In this blog:
A Note from Joy
BOOB Girls and The Senile Squad for your groups
New Offers in The BOOB Girl Series
From the last adventure: The girls have slipped through the woods to the cottage inhabited by the four witches, Mildred, Myrtle, Mable and Fred, and supposedly Zoomer Schmeel. They have been followed by a mysterious figure:
There was total silence as the four black-hooded women moved toward a window. They carefully eased their hooded heads up to the glass and looked in.
Suddenly the front door of the cottage flew open. Mildred, the smallest witch, stood on the porch, a rifle in her hands. She aimed it at the girls.
“Please do come in, ladies,” she said, then she cackled.
The girls looked at each other.
The dark figure behind the tree stood stock still, watching, a malicious grin moving across an ugly face.
Marge shrugged and hid her cane behind her back. They waked to the porch. Mildred motioned with her rifle for them to come up the steps.
As the got to the porch, the front door opened. A large, solid woman with screaming pink hair was grinning at them with the single most evil grin Mary Rose McGill had ever imaged.
The woman was holding a wooden tray with four large mugs of something very hot. Steam was circling her head, giving her an eerie, horrifying expression. In one crazy instant, Mary Rose thought of The Night Before Christmas.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
The steam around Zoomer Schmeel’s head was the ugliest wreath Mary Rose had ever seen.
“BOOB Girls. We thought you’d never get here! Do come in!” Zoomer said.
Then they heard the cackles of three other voices behind her.
They slipped through the door, pushing back the hoods of their black sweatshirts. One of the witches, Hadley thought it was Mildred, was holding a gun on them. She waited until they were well inside, then moved between them and the door.
The steam from the four cups Zoomer Schmeel was holding was circling her head as strong as ever. Marge looked interested and was obviously thinking hard, Hadley was squinting to make our Zoomer’s features through the steam, Robbie looked intense and Mary Rose’s eyes were roughly the size of saucers.
“Please,” Zoomer said in a raspy voice, “have a bit of Thanksgiving cheer,” and she pushed the tray a few inches toward them, grinning the same, evil grin.
That’s when the door crashed open. Mildred and her gun went flying across the room and landed headfirst into a table standing near Zoomer. All four BOOB Girls jumped as if their lives depended on it, and they may well have.
Flying through the air, parallel to the floor, was the black-clad figure who had followed them through the woods.
He landed flat on top of Zoomer, who fell with a resounding crash to the floor. The four mugs of steaming liquid flew in four different directions, broke one ugly vase, crashed into the table, splattered and broke on the floor with the last one taking a rocket-like attack through a window. Wherever one landed, a smokey cloud arose and dissipated into the air.
The figure, considerably smaller than Zoomer, pushed hard with his legs and ended up straddling her.
“Zoomer! My Darling! I’ve searched the world for you! Come back to me! I’m a new man and I want you! I love you! I need you!”
“He speaks with many exclamation points,” Robbie pointed out.
The little man, still straddling a startled Zoomer Schmeel, threw off his coat. He was wearing a black T-shirt and black bikini shorts. His potbelly hung lavishly over the front of the shorts, making them totally disappear.
“Yuk,” Mary Rose said.
“Sweet Jesus,” Robbie exclaimed.
“Shorts by Jockey,” Hadley observed.
“Cyreel Schmeel,” Marge observed, “in the flesh, literally.”
The three witches picked up Mildred from the floor and staggered out door, which was hanging open at a perilous angle.
“Cyreel Schmeel you are a green horse’s Patooti!” Zoomer said loudly. She was still trapped under his skinny legs, but did not seem to be struggling.
“Patooti,” Hadley said, leaning toward Marge, “is that like Shipoopi, Shipoopi from The Music Man?”
“What’s a Shipoopi?” Mary Rose asked.
“Sweet Jesus!” Robbie said again and she pointed to the couple on the floor. They were kissing passionately.
“You want to stay and see if they do the horizontal mambo here on the floor or do you want to escape before she starts undressing?
Raven was leaning casually against the broken door frame.
“True love,” Marge said, and started toward the door.
Robbie grinned and moved next to Raven. “You are such a tracker,” she smiled.
“I’m Apache,” he said.
Hadley looked at the overturned mug on the table. “Whatever was in there is still steaming and eating away the varnish.”
“I didn’t get to use my taser,” Marge said, shaking her head.
“I didn’t get to do my deadly groin kick,” Mary Rose complained.
“Ah,” Raven said, tucking Robbie’s arm into the crook of his, “An evening without Mary Rose dislocating a knee cap,” and they disappeared into the woods, all four girls lifting up their hoods at the same time.
A Note From Joy
A WORD FROM JOY
No matter which party you choose, on November 8th we all watched America at work being America. Walt Whitman, America’s great poet, wrote a beautiful piece called:
THE ELECTION OF 1884
If I should need to name, O Western World, your powerfullest scene and show, 'Twould not be you, Niagara—nor you, ye limitless prairies—nor your huge rifts of canyons, Colorado,
Nor you, Yosemite—nor Yellowstone, with all its spasmic geyser-loops ascending to the skies, appearing and disappearing,
Nor Oregon's white cones—nor Huron's belt of mighty lakes—nor Mississippi's stream:
—This seething hemisphere's humanity, as now, I'd name—the still small voice vibrating—America's choosing day,
(The heart of it not in the chosen—the act itself the main, the choosing,)
The stretch of North and South arous'd—sea-board and inland—Texas to Maine—the Prairie States—Vermont, Virginia, California,
The final ballot-shower from East to West—the paradox and conflict,
The countless snow-flakes falling—(a swordless conflict, Yet more than all Rome's wars of old, or modern Napoleon's:) the peaceful choice of all,
Or good or ill humanity—welcoming the darker odds, the dross: —Foams and ferments the wine? it serves to purify—while the heart pants, life glows: These stormy gusts and winds waft precious ships, Swell'd Washington's, Jefferson's, Lincoln's sails.
If you, like Ted and I, lost sleep watching returns, we say no matter which party, you watched America at work once again.
The Holiday Share