AND HOLD THE LEMON: THE TART CONCLUSION

February 26, 2010, Vol. 1., N0. 10

SPECIAL VALENTINE'S DAY ISSUE ... continued!


CONTENTS
(in scroll-down order)

THE BEARS OF WALDEN PUDDLE
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
"Looks don't matter much," says Dr. Whipple. "It's what's inside a person that counts." Then she gets a good look at Sergei of Kamchatka.

AND HOLD THE LEMON: THE TART CONCLUSION
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
Ninety-nine-year-old Lucas Mayfield finds fulfilling work in a bordello. That's Phase One of the plan.

THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
reportage from the Agreeable Dougnhut Cafe
He's only 8 years old, but Lucas Mayfield's great great grandson Jeffrey has a pretty good job himelf.


THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice

by Dr. Ursula Whipple

Field Notes: February 21, 2010. I got a call from the cops at 2 a.m. last night. Louie busted down the door at the Ming Lee Wok. I had to drive over and shoot him in the ass with two tranquilizer darts. One in each cheek. Louie is a big guy. When we winched Louie onto my flatbed, he was completely covered in Moo Shu Duck. That must be his favorite.

While they were there, the cops went down to the basement and confiscated 35 crates of firecrackers and Roman candles ... so Fourth of July will suck this year. Louie always causes trouble.

While the cops were in the basement, I confiscated 40 shrimp rolls, 17 orders of Pork Lo Mein, and a fortune cookie. I need a lot of comfort food these days. Guess what that fortune cookie said. It said: "Your heart too tender, like sprinkle with MSG."

On the back side, it said: "We no use MSG at Ming Lee Wok."

That fortune cookie was sure on the money. My heart is too tender. I found a photo of Sergei on the Internet. There is no nice way to put this: Sergei is a hog. I am no raving beauty, but I deserve better than that, and I told him so in an e-mail.

"You had no right to trick me into thinking you looked like Russell Crowe," I wrote, "when the truth is, you look like bear poop!"

He writes back: "Bear poop is my academic specialty! How dare you insult the bear poop!"

And I write: "You're right. Comparing you to bear poop is an insult to bear poop!"

And he writes: "Comparing you to a zit is an insult to zits!"

And I write: "You lying closet-Commie bastard!"

And he writes: "You superficial capitalist bitch!"

And we sort of left it at that.

Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and a contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990, she has lived in an abandoned cabin near town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as the "Jane Goodall of the North Woods," she shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.


AND HOLD THE LEMON: THE
TART CONCLUSION
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
1146 words

by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative

Bob and Marsha couldn't believe it.

"Grampums," said Bob, "did we just hear you say ..."

"That's right. I need a sex life."

"But Grampums," said Marsha, "it just doesn't seem ..."

"What? It doesn't seem right? For a 99-year-old man to have one last dance between the sheets before he drops?"

Marsha fingered the tablecloth. Bob filled in the awkward silence.

"We were just worried about your heart, Grampums. It might be too much."

"Bullshit," said Lucas.


The next day was Sunday. Lucas asked his great great grandson, Jeffrey, to pretend he was sick and skip church. Although he was only 8, Jeffrey was an excellent person to ask for advice. He was a very precocious child.

Using algorithms, probability theory, profiling, and a quick snoop through his mother's handbag, Jeffrey had figured out the Parental Block on the TV, and he watched X-rated movies often. He charged them to other households in Walden Puddle, having hacked into their cable TV accounts.

"My little master criminal," Lucas said to him fondly. "What did you watch last night?"

"Pernilla's Naughty Sauna Party," said Jeffrey. "Scandinavian. Still the gold standard in skin flicks."

After Bob and Marsha left for church, Lucas and Jeffrey sat down for a planning session. "I have to be blunt, Lucas," said Jeffrey. "You're screwed." Jeffrey always addressed his great great grandfather as Lucas. That was fine with Lucas. He preferred it.

"How so?" said Lucas.

"You're very old. You have no savings. Your only income is Social Security, at $794 a month ..."

"How'd you know that?"

"I know a lot of things," said Jeffrey. "You don't have a pot to piss in, Lucas. Women notice that. Women don't like it when men don't have money to spend on them."

"Eleanor married me," said Lucas defensively.

"She was young and silly," said Jeffrey. "She mistakenly thought you had potential. Most women marry guys not for what they are ... but for what they think they can mold them into."

"I see," said Lucas.

"We have to get you a job," said Jeffrey, "so you can afford to date, and to meet women in person. The Internet sucks for meeting sex partners. Everybody lies about themselves. Trust me."

"What kind of work can I do?"

"Let's find out." Jeffrey dialed his BlackBerry. "Hi, Warden. How's the priz biz?" he said. "Listen. My friend Lucas needs an easy job ... and an easy chick. You got a career track for him?"

Lucas leaned forward.

"Uh-huh," said Jeffrey. "Well if your nephew moves on to white-collar work, call me. See you for drinks Wednesday. Soon as my parents leave for Ethical Culture."

"What was the job?"

"Girls House of Detention. Picking up towels and dainties. Refereeing pillow fights. Videotaping catfights. Sorry, the job's taken."

"What next?" said Lucas, crestfallen. It sounded like a great job.

"Lil owes me," said Jeffrey. He dialed again. "Hi, darlin'," he said. "I have to call in a coupon ..."

Twenty minutes later, Lucas was riding in the back of a chauffered Mercedes, on the way to his new job as greeter, sandwich chef, and mascot at Diamond Lil's Reputed House of Ill-Repute.

Back home, Jeffrey crawled under the covers and applied a heating pad to his forehead. When Bob and Marsha returned from First Unitarian, they checked on him. "Oh, dear World-Soul!" exclaimed Marsha as she touched Jeffrey's artificially superheated brow. "He's burning up!"

"I'll be okay tomorrow, Mom," whispered Jeffrey. "I won't miss school. I promise."

