Saragun Springs Presents Daisy’s Dell Part 2

(Please recall the hoodwink warning issued yesterday)

Five of us wound up at “Daisy’s Dell.” Aside from Daisy, Renfield and myself, we picked up a pair of hitch-hiking Black Rats named Tully and Aiedeline. They were on their honeymoon.

We arrived at a little clearing at the edge of the ever enlarging Enchanted Wood. For once Anita Know (a Ghost who, by choice, and without being asked, mind you) was not around, because she was attending a Ghost Conference. So I dug for meaningless information as annoyingly as possible.

“Isn’t this a meadow?” I asked.

“No,” Daisy huffed. “It is a dell, Daisy’s Dell.”

“You sure it’s not a glade? I have heard that there are shady characters in glades.”

Daisy hopped into the air and landed all four hooves at once. “Dell!” she snapped at me upon said landing.

“Alright, take it easy, have it your way,” I said. I got out of the cart and nearly fell on my face because it was still moving.

“Careful,” Tully and Aideline said together.

“Um, yes, thank you,” I said, glaring at smiling Renfield who finds physical humor that doesn’t involve her, funny.

“So, this a spa?”

“We think of it as an Entertainment multiplex,” Daisy said.

“We?”

“Yes,” Renfield added, “we have many investors.”

I looked around. There was the bottle of Jack the Boss had sent through the interdimensional vortex. The vortex greatly enlarges inanimate objects. Thus the “pint” (and blessed contents) was ten feet tall and had a siphon hose attached to it. It stood between a pair of plastic picnic tables and benches from something like a Barbie camping set, which had enlarged to the size of your basic picnic bench and table arrangement. It became apparent to me that every structure in Daisy’s Dell was a small toy enlarged to the size of the item represented by its, um, toyness.

“Have a drink,” Daisy said. The Rats didn’t need an invitation, they were already at the pint filling thimbles. I didn’t require extra urging, and I found a tumbler glass by the siphon that had my name (spelled “LAYLUH”) written on it in what looked like a sharpie held by hooves.

The siphon was a well made one and it had a little hand pump. Nary a drop was wasted. I filled the tumbler to two fingers. This was done out of muscle memory, not a conscious action.

I glanced around and saw a large circus tent and several green and red houses that looked like the hotels and houses in a Monopoly game. But these had working doors and I saw plenty of Saragun citizens coming and going. Everyone was smiling. I figured they were probably high on something.

“So, what is this some sort of casino?” I asked. I figured that the answer would require a bit of a buzz for me to understand. So I swallowed the contents of my glass and refilled it.

“Yes it is,” Daisy said. And we welcome all readers to drop in and visit Daisy’s Dell at Saragun Springs every daily day. Especially on Halloween, in thirteenly thirteen days. We will be sharing a Big Announcement near the giant bottle–provided Leila leaves any.”

“Ah shit,” I said, the Awful Truth now numbing my mind. “Do you mean that the last two days have been an advertisement?”

Everyone who has been in this tale the past two days nodded enthusiastically.

Sigh….

Well, here I am holding the glass, so to speak. All right, readers be sure to drop into Daisy’s Dell on the 31st for big news. Sorry about the intrusion into your lives–but it’s not like we are using them for anything if we are involved in this—right?

Saragun Springs Presents Daisy’s Dell Part One

(Warning: at the end of the second part of this post tomorrow some of you might feel hoodwinked. If so hoodwink back. It is allowed-LA)

-1-

I am always sitting in my office when I open these stories. People must have caught on by now, but they are either polite, or no one is reading, or anyone who does read me does so with lowered expectations, and my always being in the office is not the worst sin they must forgive. Still, why open it anywhere else in the realm? Why be wandering in a garden just to be approached by the usual thugs I write about? They can find me in my office where I always am when not pressed into going elsewhere. There’s booze, an ashtray and comfortable passing out places in the office; why would I need more? Therefore they would have to guess where I was when I might be wandering in said garden. That sort of thing would cost many words to straighten out and we are on a strict budget. This paragraph alone costs about a hundred and fifty words–something like five percent of the budget! No, it is best to always open in the office…

I sat back and looked at the paragraph I just wrote. “Let’s italicize that,” I muttered because I am addicted to using free stuff such as italics. They make the dumbest shit look important. I highlighted and clicked. “Perfect.”

That is when I became aware that Dame Daisy Kloveleaf was on top of the desk, just sitting there, studying me.

“How long?” I muttered.

“Long enough to know that you need a vacation. And I know just the place,” Daisy said, her little Goat eyes afire with naked avarice.

