HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON? A Tribute to the Mayor of Moneytown

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS PERSON? (The one wedged between the two dykes.)

I have been on bad behavior of late regarding my blog. I think I need the equivalent of blogger's Metamucil to keep me regular, but that's all in the past now. Let's not speak of it. My blog may have gone neglected for months and months, but now is the time to rally resources.


Friends, Readers (all eleven of you), I return to the bloggosphere with grim news. The Mayor of Moneytown has gone missing, and is possibly being held hostage by the Huns! The Mayor was last seen by the Escape Goat, who spotted her entering her amazing time machine with a look of dogged determination and a golden dagger clamped between her teeth. As dry ice engulfed her, the Mayor removed her dagger from her mouth just long enough to shout, "451 AD. Huns!" To which the Escape Goat responded, "Cool. Souvenir? Postcard?" The Mayor was having none of it as she flipped the Escape Goat off and replied with bitterness, "Sayonara, Sucka!" At the time, the Escape Goat just wrinkled up her features, pushed her glasses up on her nose, crossed her arms, rolled her eyes, and released a punishing sonic sigh of doom in the Mayor's direction. Victorious, the Mayor disappeared into the depths of her time machine and has not been seen since. Double D' Wicked was heard to remark, "If she doesn't come back, can I keep the time machine?" The Minx was suspiciously silent. I have my own theories. Friends...we fear the worse (although we refuse to give up hope). If things don't start to look up soon, we may have to consider this post a memoriam! Let me take you back to the last time I saw the Mayor. I am convinced that our interaction may hold some clues to her disappearance. EXHIBIT A:





The day started out normal enough: I met up with the Mayor to get brunch and hit the thrift shops in Andersonville. We found this interesting brick wall (above), and--like a criminal posing for a mug shot--the Mayor positioned herself stealthily in front of it. The sun was shining. And then... Then the Mayor showed me this shit; EXHIBIT B:





LEPROSY!!! That's right. Usually a little leg could be misconstrued as a come-on, but--in this case--I think you will agree that the Mayor's pus-filled, oozing lesions were not disguising an amorous nature! Popularized by the Bible, many of you may have to search your dragnet of memory before retrieving any information on leprosy. Think back to the days you were forced to attend "Vacation Bible School" in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, surrounded by ranting heterosexuals who "get the spirit," drop to the ground, and convulse madly to thunderous applause and "JOSAHNAHS!" No? Uhh...so...moving on...LEPROSY!

Leprosy is a wretched disease, indeed. You just slough off skin, and eventually body parts, and the next thing you know your community ostracizes you. You wake up one morning and find yourself living in a cave, drinking water is it drips from an overhead stalactite into the hole in your face that was once a mouth (located somewhere on the crumpled and immobile form that used to be your body). You welcome death and curse the light.





My theory? I maintain that the Mayor went back to the 5th century to find the Hun's fabled cure for leprosy. She's no slouch--that Mayor--so if there is a cure to be had she would welcome the adventure in finding it.

Sadly, the last time I saw the Mayor, we were eating brunch at Taste of Heaven. I ordered a delicious omelet, and the Mayor had a gravy / biscuit / chicken dish (which was equally delicious). My favorite thing about Taste of Heaven, is that it is the infamous restaurant which posted the sign in the window noting: "Please Make Sure Your Children Use their Inside Voices if You Bring Them in." I did not think that request was unreasonable, but the stroller moms famously protested in front of the restaurant. The sign has been removed, but Taste of Heaven has placed a similar caveat in their menu (even better). I applaud this action because the last thing I want to notice upon entering any establishment (with the exception of Toys-R-America) is a snot-nosed, screaming, vomiting, silverware tossing, drink spilling, pants-shitting, waitress colliding, kid. Please. Just give me a delicious omelet (with some arugula) to blog favorably about.

As you can see. The day was fine. The Mayor and I were in agreement on that point. We dined as the Mayor proceeded to plan her attack route on the thrift shops.