"Our brave little scholar," said Bob.

"Could you bring me some warm milk?" said Jeffrey. "And could you set the TV for the Disney Channel? My little fingers are too weak right now."

As they left Jeffrey's room, Bob and Marsha exchanged misty-eyed glances.

"I don't know how we did it," said Marsha, "but we raised the perfect child."


At Diamond Lil's, Lucas was an instant hit with Lil and her 12 waitresses. They fussed over him. They baked cookies for him. They knitted warm socks for him when they weren't, as they put it, "waiting tables."

At first, Lucas was in heaven. But after a few weeks, the good feeling faded. He confided to Jeffrey, "They pamper me like a Pomeranian. I watch them walk around in negligees or less. But the fact remains ... I ... ain't ... got ... to first base!"

Jeffrey thought about it for two seconds. There were few things in the world Jeffrey couldn't figure out in two seconds. "Here's what you do, Lucas," and he whispered in Lucas' ear.

The next day, Lucas waited until after the lunchtime rush. Afternoons were a quiet time at Diamond Lil's, a time for sober reflection and bookkeeping. At precisely 2:24 p.m., Lucas fell to the floor of the greeting parlor, clutching his chest.

"Oh, my God!" Diamond Lil exclaimed as she and her waitresses rushed to him. They didn't know Lucas was faking a heart attack ... on Jeffrey's instructions.

Lucas opened one eye. "Do any of you ladies know CPR?" he asked weakly. "The Kiss of Life?"

"No," said Diamond Lil. "But Brandy here is a good kisser. Brandy! Get in there!"

Brandy leaned over and gave Lucas a long, steamy kiss.

"Thank you, Brandy," said Lucas, "but I'm still fading."

Over the next 20 minutes, Lucas received the Kiss of Life repeatedly from each of Diamond Lil's waitresses. When Diamond Lil knelt down to give him the Kiss of Life, Lucas offered his hand. "The Handshake of Life'll be fine, Lil," he said.

He also noticed a funny feeling in his chest. The funny feeling was ventricular fibrillation. Now Lucas was dying. The excitement had been too much.

On a lush Persian rug in a cozy little country whorehouse, the lights went out for Lucas Mayfield.

At that point, Lucas was surprised to learn ... contrary to everything the Rev. Dr. Alice Walker had ever preached at First Unitarian ... that he had a soul after all.

Lucas' soul opened its eyes. He saw Eleanor. She looked very annoyed.

"If you had remarried, I wouldn't mind," she said. "But soon's I croak, you go play Stage-Door Johnny at Diamond Lil's?"

"I uhm ... I uhm ... well ... you see ..." Lucas explained.

"You're in trouble, mister," said Eleanor. "Big trouble."

"I have to go now," said Lucas. His soul quickly departed the afterlife and slipped back into his body. He opened his eyes.

"He's not dead!" exclaimed Diamond Lil.

"Hallelujah! I'm not dead!" echoed Lucas. He sized up everything that had just happened to him. I'd better mend my ways, he thought, or Eleanor will kill me next time.

Diamond Lil's waitresses helped Lucas onto a red velvet sofa. "Can I get you something, sweetie?" said Diamond Lil. "Some tea? Some schnapps? Anything you want."

"Anything?" said Lucas.

"Anything."

Lucas thought about it hard. What would Jeffrey do? What would Jeffrey do?

"Thirty seconds with Fifi," he said.



THE TALK OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
We caught up with young Jeffrey Mayfield in back of the Agreeable Doughnut, where he was taking bets from children and adults on college and NBA basketball.

"I'll give you a winner tonight," he told us, "as long as you write that I'm here every day after school. Take Dartmouth. All five Princeton starters will have food poisoning by six o'clock. They just don't know it yet."

We thanked him.

"You need some weed?" he asked as we were leaving.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Rev. Alvin Bisonnette, pastor of the Walden Puddle Church of the Definitely Saved, has written a family-oriented version of Oedipus Rex.

"I found out the heathen at First Unitarian were rehearsing that abomination in their drama club. Did you know the story is about a boy ... making out ... with his mom?"

Or something along those lines, we said.

"I never knew that," said Rev. Bisonnette. "I though it was about a cat named Eddie and a dog named Rex!"

And he's revised the script?

"I have," said Rev. Bisonnette. "My version actually is about a cat named Eddie and a dog named Rex. They travel around the country in a sanctified RV driven by an angel, and if they meet a sinner they attack him and maul him, but if you're saved, they lick your hand and do tricks for you. I call it Oedipus Rex for Christians."

Quite a change in the plot line, we observed.

"Miss Ettie Crawford, our choir director, is turning it into a musical. We have to find us a singing dog now. A tenor. The Lord will provide."


NEXT POST: March 15, 2010

The Special Ides of March Issue

FEATURING: In Copious Falls, they call March 15 the Ides of March. In Walden Puddle, they think that's a typo. Either way, it's a day for settling old scores in "The Midnight Raiders."

THE BEAR FACTS: Like mature adults, which neither of them is, Dr. Whipple and Sergei of Kamchatka almost calm down and almost agree they can still be pen-pals.

BONUS ITEM: The Walden Puddle Gummy Bears, the worst minor-league hockey team in North America, lose their coach and their goalie, both of whom are returning to Finland demoralized.


Editor's Note: You're on Page 2 of Walden Puddle, which begins with the issue of December 26, 2009. If you missed Page 1, which covers October through early December 2009, you can view it by clicking http://onwaldenpuddle.blogspot.com/

All printed matter in this issue of Walden Puddle copyright © 2010 Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photographs reproduced with permission. Original artwork courtesy of Aytsan.

AND HOLD THE LEMON: PART 1

February 14, 2010, Vol. 1, No. 9

SPECIAL VALENTINE'S DAY ISSUE

CONTENTS
(in scroll-down order)

THE BEARS OF WALDEN PUDDLE
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
She met him on the Internet. He studies bears, just like her. And he claims he looks like Russell Crowe. "Maybe I should keep in touch," says Dr. Whipple.