I knew something was up because: A.) Even though she is a Pygmy Goat, Daisy is numero uno as the local thugs go; B.) She is constantly up to things; it is her nature, and C.) Sincere concern for my well being is not exactly what you’d call high in Saragun Springs. Who prays “Dear Lord, I hope you are feeling well today,” unless they are buttering the Queen into springing for something big?

“What now, oh hooved wonder?” I lit a cigarette, which opened enough synapses to allow information to come in. My brain is mostly closed to new ideas, but nicotine opens doors.

“Daisy’s Dell is the place you should go,” she said, standing, moving closer, crowding me in. “We have gardens, sin and our liquor license.”

“So, that’s what happened to the case of Jack the *Boss sent over,” I said. All you need to have for a “liquor license” in Saragun Springs is the hootch itself.

(*“The Boss” is the person whom I am Penname to–fortunately I’ve turned out to be more real than she will ever be; she often sends goods to us via our **interdimensional vortex.)

(**All realms have interdimensional vortexes; ours is an older model once used in Pooh’s Hundred Acre Wood.)

“Are you through ***asteriskingly asterisking?” Daisy asked.

(***Daisy is shamelessly addicted to adverbs of her own conception; we all have a jones to feed.)

Daisy stomped on the desk. “No more asterisks!”

“Gotta fill in the backstory somehow,” I said. “****Anita Know has the day off.”

(****Anita Know is—)

“Hey! That smarts you little villain.” Daisy had delivered a well aimed hoof at my elbow. Upon comparing the minimal satisfaction that asterisking gave me to the potential of further hooves to the elbow, I decided to give up.

“Yes,” Daisy continued, “Daisy’s Dell is the place.”

“Oh, all right–let’s go.”

Renfield, the second in command of the Springs, entered the office. She was carrying the key to our electric golf cart, which meant a road trip.

I gave her the ugsome eye. “I smell a conspiracy.”

“Not every plan that you don’t know about is a conspiracy,” she said. “You need rest–we wouldn’t want you to get all Josef Stalin on us.”

(To be continued tomorrow)

Daisy versus Billgits: The Third Conflict

(Ed note–Instead of escalating the poetry bombs, the two sides agreed to meet in my office for peace talks–LA–oh, the image has nothing to do with anything; just one hell of a big Chicken I met on the street)

Keith Richards has a face that can hold a three day rain. My brain was every inch as craggy due to a conspicuous hangover. Fortunately, a judicious amount of soft narcotics and energy drinks not only take off the edge, they can make things rosy…

I was typing the above passage when one of the four billigits intruded on my muse. They were in my office for peace talks with Daisy, who had yet to show.

“Are you about through?” he asked, all shitty, snippy, snitty and snotty-like. Dunno which one he was–they all look alike and the boys stopped wearing their name-tags long ago.

I looked away from my screen and glowered at him. I was not feeling rosy enough to prevent me from suggesting he attempt a physically impossible task when, ten minutes late, Daisy Kloverleaf finally trotted into my office. I knew she had been around for ages, but it is a necessary part of her personality to make others wait.

“You’re late, Moving Hoof,” one of the other billigits said. Also shitty, snippy, snitty and snotty-like.

“I got as many hoofs as you four have a-holes,” said Daisy, making her feelings astonishingly clear. Something in her voice told me she was in her “Dorothy Dickinson” personality. Daisy has many mental faces. Lucky for her that one is a psychiatrist, so she is able to treat herself. Anyway, Dorothy Dickinson is a combination of Dorothy Parker and Emily D. I could go on about a symbiotic synthesis of cynical, wisecracking urban verse and keen natural observations, but smart-ass poetess works just as well.

“Now, now,” I said. “Let’s not ruin the goodwill I feel ready to spring from this meeting.” I actually managed to say it without vomiting.

“Goodwill?” said a billigit. “Daisy just threatened to sodomize us with her hooves.”

“Hmmm, interesting delusion,” I said. “Which one are you?”

“Flounder,” he sneered, like a thirteen-year-old having a bad day.

“Better turn that attitude frown upside down Master Flounder or I’ll let Daisy give you that colonoscopy.”

Things were off to a bad start. But since this was meant to only be a short little production I asked the sides what would make them happy. After listening in glowering silence to violent fantasies, the parties finally suggested something they’re going to have to live with.

“I will never stop usingly using adverbs,” said Daisy.

“We will never stop complaining about it,” said the second billigit from the left.

“Sounds goodly good to me,” I said. I considered clapping the table with the gold gilt gavel on my desk. It was presented to my Great to the fourth grandfather Judge Jasper P. Montague, but that would wake him and he does not go well with hangovers.

