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King Finbar in the Americas

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and when he actually put in on that North American beach in 993 the playful, tattooed red men had already made off with the barrels of aged whiskey the sailors had brought along for emergencies.

“Let them have it,” grogged King Finbar. “We will simply make more this evening! They have plenty of corn.”

The landing party, comprised of Brian the Fair, McDougal of Ballyshannon, and their numerous squires and harlots stared up at the eucalyptus trees, not knowing that they had been planted by marauding Spanish pirates only months before. There were the straight masts for their boats. The posts were popular too since the ladies of the night tended to dry wet bikinis from them at the end of the day.

Hacking their way through the jungle the thirsty and salty visitors stopped for the night in a small clearing 200 yards from the sea.

“Tomorrow we shall claim this wild land in the name of Brian Boru of Tara,” smiled Finbar, busily mapping the extremities of the beach. “We will create a Celtic empire where no white man has roamed before!”

The band set out that very evening to carve out a little civilization in the encroaching jungle. First they had to erect a still so that the highly sensative fermentation process could begin without another moment going to waste. In addition to corn they would need fresh water, barley and a pinch of rye with which to concoct the evening’s pleasantries…but alas, these were nowhere to be found on the desert isle. It was now simple: The natives must be subdued and the original barrels recovered.*

Then they herd laughter from the brush…Like magic the red men had returned…blasted and back for last call. With them they brought tobacco, pumpkins and a substantial store of corn and barley with which to make more drink. Greeting them cautiously, King Finbar asked to speak to their chief and a fine feathered brave emerged, stepping forward into the light of the moon.

He soon agreed to act as our guide if we would simply share our recipe for our beauty juice where the tediums of life turned miraculously to silly dreams. Everyone agreed and smiled. That may have been the first cocktail hour ever chronicled in North America. The frowning Jesuits who had accompanied the anxious crew across the endless ocean were less than approving of the arrangements with the heathens so they were forced back to the ship to spend the night. 

They spent three days with the natives and all went quite well. The only real problem occurred when a squire to McDougal was dragged off by a skitish Caribbean Ecelot while securing firewood. After serious consternation the Celts decided that they would continue the festivities and look for the unfortunate soul at first light. Most of the now stumbling revelers were beginning to appreciate their surroundings although several fell sick to the plague of green whiskey and the queer presence of tiny insects that insistently flew up their collective noses.

At the end of the barrels most of the troupe boarded small boats and returned to the mother ship leaving a skeleton crew on the island to establish a colony. Two or three years later boatmen traveling under the protection of Fitzgerald the Imp landed at the site of the first still and found no sight of even a bartender, much less the residue of the brave Irish who had stayed behind. It was the consensus of the Fitzgerald group that the Irishmen had run out of corn and moved farther down the coast. That was that. Fitzgerald himself returned to Ireland in 999 and was killed fighting Vikings who, having taken their own press clippings to heart, engaged in a frontal attack along the bridgets of the River Liffey.

*It was also common practice to add several live lobster to give the blend a kind, old variance.

Next month: King Finbar in the Vestibules of Valhalla

ARE YOU RIGHT WITH GRAMMAR?

BY EDWIN WHOM PHD, BFD

This week’s lesson in proper grammar will focus on the use of popular food names correctly in a sentence or paragraph. Now then try this one on for size: His spam-like gestures began as the very fruit of intuition marinating her eggy disposition and precipitating, as if a noodle in heat, her steamy hambone smothered in green chili sauce. She was clearly overcooked, as if awaiting a steeping rhubarb beyond the kitchen’s intent.

What is the subject of this wry sentence? The predicate? What exactly are spam-like movements? Can you show us? Why would someone use the term eggy when there are so many other words to choose from in the English language?

Now try this sentence on for size: Bill seemed rather adenoid at his half-brother’s lack of concern for the dangling corned beef and verbiage; now stubbornly searching under fat river rocks for further aux pas with a side of angry salmon mothers with little attempt to correct the inaccuracies of interior lighting and general well-being. What about ascetics? Doesn’t anyone here care for ascetics? He growled turning over tables and crashing through a picture window that lurched in his way.

Does Bill find fault with everything and everyone, or just with the tragic members of his immediate family? Where does Bill’s brother work? Should they farm him out for extended therapy or simply hire a nose and throat man? How long should one cook verbiage above 7000 feet?

Until later this be Edwin Whom, PhD saying so long!

 

“I would rather make love to Lillian Russell stark naked  than to Ulysses S. Grant in full military regalia.”  

 – Mark Twain