AND HOLD THE LEMON: PART 1
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
Deeply depressed and 99 years old, Lucas Mayfield felt he had nothing to live for, until he switched on the TV ... and there she was ... half naked.

THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
reportage from out on Route 143
The Rev. Alvin Bisonnette has had it up to here with Diamond Lil's Reputed House of Ill-Repute. But where, exactly, is here?


THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice

by Dr. Ursula Whipple

Field Notes: February 10, 2010. For Valentine's Day, I had a serious talk with Alonzo. Wearing that Boston Bruins hockey sweater I got him for Christmas, he is the Big Man on Campus. He has had that sweater on his back for seven weeks now, and it smells like manure. But to lady bears, that makes Alonzo more mysterious and sexy, so they follow him around.

When I was doing my thesis at Central Montana Normal, I waited tables at the Cowboy Philosopher Truck Stop, and a lot of the truckers operated on the same theory.

I said to Alonzo, "Listen here, bear. You play the field long enough, and you're gonna end up alone and miserable, just like Big Jack, who's on a heavy dose of Zoloft. Did you know that? I don't want to be buying Zoloft for you, too, come the day. Find a nice lady bear while you have your looks ... and settle the hell down."

The problem with sowing your oats too long is one day you wake up with skin tags all over your neck. Take it from me, boys, nothing turns a woman off quicker than skin tags, unless she's already married to you and just has to live with it.

I hope Sergei does not have skin tags. I met Sergei on the Internet last month. He is a professional colleague who does his bear research on the Kamchatka Peninsula, which is so far away in Russia than even Russians don't know where the hell it is.

Our correspondence began on a professional plane, comparing field notes. But then he sent me a drawing of himself. He had to send a drawing, he said, because he lost his camera running like hell to get away from a bear. The drawing looks like it is based on a publicity photo of Russell Crowe in Gladiator ... but I decided to suspend disbelief and go with it.

His English is a bit clumsy. He signed off that Russell Crowe e-mail with: "I am kissing upon your dainty toenails, which in addition to the kissing I do nibble."

I, in turn, sent him a picture of some hot chick I pulled off the Internet. I told him it was a recent photo of me. I signed off with: "As for my toenails, my big old Russian bear, I have painted them chartreuse just for you."

Since it was my toenails we were discussing, I also added: "And I have scrubbed them thoroughly with soap and warm water to reduce the number of fungi and bacteria."

Neither of us is getting any younger. I looked him up in the professional listings for bear biologists, and he just cleared 60. I myself am only 29 or so, give or take ... but after a while, age starts to mean less. What the hell, it's Valentine's Day.

Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and a contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990, she has been living in an abandoned cabin near town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as the "Jane Goodall of the North Woods," she shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.


AND HOLD THE LEMON: PART 1
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
864 words

by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative

Lucas Mayfield regarded Valentine's Day with a heavy heart. He was 99, and his wife, Eleanor, to whom he had been married 75 years, had passed away four years earlier during their Diamond Wedding Anniversary Gala at the Walden Puddle All-Purpose Catering Hall.

During dessert, some Baked Alaska went down wrong, blocking Eleanor's airways. Lucas and Eleanor's granddaughter, a prominent physician in Boston, applied the Heimlich Maneuver. Eleanor expelled the now-hideous gob of Baked Alaska with great force, sending it flying across the room and onto the Black Forest Cake being enjoyed by the Rev. Dr. Alice Walker, pastor of Walden Puddle's First Unitarian Meeting House.

"The World-Soul is benevolent," said the Reverend Dr. Walker, pushing her plate away. "Surely this cake contained trans-fatty acids."

All seemed well after the scare, although Eleanor complained of a pain in her abdomen. Ten minutes later, she dozed off at the dais. She never woke up. Fragility and brittleness are facts of life when you're 95. In applying the life-saving Heimlich Maneuver, Eleanor's granddaughter had squeezed too hard and ruptured her grandmother's spleen.

Lucas and Eleanor's Diamond Wedding Anniversary Gala quickly turned into an unscheduled wake. As Eleanor's remains were wheeled away on a catering-hall gurney -- on their way to an ambulance that was in no hurry -- the Rev. Dr. Alice Walker performed a Unitarian memorial service, a rite that often lasts 10 seconds or less.

"Eleanor was a luminous being," said Dr. Walker. "So are you. So am I. Death puts an end to all that. So let's be luminous while we're here. Amen."

Lucas Mayfield, who woke up as a married man that morning, went home in a funk that night, having become a widower. He soon gave up the rent-controlled apartment in which he and Eleanor had lived for 74 years, because her presence in it was too palpable for him. He saw her image reflected in every grapefruit spoon; he smelled her hand lotion on every towel.

Lucas moved in with his grandson Bob. He was deeply depressed. He stayed in his room for the next four years, sleeping 20 hours a day and saying little at the family table. It pained Bob and his wife, Marsha, to watch Lucas ... almost as much as it pained Lucas to be Lucas.

Lucas would rise reluctantly for breakfast at 7:00 a.m. Marsha made sure of it by setting his clock radio. One Saturday afternoon, she made a mistake. She set the wake-up function for 7:00 p.m. that evening, and she accidentally moved the dial from country music to ethnic programming from New York whose signal somehow reached Walden Puddle.

At 7:00 that evening, which also happened to be Valentine's Day, Lucas woke up to the plucky sounds of the Irkutsk Balalaika Orchestra. He angrily turned off the radio. Too annoyed to sleep now, he switched on the TV.

He channel-surfed until he hit HBO, which was showing Atlantic City. On the screen, Susan Sarandon was standing in front of an open window, naked from the waist up, giving her upper body a slow, sensual rubdown with fresh-cut lemons.

As he watched Susan Sarandon drizzle lemon juice onto her bare torso, Lucas Mayfield experienced a Valentine's Day miracle.

