, Harold?”
“Well, you don’t think the kid was the only one at that table, polluting the atmosphere, do ya?”

It turned out that Harold had the same problem as the baby nimrod, so he had learned to muffle his announcements; and in fact went further, learning to throw his voice, so to speak.
Every time it seemed that the petite Gumby had choked out a bark, it was really Harold.

My brother and his girlfriend, listening to this exchange, just sighed and rushed out before anything else could happen.

Who knew that among his talents as inventor, Harold was also such a clever ventriloquist.

“Harold, you ought to get a job as a politician.” ‘Rawwwk!’ I said, imitating a demented parrot, ‘Polly want some caviar and pay-offs?!’ ‘Rawwwk, Polly needs a polesmoker.’ Damn crackers.

Harold said, “No, I figure they ought to make my NapperCrapper™2012 duh rigeur so that there’d be no more false hopes when one of them springs up spouting honesty and fairness, to the unedicated. Just seeing them in those would be sufficient reminder of the real ventriloquists.”

©Dean J. Baker

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All rights reserved. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. All material is covered by international intellectual property laws. All characters are the sole property of ©Dean J. Baker and have been so since 2005-2006. They may not be used in any form. Failure to comply with this will be taken as copyright infringement and plagiarism and acted upon with all and full legal means. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dean J. Baker with appropriate and specific direction to the original content, and the author is informed.

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Cousin Harold Meets Ms Crankypants

It was one of those days where everything seemed still in the air; every effort hung like a question mark, the air conditioner was a white hole eating everything, and spewing only hope for respite.

I was actually making some food when there was a loud knock and Cousin Harold came thumping in.

“That for me?”
“No, Harold. That for me.”

Kind of reminded me of my non-english speaking aunt who would call asking for my Dad. I’d pick up the phone and there’d be a “Dat Joe?”

First time, I wondered who the fuck this is. Some retard off the street selling jam for feet or ice for freezers, something useful and predatory.
I said, “What?”
“Dat Joe?”
Initially, I’d say just a minute and get my father. But it got to the point where I’d say to my father, Dat Joe is on the phone. He’d just sort of laugh and say, “Could speak better of your relatives.”
I thought she’s about as much my relative as the garden squash, and has the same linguistic capabilities.
Next time she called, there was the usual, “Dat Joe”?
So I said, “No, Dat Dean.”
“Dat Joe?”
“No, Dat Dean. Dat Joe not here.”

Click.
Oh well, so much for me bettering the planet through my human relations’ skills.

I was brought out of my reveries by a vaguely annoying sound that reminded me of a WW2 bomb dropping in a black and white film.
Harold stood there grinning at me.
“Sorry, had cabbage for lunch.”
All the wild cats on the porch and standing on the windowsills promptly rolled over and ran off.
“Must have a date, eh Harold?”

“I’d swear you’re psychic. Yes! I have to meet this honey down the street at Bumpsies in half an hour and I thought I’d better get some tips from the master.”
“Hey Harold, what’d the leper say to the prostitute? Keep the tip – so sorry, Harold, ran out of tips. Besides, you can pick your own off the drugstore shelf for about $5.”
“C’mon….”
“Harold, I do some writing, but I’m hardly one to advise you when it comes to women.”

“Yes, you can, Dean. Your father has told me about all the women you’ve had come around.”
“Harold, they were just errant Jehovah Witnesses looking for a place to rest their feet, or needing a gardener, always wanting donations, and belief. I made sure their toes were relaxed, the soil was tilled, and the donation a memory. Nothing special. Anyway, I’m not for hire. The last one I talked with sailed ship with a donkey, another woman, and a bag of pistachios.”

“They do that, eh?” Harold said with what passed for a sly grin.
“Harold, the cats do that.”

“Well, maybe I could see her.”
“I never saw her, Harold. She kept saying she was going to come up here and visit when I talked with her, but after a series of ‘just a second’ when I’d hear some damn strange noises erupting from the phone, she chickened out.”
“Perfect for me! If she chickens out, no loss; if she doesn’t, I get a date.”
“What about the woman waiting down the street?”
Harold had grabbed a beer from the fridge in the meantime, and came back into the kitchen after a tremendous noise.
“Don’t slam the fridge door, Harold!”
“That wasn’t the door,” Harold replied, smiling like Buddha.

