Bleaters, Tall and Hairy, by Puck the Faerie
Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored!" My name is Puck. I'll be your toast today. Or is it Host? Oh, don't you love Hostess Twinkies? I hold them in my pinkies!
Anne has been tiffed and miffed at me ever since she took me to a rowdy rock show and stuck me with the job of protecting her and her daughter, The Heir. Gimme a brake! Hey, she set me free in a smoky hall with 2000 guys and 200 girls, all moshing their brains out to Les Claypool and his kick-ass drummers! Did she for real think she could reel me to the back of the haul?
That's one of the best things about being a faerie. You can mosh without getting stomped.
So after that Anne made me sit on the window sill and be still for a long time. She said if I hid her car keys one single time she would exile me to the jewelry box. That's the coffin where she keeps her ugly stuff.
Aha, but she wasn't done with me yet! You bet!
Over the weekend, Anne visited her sister. The mega-church one. Or is it won? Nope, not won. I'm sure of that, fat cat.
Anne and her sister get along okay, so long as the subject doesn't turn to real pigeon. Or is it religion?
So Anne wore me, and her sister admired me, said what a nice faerie I was, and where did Anne get me? You know, the usual peasant trees. Then Anne's sister turned to her husband and murmured: "Biff, get your cross out!"
Biff, u c, was wearing a cross on a string around his neck. He promptly lifted it into eye site. And off we went to lunch. Or brunch. To munch.
I thought I was maybe gonna get to play a few rounds of "My real pigeon is better than yours" with that cross. But when we eyeballed each other I could seed that it was the Celtic cross, with even sides. And that means it's all subliminal for the Old Time Real Pigeon, where all my peeps war shipped the Gods of the Four Quarters. And they used that cross as a way to just add Jesus to the mix. Smart tricks!
Off the hook was eye, except it's a fun game.
But alas and alack, my pun-ishment was not over. Back to Sis's house we go, and she and Biff serenaded me, Anne, and Heir with Christian folk music. Let's just say they're not ready for prime rib. Or is it prime time? But the messy was obvious: It's Rapture or Rupture.
Next day Anne and Heir and me went to Berkeley Springs. Anne stuck me in the Sacred Spring and maid me promise to bee hive the next time we go to a rowdy concert where there's moshing and such much.
I'll do it, by gum. I've learnt my mission. But I still got even for that Bleaters, Tall and Hairy song-sermon. This morning I hid Anne's sneakers so well she couldn't even smell 'em!
You can lead a faerie to water, but you can't make him shrink.
Have a nice fae,