For the first time in years, he felt like life was worth living.

For the first time in years, he smiled.

Bob and Marsha were amazed when Lucas left his bedroom at eight p.m. and joined them for a cup of coffee. He had never stayed up that late before. They were even more amazed by the expression on his face. He was grinning.

They soon found out why. "You shoulda seen what she was doin' with them lemons!" he told them. "You got any lemons in the fridge? I'll show ya!" Bob found a lemon and cut it in two. Lucas removed his long-sleeved flannel undershirt and rubbed the lemon halves over his bony chest, moaning for erotic effect. Bob and Marsha felt ill.

"Plus she was a redhead!" said Lucas. "Hell. Redheads have always drove me crazy! Ask the boys down at the VFW!"

For the next hour, Lucas talked nonstop about the movie, and what he called "the incredible gazongers" of Susan Sarandon. Bob and Marsha couldn't get a word in. Among the things Lucas said were ...

"Big gazongers!"

"I felt like I was 85 again!"

"You shoulda seen them gazongers!"

"I want to live! I want to laugh! I want to dance!"

Bob and Marsha had been hoping that something would somehow ... someday ... revive Lucas and bring him back to the world of the living. Now, as Lucas squeezed lemon juice into his coffee, they realized they liked him better catatonic.

"We're so happy you feel good about life again, Grampums," said Marsha. "I think we can use this as a starting point."

"I plan to do that," said Lucas.

"We could go to ball games. And to the county fair. And to restaurants. It'd be so good for you to get out of the house."

"Screw that crap," said Lucas.

"Well, then, what would you like, Grampums?" said Bob. "What will keep you in this wonderful mood you're in now?"

Lucas Mayfield's 99-year-old face took on a dreamy expression. "I need to get laid," he said.


END OF PART ONE


THE TALK OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Ms. Cynthia Giggs, director of the Lending Library and the only openly admitted poet in Walden Puddle, offers this "love haiku" in honor of Valentine's Day.

He was having big trouble
Unhooking my bra
I did it

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Also in honor of Valentine's Day, the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette and his flock from the Walden Puddle Church of the Definitely Saved demonstrated outside Diamond Lil's Reputed House of Ill-Repute on Route 143 last Saturday.

"We shall not rest," said Rev. Bisonnette, "until Diamond Lil's House of Ill-Repute shutters its doors."

Diamond Lil responded, "Read the sign, asshole. It says: Diamond Lil's Reputed House of Ill-Repute. All the rest is innnuendo."

"Then what about the red lights in the windows!" thundered Rev. Bisonnette.

"My waitresses have eye trouble. They can't handle white light."

Rev. Bisonnette instructed his flock to disperse. "We shall return tomorrow, after Sunday Worship, to continue our noble work," he said. "Meanwhile, I shall stay here through the night, witnessing for the Lord all by myself."

One of Diamond Lil's waitresses poked her head out the door.

"Hi, Alvie," she said. "Y'all want me to dress up as the French Maid or Barbarella?"

"I think Barbarella tonight," said Rev. Bisonnette. "I mean ... not now, Fancy ... I mean not now, harlot ... I mean .. just plain harlot!"


NEXT POST: February 26, 2010

SPECIAL VALENTINE'S DAY ISSUE ... continued!!!

FEATURING: "And Hold the Lemon: The Tart Conclusion." At the age of 99, Lucas Mayfield sets out to find a meaningful five-minute relationship ... on a fixed income.

THE BEAR FACTS: Dr. Whipple's long-distance Internet romance with Sergei of Kamchatka reaches a make-or-break turning point. Place your bets.

BONUS ITEM: As the Drama Circle at First Unitarian Meeting House rehearses Oedipus Rex, the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette is scandalized to learn: "It's about a boy making out with his mom!"


Editor's Note: You're on Page 2 of Walden Puddle, which begins with the December 26, 2009, issue. If you missed Page 1, which covers October through early December 2009, you can view it by clicking http://onwaldenpuddle.blogspot.com/

All printed matter in this issue of Walden Puddle copyright © 2010 Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photographs reproduced with permission. Original artwork courtesy of Aytsan.

PROJECT WINDBREAKER: THE SHOCKING CONCLUSION

January 29, 2010, Vol. 1, No. 8


CONTENTS
(in scroll-down order)


THE BEARS OF WALDEN PUDDLE
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
All Dr. Whipple wanted was some comfort food. "Was I asking too much?" she says.

PROJECT WINDBREAKER: THE SHOCKING CONCLUSION
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
Colonel Biff Sanders finally gets to the point and spills the beans about NASA's most embarrassing secret.

THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
reportage from the Agreeable Doughnut Cafe
Is the earth flat ... or round? In most places that question was settled long ago. In Walden Puddle, the debate rages.


THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice

by Dr. Ursula Whipple

Field Notes: January 17, 2010. What the hell, I sent out for a pizza. I specifically said "sausage and onions," and they sent me anchovy. Von Himmelhoff's Pizzeria always screws up your order. There's nothing you can do; it's a tradition. Germans have been making pizza in Walden Puddle since 1871. Domino's tried to open a franchise out on Route 143 a few years back, but the Germans overran it.

The Mexican delivery guy couldn't speak English. When I complained, he thought I was saying he wouldn't get a tip, so he starts crying. He whips out these pictures of his family, and his dog, and his favorite soccer team, and he taps himself on the chest like, "They all depend on me."

I figured, what the hell, I'll eat around the anchovies, so I took the damn pizza, and I overtipped him, and he immediately stops crying and starts laughing, and he runs to his car like ... I did it again!

Nobody likes anchovy pizza. We all know that. But when I started tossing the anchovy pieces into the mulch pile ... all my bears were there, going crazy for those anchovies. My hypothesis is that bears are the only living things that like anchovy pizza.