I thought about the prospect of unleashing Cousin Harold on the woman. Yes. Truly perfect.
“Alright, Harold. I’ll call her. I am certain she’d be glad to meet you.”
“Well do it, now.”

The phone rang. Serendipity. And yippy. I answered and it was her, squawking out,”Well where the fuck have you been, hiding out with trolls?”
Thank you, Jesus.

I said, “No, entertaining my Cousin Harold. He’s a writer, too.” I neglected to mention that Harold did his writing on various indoor Poop Room walls.
“Can I meet him? Anything to do with you is magical. You’re my obsession.”
Fuck me gently.

“Sure, he’d be glad to meet you.”
“What’s he look like – not that I’m concerned about that – but just curious.”
“Sort of like a cross between Magilla Gorilla, and Bluto.”
“Right on. Let’s do it.”
I told her Harold would meet her right away, done deal, and hung up.

“Harold, you have a date. One hour. In the shopping mall.”
“Where in the mall?”
“The parking lot. She’s a little concerned about her security.”

Harold ran off and began slicking his hair down, tightening the belt, and generally huffing and puffing. Certain as all guys he’d get the girl, treat her well, and he could then go back to whatever his vocation was while she sat at home, ate bon bons, cursed her fate, and planned where to stand when she whacked him over the head as he came in the door.

I’d barely settled down to eat my meal when Harold came thumping back in, and sat down, eyes star-gazed.
“So, that was quick. She have binoculars and spot you coming?”

“She was very lovely, thin, and smart as hell. Sexy in her sweet unassuming air. But as I got to her, something happened.
She was very casually dressed, yet nice. With thought for her look, and the affect. Ordinary, yet elegant.
I held out my hand and said, Hi, I’m Harold. At that very moment, her face turned red, she squeezed her fists together – sort of reminded me of that little nimrod in the restaurant awhile back – and just blew the biggest gas I have ever heard creep from some female’s backdoor beehive.
Not to be outdone, I threw up the Pepsi I’d just had to calm myself and the rumblings of an empty stomach, and a loud belch erupted.”

Twins, I thought.

“So, what’s the future hold, Harold? Sounds perfect for you.”

“It’s like that herd instinct you were telling me about one time. We’re due for each other.”
“Harold, I was distinguishing between the hard instinct, so to speak, and the herd instinct of violent sheep. You know, mad ewes chomping down on you because they see another doing it; and saying that if they got their hard instinct together, there’d likely be no sheep action.”
“Oh,” was Harold’s singular reply as he gazed off, drooling.
“Come on, Harold, you’re looking like a bridegroom already. When’s the happy day?”

“Well, she has to have her colon checked, and I need to have those Easter Island heads on my bunghole popped out or whatever, then we’re off on vacation.”

Harold, never shy.

“How do you know she’s the one, Harold?”
“We said our hellos, like I said. Then we took a stroll through the department store because she said she’d like to do something else.
I was looking at getting some brand new T-shirts for the occasion, and I couldn’t help it. A family was across the aisle and I strained but couldn’t stop the ass trumpet from going off.
I thought I was done. The husband looked like he’d kill me, and the wife looked at him like ‘well, there’s your buddy.’
Next thing I knew, Ms. Crankypants was coming down the aisle, yelling, “I’ve found you!” Big smile on her face, not like the others who would always make me feel second-rate.”

Imagine that, I thought.

I could see the conversations now. Harold in one part of the country would pick up the phone, and arrrk into it; and his beloved, Ms.Crankypants would thrust the receiver against her ass like a small but unloved dog, and bark back.

Young lovers.

Oh Happy Day.

©Dean J. Baker

©Dean J. Baker and deanjbaker.wordpress.com, 2011. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material that appears here or has appeared here without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. All material is covered by international intellectual property laws. All characters are the sole property of ©Dean J. Baker and have been so since 2005-2006. They may not be used in any form. Failure to comply with this will be taken as copyright infringement and plagiarism and acted upon with all and full legal means. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Dean J. Baker and deanjbaker.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content, and the author is informed.

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