I will leave her scheming and digress about leprosy for a bit...






Leprosy is believed to have originated from humans fucking vegetables. (Namely pumpkins, and other squashes. Gourds are the main culprit.) In the 5th century, the Huns became sick of Westerners fucking cucumbers, and spreading their vile diseases, so they decided to kick some ass and conquer a continent. They recruited a brutal muthafucka--known as Attila--who set out to right the wrongs of the West. Unfortunately, the ability of the West to influence the mighty warriors had an unforeseen and viselike grip on the Huns. As soon as the Huns stepped foot in Gaul all of Attila's men were fucking gourds. Not to fear; Attila had in his entourage a mystical sorcerer who could cure any ailment. He commanded that the sorcerer invent a potion to vanquish leprosy. The sorcerer did not find this challenging, and even had time to release the drug in three flavored liquors: sassafras, horehound, and buttascotch. Attila's men guarded the liquors day and night while millions languished in caves--stricken with the fatal flesh eating disease! In fact, this is the first recorded evidence of germ warfare in military history. Me? A revisionist historian? No. Just a revisionist.





My theory? The Mayor needed that cure immediately to halt the spread of the dreaded disease festering on her calf. The obvious clue is that she shouted "451 AD. Huns!" at the Escape Goat who let the words bounce off her face like ping-pong balls. Nice, Escape Goat. Way to be a hero, asshole!





I am worried about the Mayor because--although she is scrappy and famously bested the Crafty Weasel in arm wrestling--I don't know how she will fare against Attila the Hun. The ironic thing about "The Scourge of God" (as the Romans called him) was that, despite his heroics and apparent invincibility on the battlefield, he met with death on his wedding night as a result of an alcohol induced nosebleed.





Even if the Mayor can deal with Attila, I am uncertain about leprosy! You know, it is a popular misconception that leprosy has been eradicated from the planet. While it is no longer thriving, the World Health Organization (WHO) reports that leprosy still exists. WHO has labeled Angola, Brazil, Central African Republic, Democratic Republic of Congo, India, Madagascar, Mozambique, Nepal, and the United Republic of Tanzania all places with "pockets of high endemicity." While the Mayor is fond of referring to herself as a "walking medical miracle," I think she stands a better chance against Attila than leprosy.






But I digress. Let me take you back to happier days. Many of you will recognize the location of this series of pictures as the Brown Elephant in Andersonville. The Mayor's scavenging was fruitful on this particular day. I went there with the Proud Peacock recently and the Peacock found an excellent coat--we were kind of shocked, in fact. So I'm thinking that this Brown Elephant is getting better than it used to be. If you like thrifting, I highly recommend this spot.





Below, the Mayor demonstrates her tactics. Her method of approach involves shoes first, jackets, then pants, etc. If you ever have the opportunity to go thrifting with the Escape Goat and the Mayor simultaneously you will witness an unrivaled spectacle. I don't care what they say--method be damned! They will begin slinging vintage dresses over their forearms, and once their biceps give out they will start glancing about rabidly and when they see you are unarmed, they will begin tossing dresses at you--innocent spectator--all the while asking your opinion on the items. It's always too much to absorb, and eventually you will begin to feel like the clothing rack at a blue-light special: picked over, disarrayed, and fatigued.





Below, you will note the intensity in the Mayor's gaze as she critically sums up her prey. If only the other people present knew that there was a wicked case of leprosy festering on her tenderized calf...





Below, the Mayor actually describes her methodology. Seriously. The Mayor has thrifting whittled down to a finite science. You will note that her mouth is agape. In the event that you are wondering what she is articulating, wonder no more: "SEE! See this shit--what I said? They expect me to pay 87 cents for this pair of Armani cargos. Armani cargos--how paradoxical is that? Yeah. Show me the Versace tube socks. Assholes. First and foremost--I don't wear cargos. Secondly, they better make it good if they expect me to. Blow ass, Brown Elephant. Blow a big ass."





LESBIAN BIRKENSTOCK CONSPIRACY!