I have submitted 10 articles about this important finding to various scholarly journals, including National Geographic and Boys Life, and I have high hopes that I will finally get published. I am only 29 or so, give or take, but it's high time that I got into print.

High-class print, I mean.

Field Notes: January 26, 2010. With today's rejection letter, all 10 journals have turned down my article. I have had close to 200 articles rejected in my professional lifetime, but none of them has been rejected as fast as this one.

My mom, Priscilla, blames it on the economy. I agree.

Anyhow, I was still bummed, and I needed some comfort food. So I called Von Himmelhoff's Pizzeria and ordered a large pie. I was crafty this time: I ordered anchovy, figuring they would screw up like always and send me sausage or pepperoni, or something really good.

The bastards sent me anchovy.

Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and a contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990, she has been living in an abandoned cabin outside town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as the "Jane Goodall of the North Woods," she shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.


PROJECT WINDBREAKER: PART 2
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
174 words

by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative

The tension had become unbearable. Colonel Sanders finally got to the point. For the first time in his 20 years at the Walden Puddle Insane Asylum, he was ready to utter a Top Secret NASA code name that had been burned into his memory long ago.

"Deep in the heart of NASA," he whispered, "we called it ... Project Windbreaker."

Dave Le Barquipe held his breath.

"And it all took place right here. In Walden Puddle. At a secret NASA installation in the woods. They tore the whole thing down in 1985. Only the groundskeeper's cabin remains. The bear lady lives in it now. Dr. Whoopee or whatever."

"What was it?" Dave asked breathlessly, after holding his breath too long.

"Son, you remember how those Apollo boys hopped around like bunny rabbits on the moon?"

"I've seen clips."

"You want to know what really went on up there?"

"Yes."

"It had nothing to do with low gravity. Or with those Jetsons backpacks they wore."

"No?"

"No. Those Jetsons backpacks were for TV. Those boys hopped around on the moon like bunny rabbits because ..."

Yes?"

"Because ..."

"Yes?"

"Because ..."

"Yes?"

"Because ..."

"Yes?"

"Because ..."

Colonel Sanders was milking it again, just like he did at the end of Part One.

"Because ..."


END OF PART 2



PROJECT WINDBREAKER: THE LONG-AWAITED CONCLUSION
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
857 words

by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative

At the end of Part Two, which appears just above, Colonel Sanders had begun to milk the story again. We skip a few pages and move to a later point in the narrative.

"Because ..."

"Yes?"

"Because ..."

"Yes?"

"Because ..."

Dave was on pins and needles. "Please, Colonel Sanders. Tell me."

"Because ..."

"Yes? Yes?"

"Those astronauts hopped around on the moon like bunny rabbits because ..."

"Please, Colonel Sanders."

"... because NASA had learned ..."

"Yes?"

"... how to harness ..."

"Yes?"

"... the awesome power ..."

"Yes?"

"... of the human fart!"

Dave was stunned.

"The research took place at NASA's secret Fart Propulsion Laboratory. Everybody in the world knew about about the Jet Propulsion Laboratory in Pasadena. Nobody knew anything about the Fart Propulsion Laboratory in Walden Puddle."

Dave remained stunned.

"I was there from Day One," said Colonel Sanders. "I was a test farter."

Dave had never been so stunned in his life.

"After the hippies came up with a way to get the stink out of our space suits, we began our experiments."

"The hippies?"

"The uniform designers. We called them hippies. The space suits were subcontracted. To a little company in Oregon. You know what they call that little company today, son?"

Dave shook his head.

"Nike."

"No!" said Dave.

"The Nike swoosh," said Colonel Sanders, referring to the famous trade symbol, "is nothing more than a high-priced art director's rendering of a human fart."

"No!"

Colonel Sanders motioned Dave closer. "There was a rigorous training program," he whispered. "We had to learn to propel ourselves in all different directions."

"By farting?" Dave whispered.

"By farting," whispered Colonel Sanders. "Up, down, and forward were easy. Left and right caused some problems, but most guys figured it out. The easiest was park. We're both in park right now."

"Of course."

"The bitch was reverse."

"I can imagine."

"The Zen-like control of involuntary muscles ..."

Dave nodded.

"The ultra-precise timing for the passage of gas itself ..."

"Ultra ..."

"Leading to the seemingly impossible feat of farting inward ..."

"Inward?"

"In order to go backward!"

"Incredible!"

"A few boys got hurt, trying to learn reverse. Only one in twenty mastered the entire package."

"One in twenty ..."

"But then there was the final test. And even fewer remained after that one."

"What was it?"

"We called it: The Night of the Mules."

"What happened?" said Dave.

"They gave us sleeping bags. Then they locked us in an airtight chamber with six mules who'd been eating lentils for three months. We were in there for sixteen hours."

"And in the morning?"

"Those who could rise to their feet without assistance made the final cut."

"And you were one of them."

"I'm proud to say I was," said Colonel Sanders. "Then they shipped us to Houston, where we taught fart propulsion to the other astronauts. We were in the background -- anonymous -- all through the glory years. But we did our part."

"Colonel," said Dave. "Why have you waited so long to speak?"

"Last week," said Colonel Sanders, "for no reason, they restricted my television privileges. I was furious. I wanted to lash out."

"Of course."

"You realize what NASA was doing."

"They were siphoning," said Dave. "They kept begging for money, and meanwhile ..."

"And where do you think that money went?"

"I'd love to know."

"So would the American public."

Dave shook his head. More deceit by his own government. The whole thing just plain stunk.

"Not to mention the setback to green technology," said Colonel Sanders. "Indoor wind farms. Low-cost public transportation, with the commuters farting in unison."

"Visionary!"

"But alas ..."

Colonel Sanders fell silent. Dave understood.

"Colonel, I believe you," said Dave. "But no one will ever believe us. Being in a loony bin undermines one's credibility."

"Just a little," said Colonel Sanders.

A nurse came by with a tray of medications. He handed small paper cups filled with pills to Dave and the colonel, and cups of water with which to wash the pills down.