Daisy trotted out of the room beaming the smile of triumph.

The billigits were stunned. Their little faces were quite angry.

“Daisy out ranks you guys,” I said. “Anyway, she did not injure or debase you, Daisy was just being her little bad Daisy self. Shit rollingly rolls downhill, boys. Deal with it.”

They flew out of my office quite shittilly, snippilly, snittilly and snottilly.

I sighed, “Leadership is a lonely hangover,” and fetched a jar of the blue pills.

Daisy versus the billigits: The Second Battle

(As noted yesterday, I expected a reply to Daisy’s scathing message to the billigits. I wasn’t wrongly wrong–LA)

i

o moving hoof you are so quick to huff

o’er such inconsequential puffy stuff

you and adverbs are a mixed potpourri

that reeks of one little miss me me me

ii

billigits fly high and we think divine

we soar in the straightest of guidelines

to add to the story is silly bold

the realm would be best if you did as told

iii

mothball weasel pinto flounder we four

punctuation and caps we do ignore

adverbs are the weeds of the written word

you abuse them the way flies use a turd

iv

o moving hoof with a spirit so sweet

why must you say hoofally bout your feet

have you gone around the bendly bend

from reality to deep insane pretend

(Well, that should pissilly piss the Goatess off. I expect her reply tomorrow–LA)

Daisy and the billigits: A New Poetry War Dawns by Dame Daisy Kloverleaf

Saragun Verse

(Ed note–Dame Daisy is well known for her little “beefs” with members of the realm. These poetic dust ups, even with her nemesis the Lambs, are usually over fairly quickly. They mostly stem from opinions about the Moving Hoof’s beloved adverbs; hence the missive of the day. Her use of small case letters is indeed sarcastic.–LA)

by dame daisy kloverleaf

i

the billigits are everywhere

flying phoney little squares

too wholesome too cute sez I this moving hoof

too Osmondy with their big grinning tooths

ii

dear billigits where have we errly erred

we were once as close as under and wear

but time its sad selfly self hath decreed

that you be pithy and I adverby

iii

oh what vilely vile little scorners

who skimp on fairness and so close borders

i seethly seeth over their obloquy

the finks have for we the adverbally

iv

your kind knows oh so little compassion

we see you as pains in the assassin

the hemingway song of your boozely wit

speaks only of dying by killing shit

(Second Ed note–To date the billies have yet to reply; but I’m sure one is coming–LA)

Happy September From Saragun Springs

(Image is of PDQ Peety, preparing for the fall the same way he meets every season–blasted)

Happy Labor Day to the USA (my first since retirement)

As always we in the Springs aim to fill every day of the month with poetry, stories, art and the weekly Sunday column by our beloved co-Editor The Drifter (and the odd imitations of such contributed by The Saragun Gazette). This week is full, but we have plenty of room to share things written by others who have contributed previously or who are new.

At first it was a week offered, but we can also do single days as well. And as autumn draws nearer with its omnipresent scent of pumpkin spice, as Christmas creeps into retail establishments the same way gold is edging maple leaves (but greeted by different degrees of patience and pleasure), the Springs is planning to become just as inescapable as death. So with that cheery thought in mind, welcome to September, one and all.

Leila

From The Saragun Gazette: Dear Daisy

(Ed. Note–Today, from the Saragun Gazette, I present the most popular feature, Dear Daisy. Daisy Kloverleaf is somewhat no nonsense with her beseechers. In fact, from observation, I must conclude that every one of her missives ends with the same advice. Still, again from observation, I conclude it to be sound advice–LA)

Q: Dear Daisy,

I am sad because I am a lovelorn and lonesome lost soul. My friends tell me that there is someone for everyone, and being that I possess a wonderful personality, it might take a little more time for God to send me that perfect love match. People also tell me to turn that frown upside down, be a citizen of SaraCAN Springs and not to accept wood coins in matters of commerce.

Do you, wise Daisy, have further advice? It seems that God is taking a very long time to answer my prayer.

Yours truly, Desperate Doolie.

A: Dear Desperate

It sounds like you are bankingly banking on your “wonderful personality” to bringly bring true love. And I will wager that where looks are concerned your best feature is your “wonderful personality.” Money can erase a lot of problems here, but rich people do not send letters that arrive with postage due, so I guess we can rule that out. The good news is you will not have to sift through the shallow element but there won’t be much “Plan B” either.

Regardless, since you let the cliches of others direct your life to the pointly point you must ask a ten pound herbivore for advice, I think it is for the best that you should fail to reproduce. Consider it as givingly giving back.