Below, the Mayor inspects a disembodied mannequin for the price tag. "I don't see a price for this plastic head. No price? Movin' on!"





The valuable lesson I learned on this day, was that the thrifting addict cannot be stopped. The Mayor exemplified that rain, nor snow, nor price gauging, nor feather boas, will keep the true thrifter from his or her art. Truly, there is something about the thrill of the hunt.





The below photo might be my favorite shot of the day. This picture made all of the hours of thrifting worth it, it features the Mayor of Moneytown uncovering one of Wonder Woman's original bullet-proof bracelets. If you ever think, Why do people go thrift shopping? I reference the guy who stumbled across an original copy of the Declaration of Independence in a thrift shop. He paid $2.48 for a picture frame, took it home, dismembered it, and found the Declaration, just hanging out. Considering that case, and this one--involving Wonder Woman's bullet-proof bracelets--you are surely sold!





Antibiotics. Just a reminder:





The Mayor was getting so winded from all of her efforts that she had to remove her jacket to continue. Despite the leprosy, she still rallied to get her thrift on. "Walking medical miracle," indeed.





Look at this! Hi-de-ho, neighbor! The HAPPY railway hand car coming through! What is he saying? I can barely make it out, oh yes, he's shouting, "All aboard the HA-PPEEEE HAND CAR! Dryfus! Bah-Bah! Peppa! Melon!"





This is a great action shot of the Mayor. She is so on her game while thrifting, it's hard to take a picture that doesn't appear blurry. Go, Mayor, go! What is the price on that Happy Hand Car? Settle for no less than minus 60 cents. Can you pay in pesos?





Okay, so if you are the Escape Goat and you are reading this, you might want to scroll down to the really interesting photo of the lawn jockey at the bottom. Yeah! The lawn jockey--because this next series of photos would be considered really boring to Escape Goats. Anyway...the highlight of our thrifting came when we spotted the amazing horse pendant below.





Here is a better picture of it. You will note that it is jewel encrusted and that the magnificent steed is actually raring up in all of its glory. It was about $4.50, and we contemplated splitting the costs and buying it for the Escape Goat (who loves horses), but after much deliberation we just hid it for her to come back and get on her own. We told her this story and she was like, "Thanks assholes." When she sees the photograph she will undoubtedly be livid.





Escape Goat, we hid it in the below duck (which is actually a bank). Move over Nancy Drew! Buck up, gunner! If anyone can find it--you can, Super Sleuth!





This might be a bit of a digression from leprosy, Attila the Hun, and time travel, but I must comment on the lawn jockey statuary (seen in the below photograph). Originally, all lawn jockey's were painted gloss black with exaggerated features. A black lawn jockey plays in integral symbol in Flannery O'Connor's short story "The Artificial Nigger." Today, the black faced lawn jockey, known as "Jocko," is considered offensive. Nevertheless, there is a collectors market for these ornaments. Folkloric legend has it that the lawn jockey originated from a tale about Jocko Graves, an African-American boy who served with George Washington when he crossed the Delaware to surprise the British at Trenton. Washington decided that Jocko was too young to take along, so he left him on the Pennsylvania side to tend the horses and keep a light on for their safe return. Jocko, faithful to his post and his orders, froze to death on the river bank during the night, the lantern still in his hand. Washington was so moved by Jocko's devotion to duty that he commissioned a statue. Of course, Jocko's statue would be holding the lantern. As with most folklore, no records exist to support the story, but it is likely revisionist folklore intended to justify a racist icon. Nowadays, most lawn jockeys are white, like the guy down there.