Holding their medications aloft, they toasted each other.

"Here's to truth," said Colonel Sanders.

"Here's to truth," said Dave.

They tossed back their pills.

"I'm sleepy already," said Colonel Sanders. "See you tomorrow, young man. You play Ping-Pong?"

"Yup," said Dave. "See you after lunch."

"Done deal," said the colonel. "It's good to have a friend."

"It surely is."

"Now watch this, young man."

A sound as loud and violent as the tearing of a canvas sail pierced the quiet of the room. Patients and staff looked up, startled. Three seconds later, Colonel Sanders' wheelchair had accelerated to a top-end speed of 35 miles per hour.

As he disappeared down the hall, Colonel Sanders yelled back to Dave, "C'mon, young man. You can do it, too!"

"How?" Dave yelled after him.

"Just blow it out yer ass!"


THE TALK OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
The Walden Puddle Flat Earth Society will hold a billards tournament on Saturday, February 13.

"We chose billiards," said Marcia Whitby, vice president of the society, "because a pool table is both an elegant metaphor and an irrefutable proof of our thesis."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In direct response to the Flat Earth Society's billiards tournament, the Walden Puddle Round Earth Society will hold a half-court basketball tournament on the same day ... Saturday, February 13.

"We chose roundball for obvious reasons," said Ernest Lomax, the society's secretary. "It's a shame that a group like ours even has to exist today. But we're realists. This is Walden Puddle. Our side is playing catch-up."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Walden Puddle Society of Conspiracy Theorists is holding a membership drive. No further details are available.



NEXT POST: Special Valentine's Day Issue, February 14

FEATURING: "And Hold the Lemon," in which a 99-year-old widower who thought he had nothing to live for switches on the TV ... and there she is ... half naked. Rated: PG21.

THE BEAR FACTS: Dr. Whipple has been trading e-mails ... and photos ... with a mysterious Russian bear researcher in Siberia. "Maybe Cupid shot me in the ass," she says. "It feels different from a tranquilizer dart."

BONUS ITEM: The Rev. Alvin Bisonnette dedicates himself to closing down Diamond Lil's Reputed House of Ill-Repute. Eventually.


Editor's Note: No mules were harmed in the making of this post. The mule in that picture up there is just lying down. They do that, you know. You're on Page 2 of Walden Puddle, which begins with Vol. 1, No. 6 ... "A Walden Puddle Christmas Carol." If you missed Posts 1 through 5, beginning in October 2009, you can catch up with them by clicking http://onwaldenpuddle.blogspot.com/

All printed matter in this issue of Walden Puddle copyright © 2010 Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photos reproduced with permission. Original artwork courtesy of Aytsan.

PROJECT WINDBREAKER: PART I

January 14, 2010, Vol. 1, No. 7


CONTENTS
(in scroll-down order)

THE BEARS OF WALDEN PUDDLE
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
Bears will be bears. "Especially if they're horny," says Dr. Whipple.

PROJECT WINDBREAKER: PART I
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
We met Dave Le Barquipe on Christmas Eve, when the Three Spirits of Christmas paid him a visit at the Village Idiot Pub. The Spirits did a good job of reforming Dave. Too good?

THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
reportage from the Agreeable Doughnut Cafe
The Walden Puddle Insane Asylum refuses to change its name, while the 2010 Walden Puddle Garage Band Festival proceeds as planned.

YOUR INFALLIBLE 2010 HOROSCOPE
by Irving the Wise
The finest astrologer in Walden Puddle takes all the suspense out of your year ahead.


THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice

by Dr. Ursula Whipple

Field Notes: January 6, 2010. Driving past Hooter's today, I saw Harvey, Clyde, and Alonzo in the parking lot. If they were looking for food in the dumpsters, I wouldn't mind, but they were looking through the window at the waitresses, making va-va-va-voom gestures.

Granted ... those girls work there voluntarily ... and granted ... some of them got implants voluntarily ... but I still didn't like it.

When Harvey, Clyde, and Alonzo got back to the property, I shot them all in the ass with tranquilizer darts. Then I drove up in the pickup with my bullhorn, and I told them a thing or two about the exploitation of women. When the tranquilizer wore off and they stumbled back into the woods, Clyde paused to stick his butt out in an insolent manner. He held that pose for 45 seconds. I believe he was mooning me.

If I can borrow that big projection TV from Mr. Johnson down by the filling station, I am going to make all my male bears watch Thelma & Louise, which is the greatest movie ever made. Those boys need to see that movie repeatedly.

The whole thing left me in a foul mood, so I went inside, stabbed myself in the ass with bear tranquilizer, switched on Pure Prairie League, and lay down to rest. Tacked to the wall, I have this poster of Paul Newman in Cool Hand Luke. He is bare-chested and glistening with sweat. Staring at that poster helps me relax. So does bear tranquilizer.

Cool Hand Luke was a bad boy ... a rebel ... but he was also sensitive. I can just tell that about him when I look at that poster. Paul Newman's character had depth, dimension, and sensitivity about the complex needs of women, especially when he took his shirt off.

For Cool Hand Luke, a woman was a thou. For those horny adolescent bears today, a woman was an it. That's why I plan to make all my dumbass male bears watch Thelma & Louise. I myself have seen it 47 times. I've lost count of the Kleenex.

Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and a contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990, she has lived in an abandoned cabin outside town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as the "Jane Goodall of the North Woods," she shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.


PROJECT WINDBREAKER: PART 1
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
877 words

by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative

January 1, 2010

On the first day of 2010, Dave Le Barquipe sat quietly in the recreation room of the Walden Puddle Insane Asylum. He had been admitted on New Year's Eve. A week before, he had been the owner of the Village Idiot Pub. He was the richest man in Walden Puddle, and the meanest one as well.

Now, a week later, Dave was flat broke and in a mental hospital, but he was in a good mood.

