July 10, 2014 by Reader's Connection
This is from “On Safari with Whide Hunter”
In the jumble, the mighty jumble, Whide Hunter sleeps tonight. At the foot of the bed, Otumba kept wogs for poisonous snacks such as the deadly cobbler and the apply python. Little did he nose that in the early owls of the morecombe a true story would actually happen.
Taking my copy down from the shelf–yes, I still own one, though it’s not in eBay shape–I see that, among other mistakes, I didn’t get the title right: “On Safairy with Whide Hunter.”
Time has passed since I last performed this material. A self-pitying teenager, unhappy about having moved to Indiana, I didn’t think I fit in at all; but I discovered that there were actually kids at the bus stop whom I could amuse by reciting this stuff. John was my favorite Beatle–everybody had a favorite–because on some level he seemed to be as miserable as I was.
My favorite recital piece was from “Randolph’s Christmas.” Randolph is sad because no one has shown up for his Christmas party. His “desecrations and muzzle toe” seem to have gone to waste. But then a bunch of kids appear. From memory, again:
In they came, jorking and labbing shoubing, haddy grimble, Randoob, and other hearty. And then they jumped on him and smited him with mighty blows about the head, crying, “We never liked you, all the years we’ve known you. You never really were one of us, you know, fat head.”
They killed him, you know. But at least he didn’t die alone, did he? Merry Chrustove, Ranglolphe old pal buddy.
Opening the book, I see that once again I got the title wrong. It’s supposed to be “Randolph’s Party.” Overall, though, I didn’t do badly.
After the 50th anniversary of the first Ed Sullivan appearance, and then Global Beatles Day, I imagine that people have had enough of these observances. I’ll celebrate quietly with John’s weird stories and poems and his even weirder drawings.
Have the half-pea day of your chewies.