But back to the topic at hand. In the event that the Mayor has returned from pillaging small villages with the Huns and is wandering the alleyways of Cottage Grove in a time-traveling induced haze, we have provided a Mayor of Moneytown "WANTED" poster (click to enlarge). As you can see, there is--indeed--a reward for her safe return. Sassy has had many-a-restless nights since the Mayor has been gone, and he provided the lion's share of the reward money. Thanks, Sassy! To all Chicagoland citizens we say this: Please. Feel free to plaster these posters all over your respective neighborhoods. Fire hydrants, telephone poles, stop signs, and buildings with E-zel posters slapped on their walls all make for excellent locations to put the poster. It's okay to place the poster over any and all E-zel signage; the Mayor loves E-zel almost as much as E-zel loves the Mayor. E-zel will be having a concert to benefit our ongoing search. Details to come.

Karma to Burn

Congratulations to Reggie, who just turned three in dog years! In human years, that means Reggie is finally twenty-one, the legal drinking age. Now Reggie can drink delicious wines without burdening my conscious. In honor of Reggie's birth, the Proud Peacock celebrated with a party. All humans in attendance ate cupcakes, and Reggie's canine friends enjoyed a special birthday cake with cottage cheese icing. Delicious!





At first, Reggie was a bit sheepish and timid about having a party. He wasn't sure that his friends would come. Below, I caught him pacing in the kitchen nervously.





He gave pause to relax in a sunbeam and contemplate the aging process. I like this picture of Reggie because he looks kind of cute, but also like a 3 million year old troll. All he needs is a cloak and a gnarled staff.





In the absence of his canine friends, Reggie sought comfort on a human lap. Poor Reggie! No one is coming to his party. Below he broods and pouts as he dangles his drooling French bulldog jowls over my knees.





But don't despair for long Reggie, look! It's Daisy! Reggie's friend Daisy arrived, and promptly extracted a hefty payment in Greenies for her attendance. She's all like, "Just give me my Greenies and a slice of the cottage cheese cake and I'll be on my way."





But Daisy wasn't the only one there--Gatsby came too. Gatsby is about four but he acts like he's twelve. He is an old soul. Gatsby just kind of hung out while Reggie--the belle of the ball--took turns playing with Daisy and smiling for portraits.





At first Daisy and Reggie skirmished over a toy, but after the fray everything went smoothly. The Don (the Proud Peacock's father) warned against such skirmishes. In his wisdom, he remarked, "I don't know if it's a good idea to have all of those dogs inside at once."





Conspicuously missing was Pete O'Brien. Pete verbally promised to make a cameo, but at the last minute claimed his invitation must have gone lost in the mail under dubious circumstances. Pete was not available for comment, but--from the set of Snow Dogs II starring Cuba Gooding Jr.--his office released this statement:

The misplacement of Pete's invitation is no doubt a regrettable deed. We are looking into the matter, and suspect the source may be Pete's latest row with the mailman. Pete's mailman has a history of sabotaging party invitations in an effort to cramp Pete's style, but Pete remains--as always--an unwavering hipster in the face of adversity. Reggie, please accept Pete's humble apology and this macadamia nut gift basket, imported from Hawaii.





Ann gave Reggie some wonderful antler headgear to wear over the holiday season. Below, Reggie stands astride Bonnie's leg and models the crowning glory. He strikes a proud figure indeed.





Below the antlers are seen dangling freely; serving the dual purpose of propellant gear. Had the Peacock not removed the antlers perhaps we would have seen Reggie take to the third floor and leap through a window to test the hang gliding mechanism. The Peacock concluded that such a powerful toy would have to wait for the outdoors; there was no place for propellant gear inside.





Minus the gear, Reggie is torn between his new stuffed friend, Mallard, and your basic traditional tennis ball. Exhausted by indecision, Reggie finally collapsed and found himself akimbo on the floor. So many toys--so little time.






Even the Peacock couldn't resist documenting the moment. After all, you only turn three once! What to do with the treasure trove of Reggie photos amassed at his third birthday party? You will be pleased to learn that talks are underway to create the first of an annual series of Reggie calenders. Reggie has been immortalized in fine art, and on coffee mugs, why not calenders? There are the Reggie trading cards, and there's the Reggie refrigerator magnet / bottle-opener; calenders are the obvious next step in the explosive Reggie franchise.