On Christmas Eve, the Spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Future had walked into Dave's bar. [See "A Walden Puddle Christmas Carol" in the post below this one.] As a result of their visit, Dave woke up on Christmas morning a new man. Overnight, his bitterness had been replaced by compassion and love; his skepticism, by the faith he'd once possessed as a young Franciscan monk; his greed, by unbounded generosity.

On the First Day of Christmas, Dave called one of his best customers, Jim Frost, owner of the Village Green Toy Shoppe.

"Merry Christmas, Jim," he said. "I'll pay you one thousand dollars cash to open up your store today. Just for me. Just for one hour."

"And a Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Le Barquipe," said Jim. "See you in ten minutes."

That afternoon, Dave Le Barquipe delivered eight van loads of presents to the children at the Walden Puddle Orphanatorium.

On the Second Day of Christmas, Dave called his financial adviser, liquidated all his stocks, bonds, mutual funds, and options on undeveloped timberland and gave the $26 million in proceeds to the poor. His financial adviser, in turn, called Dave's brother, Anthony Le Barquipe, to tell him what Dave had done.

On the Third Day of Christmas, Anthony called Dave. "Did you at least keep the bar?" he said.

"Well, of course," said Dave. "A man has to make a living. But that's all I want from now on, to make a living. No more frills. No more self-indulgence. Any money that's left over goes to charity."

"I see," said Anthony.

On the Fourth Day of Christmas, Anthony met with a high-priced lawyer and a high-priced psychiatrist from Copious Falls. "What would it take," he asked them, "to have my brother declared legally insane?"

On the Fifth Day of Christmas, Anthony asked Dave to grant him unlimited power-of-attorney. "Just in case something happens to either of us," said Anthony. "We should have done this long ago." He also asked to be designated Dave's legal guardian, "as an additional precaution."

"Absolutely," said Dave. All Dave wanted now was to be nice to people. He wanted to be pleasant and agreeable and not get into any arguments.

On the Sixth Day of Christmas, Anthony set in motion the judicial and medical machinery to have Dave declared incompetent to handle his own affairs, which were now pretty much limited to running the Village Idiot Pub.

On the Seventh Day of Christmas, Anthony Le Barquipe, the new owner of the Village Idiot Pub, had his brother Dave committed to the Walden Puddle Insane Asylum.

At Dave's admissions interview, Anthony took Dr. Bartleby Binkerman, founder of the asylum and its chief psychiatrist, to the side. "Doctor," he said, "a week ago my brother was the richest man in Walden Puddle. He sold everything he had, and he gave the money to the poor."

"He's out of his mind," said Dr. Binkerman. "Let's lock him up."

On the Eighth Day of Christmas, sitting in the recreation room of the Walden Puddle Insane Asylum, Dave was happy. He had enjoyed a hearty breakfast. There was a Honeymooners marathon on TV. And there was enough feel-good medication in his system to make a mad dog roll over to have its belly scratched.

An old man in pajamas, in a wheelchair, rolled toward Dave.

"Hi, there," said Dave as the man drew near. "I'm crazy. How about you?"

"That's what they say," said the old man. "But I'm saner than all these bastards put together, and twice as smart." He extended his hand. "Colonel Biff Sanders, USAF, retired. Decorated veteran. Former astronaut."

"Pleased to meet you, Colonel Sanders. I'm Dave. I love your secret recipe."

"Different Colonel Sanders, son."

"Forgive me."

Colonel Sanders waved it away. "Son, I can size up a man at first glance," he said. "I trust you immediately. You have a kind heart and an open mind. I'm gonna tell you something right now that I've never told to anyone since the day NASA had me locked up here."

"NASA put you in here?" said Dave. "When?"

"Twenty years ago."

"Twenty years?" said Dave, worried now that he hadn't packed his summer clothes.

"They did it because I threatened to go public."

"Go public with what?"

"With the dirtiest little secret in the history of space exploration. What I am about to tell you, son, will shock and amaze you. It is the story of the most embarrassing thing that NASA -- or any U.S. government agency -- has ever done."

"More embarrassing than Watergate?"

"Far worse than Watergate. Are you ready, son? Can you handle the truth?"

"I can handle it," said Dave. Having recently been visited by the Spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Future, Dave felt he could handle anything.

"Son, have you ever heard of the NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory?"

"The one in Pasadena? The one they call JPL on the news?"

"That's correct. JPL gets all the publicity. But there was another NASA Propulsion Laboratory. Right here in Walden Puddle. And I was part of it. We ran a clandestine project that embarrasses the hell out of NASA to this day."

"What was it, Colonel?"

"At NASA, we had a Top Secret code name for it ..."

The old man paused for effect.

"We called it ..."

He paused for effect again.

"We called it ..."

He paused for effect again. He was milking it now.

"We called it ..."

He was really milking it now.

"We called it ..."

Boy, was he milking it.

"We called it ..."


END OF PART ONE



THE TALK OF
WALDEN PUDDLE

The board of the Walden Puddle Insane Asylum has again voted unanimously not to change the name of the institution. We chatted at the Agreeable Doughnut with Dr. Bartleby Binkerman, founder of the asylum.

"Political Correctness can smooch my hinder," said Dr. Binkerman. "We've got forty-two patients locked up in there. Every one of them is insane. That's why it's called an Insane Asylum. Do you see the connection?"

To underscore the point, the asylum board has ordered new stationery, as well as new coffee mugs and stuffed animals for the gift shop. All items will bear the institution's new logo, and all the stuffed animals will wear the logo on a nylon sash


WALDEN PUDDLE INSANE ASYLUM
WE DRUG LUNATICS


"Put that in your damn reportage," said Dr. Binkerman.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Speaking of catchy inscriptions, the Walden Puddle Gift Shop has a few yellow windbreakers left from the overstock order placed by the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette, pastor of the Walden Puddle Church of the Definitely Saved. Printed on the back of each windbreaker are the words


LAST JUDGMENT
EVENT STAFF


"If you're wearing one when they plant you," Rev. Bisonnette assures us, "you're in. Plus you get a reserved parking space and an option on a luxury box."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

We bumped into Rupert Walker at the Agreeable Doughnut. Rupert is director of the Walden Puddle Garage Band Festival, which will be held on Sunday, January 24, at 4:00 p.m. on the Village Green.