Dame Daisy

(Ed. Note–I forgot to mention that Daisy is an adverb junkie. But I guess you have probably figuredly figured it out by now–LA)

Goat v. Lamb Civil Poetry War the Conclusion

Another Introduction

As hoped for, my brilliant post yesterday brought an end to the Goat v. Lamb War. But, not wholly unforeseen, both sides have aimed their antipathy at me.

But being the leader of the realm, I have the personal fortitude and liquor cabinet to withstand obloquy.

So, in the name of see-through-it-ness (I hate the corporate term for that), I stiff upper-lipply present the last two poems on this subject by the formerly warring sides. No one has said so, but I think the kids have gotten a bit bored and are ready to move on toward further vexations. So, I’m going to consider these poems by both sides a peace settlement and move the liquor cabinet closer to my desk.

Leila

“A Hoggishly Hog Pen for the Penname!” by Dame Daisy

i

The barnyard is calm tonight

But the Pen is full of smite!

She insults the Ruminant creed

With a fable of dubiously dubious breed

ii

I say Lambs we should end our fight

And take up against the Pennish fright

She who disparages the Daisy and Sheep

Is the ultimate creeply creep!

“Us Too” by the Lambs

i

Lambs do not caper in the sod

Nor frolick with their bods

The Pen who wrote that trash

Is as guilty as razor rash!

ii

Let the hooves unite

We now know a new fight!

The Pen is our enemy

Unite herbivores in enmity!

Afterword

Well, that’s how things are going in the Springs. I guess the hoofed (or is that hooved?) ones were insulted by their portrayals in yesterday’s fable. Actually, that was the intent. Fortunately the inhabitants of Saragun Springs are all talk and zero action. But, just in case, I’ve hired three Rat bodyguards, John, Wilkes and Booth, triplets born on the Ides of March. And although that joke is a bit American, and dated, like all useless ideas, it can be googled.

LA

Saragun Verse: Goat v Lamb Civil Poem War, Day Four

(The careful, or at least conscious reader, may have noted the header images have nothing to do with the text this week. Now, they could if I decided to go on a metaphysical rant, but I will not. Lacking images from a Pygmy Goat and Lamb Civil War, I have chosen images I like–LA)

You Broke the Wind of War by Dame Daisy

i

Wretched fuzz balls walk on four cloven hoovely hooves

Never in key with the Goatly Goatess tunes

The Moving Hoof is steadfast and mighty

Whilst Lambs trot about unclean and unsightly

ii

Doth Goatesses need to be shown the shears?

Doth Goatesses look the same front and rear?

The answer is too clearly abundant

Goats ruley rule little Lambs redundant!

Oh Yeah! By The Lambs

i

Oh Yeah! Say we the Lamb Collective

Oh Yeah! To you the mental defective

Tin can eater you will dine on your words

You feta dispenser of sour curds

ii

We challenge you to fight a Civil War

We will win and you will lose…um, erm, in a word that rhymes with war

We shall rule the Saragun countryside

And you will kiss the hooves that, um erm, rhyme with countryside in a cool way!

Dame Daisy after seeing the Lambystan Anthem has insisted on equal time:

Daisy Dell (sort of to the tune of Good King Wences)

Daisy Dell promises hell

To the children of Shee-heep

Daisy Dell shall ring the bell

When their dip gets to dee-heep

Adverbally wonderfully and swee-eet

Daisy Dell will be hell for the children of Shee-heep

Saragun Verse: Goat v. Lamb Poem Battle Three

(Everyday I have struggled to come up with a somewhat sense-making explanation for this situation. Today I give up.)

Leila

Pain in the Asp by Dame Daisy

i

A wise Asp told me to never trust Lambs

“They pull wool over the truth like lil tams”

When you can’t get a good word from a Snake

You are the foulest natural mistake

ii

It offendly offends the Moving Hoof

To waste her lines on silly goofly goofs

Whilst bacteria, germs, fleas roust in snout

Yet are more attractive to write about

And The Lambs Say…

i

Tut tut Goatess in a childish huff

We are well learned in useless stuff

Yo Mama was as scary as a scream

Daddy’s brain boiled in Baily’s stout creme

ii

You insult and cajole Lambs on the whole

You dig into our ire like a Vole

Lo! Moving Hoof you are a churlish sort

You keep coming back like a common wart

Bonus Song:

The Lambystan Anthem (to the tune of Christmas Tree O Christmas Tree)

O Lambystan O Lambystan

Your warriors are brave and true

O Lambystan O Lambystan

They will conquer and enslave you

Throughout the night we will lead the fight

And be great woolly winners by dawn’s light

O Lambystan O Lambystan

We will kick your ass like no one can!