Below, Daisy enjoys a waft of Reggie's fragrant ass.





What a successful party! Reggie is all smiles as he marvels over the scene of destruction and chaos. A stuffed toy orgie--complete with tennis balls and a squeaky George Bush bust--beckon at his feet. Never had he gorged himself on such a feast of delights. You will notice that Ann is muttering words of encouragement as Reggie teeters on the edge between virtue and vice.





Finally, unbridled and freed from the Peacock's grip, Reggie stands on his hind legs and licks at plates on the table. Left to his own devices he is clearly a deviant. As the Peacock bats him aside half-heartedly, Ann looks on with approval. Unattended, Reggie will put anything in his mouth and attempt to consume it. For instance, Reggie was recently stricken with a diarrhea bout due to something he had eaten one year ago!





It all started several weeks ago when Reggie began waking the Peacock up in the middle of the night due to crippling attacks of diarrhea. The vet couldn't find anything wrong with Reggie, nor could the animal communicator! Suddenly, after a couple of traumatic weeks, he vomited up a piece of plastic the size and shape of a small shot glass. The Peacock instantly recognized the rogue plastic as a "tiny foot that had broken off one of his toys--ONE YEAR AGO!" Apparently, Reggie ate the tiny foot and never disposed of it--until the vomiting episode one year later. Afterwards, his diarrhea ceased. So eating entire plates from the coffee table is just another day in the life of.





Below, Reggie and Daisy share a playful moment...





More play time. You will note that Gatsby is not participating in any of the reindeer games. He is off in the corner smoking his pipe and playing Sudoko.




One winter, the Proud Peacock refused to take bags out to scoop Reggie's shit. I warned her that this would certainly ruin her Stepping in Shit Karma, but she claimed that she had karma to burn due to her shit scooping diligence during more pleasant weather. I argued that she was setting up a false dichotomy, but to no avail. All winter long she would creep around in the cold, trailing along behind Reggie, just waiting for him to dump a load so she could cover it up with a chunk of ice and giggle slyly to herself. Obviously, she is not alone. I maintain that many like-minded dog walkers exhibit similar behavior in the winter. Why do you think so much dog shit is unearthed with the thaw of spring? I implore all dog owners to revisit their winter scooping practices, and ask, do you TRULY have karma to burn? Just ask the Peacock what fate befell her that spring? I'll tell you. The following spring she stepped in a disproportionate number of thawing or frozen turds. I reminded her of her bad winter scooping practices, and she concluded that--indeed--her Stepping in Shit Karma had declined. Ever since, she has redeemed herself by taking two bags all year round--just for good measure. All dog walkers should do the same. MINX! That means you. This year, don't let Old Man Winter keep you from doing your civic duty: If your dog poops--Be prepared to scoop.





Once again, Bonnie and Reggie exchange hugs. Clearly, Reggie loves the limelight and shows no shortage of smiles. Bonnie is smiling because she still recalls the victorious day she successfully won the pool of money at the Peacock's Oscar party. She hopes to defend her title another year, but there are several contenders waiting in the wings hoping to break her lucky streak. You will note that she is rubbing Reggie's golden, buddhaesque tummy for luck.





Of course, the Peacock served up a delicious spread for the humans, as well as the dogs. Below is just a sampling of the magnificent feast--shrimp and cucumbers.





And below is the mythologized Reggie birthday cake with cottage cheese frosting. The Peacock baked this cake just for the dogs, and left half of it frostingless, incase Daisy or Gatsby opted for a fat-free slice. I don't know exactly what was in the cake, but I recall that peanut butter was one of the main ingredients.





Regardless, it was a hit, as evidenced in Daisy's defensive posturing--no one's coming between Daisy and her slice of cake.





It appears that Daisy enjoyed her cake so much, that she bogarted poor Gatsby's cake! There's no denying that the slouching and crafty figure on the right is Daisy in action, as she slinks through the shadows like a wraith and pounces on that unattended crumb Gatsby has haphazardly drizzled out of the corner of his mouth.