Posts Tagged ‘Scrooge’

Saturday Fluffernutter: The Bah, Humbug! Edition

December 22nd, 2012
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All the fluffy news about those nutty celebrities

fluffincolorChristmas Miracle, some are calling it. Gone off his bloody meds again, others whisper.

London’s infamous “tight fisted hand at the grindstone,” of whom it is said blind man’s dogs avoid, has had an apparent overnight transformation. Last heard mumbling over a bowl of gruel in front of the fire about underdone potatoes and gravy, Ebenezer Scrooge himself woke up recently dancing in his nightshirt and yelling at passing children to “go and fetch the prize turkey.”xmas-fluffincolor-150x150

The Beadle had to be called when he attacked Mrs. Dilber, the washing woman, in the stairwell, but as no actual harm had come and a promise of money, plus higher wages was given, all was forgiven.

While some suspect his clerk had slipped a nip of “the best gin punch in all of London,” into Scrooge’s broth bowl, others that his Nephew Fred rattled him the day before offering Christmas greetings. Either way, he’s become a bloody nuisance and there is talk of boiling him in his own pudding if he doesn’t knock off the “Christmas the whole year long” routine.

fluffincolorScandal is brewing in Bedford Falls, NY, as the manager of the Savings and Loan is about to be indicted for misappropriation of funds. It appears something in the neighbourhood of $3,000 was unaccounted for when the bank inspector arrived for a surprise accounting. Local banker, and board member of the S&L, Henry Potter, has sworn out a complaint for the arrest of George Bailey, manager of the business that has been owned and operated by his family for 2 generations.

Bailey has cut and run, getting into a bar fight before crashing his car into a large tree not far from the waterfall. A Christmas Eve fundraiser put on by Mary Bailey, George’s wife, is being held at the Bailey house. All are invited.

fluffincolorYa! for Hohman Indiana’s saviour, Ralphie Parker.

Local bad guy, and his marauding horde, Black Bart, recently attempted to maraud on the Parker household. The young hero Ralphie fought them off with some dead-eye shooting with his Red Ryder Carbine Action, Range Model Air Rifle, with a compass on the stock and a thing that tells time.

Black Bart rode off after the encounter vowing to return, but left his horde behind, unconscious and seeing little birds, so a return seems unlikely anytime soon.

fluffincolorOh, oh, Christmas Eve in the slammer for The ElfMan. Buddy Hobbes is the six- foot tall man/elf who recently learned he’s not really and elf, but a human. He journeyed through the seven levels of the candy cane forest, through the sea of curly, twirly gum drops and walked through the Lincoln Tunnel, arriving in New York hoping to find his real father.

While working at Gimbel’s Department Store, Buddy spotted the store Santa, and accused him of being a fake. After accusing the Santa of sitting on, “a throne of lies,” Santa attacked. The ensuing melee caused carnage at the store, resulting in arrest and banishment from Gimbel’s for both Buddy and Santa.

After being bailed out, it is rumoured that Buddy went nightclubbing with Lindsay Lohan.

Christmas, Fluffernutter , , , ,

Twelve Days of Christmas, Day 5: Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol

December 17th, 2010
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Stave 1: Marley’s Ghost

Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge’s name was good upon ‘Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that Marley was as dead as a door-nail.

Scrooge knew he was dead? Of course he did. How could it be otherwise? Scrooge and he were partners for I don’t know how many years. Scrooge was his sole executor, his sole administrator, his sole assign, his sole residuary legatee, his sole friend and sole mourner. And even Scrooge was not so dreadfully cut up by the sad event, but that he was an excellent man of business on the very day of the funeral, and solemnised it with an undoubted bargain.

The mention of Marley’s funeral brings me back to the point I started from. There is no doubt that Marley was dead. This must be distinctly understood, or nothing wonderful can come of the story I am going to relate. If we were not perfectly convinced that Hamlet’s Father died before the play began, there would be nothing more remarkable in his taking a stroll at night, in an easterly wind, upon his own ramparts, than there would be in any other middle-aged gentleman rashly turning out after dark in a breezy spot — say Saint Paul’s Churchyard for instance — literally to astonish his son’s weak mind.

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley’s name. There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door: Scrooge and Marley. The firm was known as Scrooge and Marley. Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names: it was all the same to him.

Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grind- stone, Scrooge! a squeezing, wrenching, grasping, scraping, clutching, covetous, old sinner! Hard and sharp as flint, from which no steel had ever struck out generous fire; secret, and self-contained, and solitary as an oyster. The cold within him froze his old features, nipped his pointed nose, shriveled his cheek, stiffened his gait; made his eyes red, his thin lips blue and spoke out shrewdly in his grating voice. A frosty rime was on his head, and on his eyebrows, and his wiry chin. He carried his own low temperature always about with him; he iced his office in the dogdays; and didn’t thaw it one degree at Christmas.

External heat and cold had little influence on Scrooge. No warmth could warm, no wintry weather chill him. No wind that blew was bitterer than he, no falling snow was more intent upon its purpose, no pelting rain less open to entreaty. Foul weather didn’t know where to have him. The heaviest rain, and snow, and hail, and sleet, could boast of the advantage over him in only one respect. They often “came down” handsomely, and Scrooge never did.

Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, “My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?” No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o’clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge. Even the blind men’s dogs appeared to know him; and when they saw him coming on, would tug their owners into doorways and up courts; and then would wag their tails as though they said, “No eye at all is better than an evil eye, dark master!”

But what did Scrooge care? It was the very thing he liked. To edge his way along the crowded paths of life, warning all human sympathy to keep its distance, was what the knowing ones call “nuts” to Scrooge…

A Christmas Carol, Christmas, Dickens , , , ,