"The Garage Band Festival," Rupert said, "has always been held outdoors in January."

Why?

"We don't want any entries. That's also why the entry fee is ten thousand dollars."

Participating musicians get a slice of Mrs. Agnes Stuart's wild-mushroom cobbler, and all the iced tea they can drink.

"The iced tea freezes their vocal cords," said Rupert.

No garage band has entered the festival since the January thaw of 1972. The lone spectator that year was a deaf person. He left because of melting cow patties.

Cow patties do not usually pose a problem on the Village Green in January, being frozen solid. The children of Walden Puddle have traditionally used them as toys or weapons.


YOUR INFALLIBLE
2010 HOROSCOPE
Use it daily, see if it matters

by Irving the Wise

Editor's Note: Irving the Wise is also known as Irving Weiss, the only CPA in Walden Puddle. Since few Walden Puddlers need an accountant even once in their lives, Irving moonlights doing optimistic Tarot readings, horoscopes, and palmistry. He does not use the traditional zodiac. His Birth Signs are based on the fiscal quarter in which you were born.

FIRST FISCAL QUARTER (Jan. 1 - March 31): You will have no problems of any kind this year. Your love life will be amazing, and you will sell a screenplay for $5 billion. Thus you will need a good accountant. My own accountant, whom I highly recommend, is Irving Weiss, CPA, 12 Village Green Square.

SECOND FISCAL QUARTER (April 1 - June 30): You will have no problems of any kind this year. Your love life will be amazing, and you will make $5 billion dollars by going bankrupt and getting a government bailout. Thus you will need a good accountant. My own accountant, whom I highly recommend, is Irving Weiss, CPA, 12 Village Green Square.

THIRD FISCAL QUARTER (July 1 - Sept. 30): You will have no problems of any kind this year. Your love life will be amazing, and you will inherit the mineral rights to a gold and diamond field worth $5 billion. Thus you will need a good accountant. My own accountant, whom I highly recommend, is Irving Weiss, CPA, 12 Village Green Square.

FOURTH FISCAL QUARTER (Oct.1 - Dec. 31): You will have no problems of any kind this year. Your love life will be amazing. While gardening, you will dig up $5 billion in buried pirate treasure. Thus you will need a good accountant. My own accountant, whom I highly recommend, is Irving Weiss, CPA, 12 Village Green Square.


NEXT POST: January 29, 2010

FEATURING: "Project Windbreaker: The Shocking Conclusion," in which Colonel Sanders quits milking it and gets to the point.

THE BEAR FACTS: Dr. Whipple learns that bears like anchovy pizza. Surely, a scientific journal will take an interest in her discovery. That would really mean a lot to her.

BONUS ITEM: The Walden Puddle Flat Earth and Round Earth Societies schedule conflicting events.


Editor's Note: You're on Page 2 of Walden Puddle, which begins with the post of December 26, 2009. To see the five earlier posts on Page 1, click http://onwaldenpuddle.blogspot.com/ and you're there.

All printed matter in this issue of Walden Puddle copyright © 2010 Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photographs reproduced with permission. Original artwork courtesy of Aytsan.

A WALDEN PUDDLE CHRISTMAS CAROL

December 26, 2009, Vol. 1., No. 6


TABLE OF CONTENTS
(in scroll-down order)

THE BEARS OF WALDEN PUDDLE
by Dr. Ursula Whipple
Dr. Whipple's bears may not realize it's Christmas, but they make the day for her. This year she goes even deeper into hock so they can make fashion statements.

A WALDEN PUDDLE CHRISTMAS CAROL
by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative
Dave Le Barquipe, proprietor of the Village Idiot Pub, is the richest man in Walden Puddle. He owns the only bar in town ... in a town where owning a bar can make you rich overnight. He's also cold-hearted, bitter, and stingy, and he likes it that way. Dave seems like a lost cause. So did Ebenezer Scrooge.

THE TALK OF WALDEN PUDDLE
reportage from the Agreeable Doughnut Cafe
Self-help expert Dr. Louis Arroyo, described in his own press kit as "Walden Puddle's answer to Wayne Dyer, only humbler," gives tips on New Year's resolutions. PLUS: Excerpts from the powerful Christmas Sermon of the Rev. Alvin Bisonnette.



THE BEARS OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
Notes from the Field, Plus Expert Advice

by Dr. Ursula Whipple

Field Notes: December 12. My Ph.D. in field biology comes in handy this time of year. Thanks to my Ph.D., I can read bear body language. After Thanksgiving, I start watching my bears for hints about what they want for Christmas.

This year, Janie and Maybelle both wanted plaid dirndls. But they didn't specify which clan tartan they wanted! Stewart? MacGill? McKenzie? MacIntosh? Which one? There's a million different clan tartans out there. Tell me which clan tartan you want, dammit!

It pisses me off when the girls don't get specific. I confess, I do it myself. This is a trait of females in every species. We say things like, "Please get me that thing over there." If it's two women talking, that's fine. Women mystically know what "that thing" is supposed to mean. So they fetch "that thing." Men, however, don't understand what women want when they say, "Get me that thing in the kitchen."

Men ask themselves: What thing? Butter knife? Can opener? Telephone? Grapefruit spoon? There are a lot of things in the kitchen. Which thing does she want? This puts a strain on many relationships. Certainly the ones I've had.

Anyhow, I went shopping on the Internet, and I got Janie a dirndl in a beautiful blue Clan Stewart Hunting Tartan, which goes with her eyes. And I got Maybelle a dirndl in a lovely red and green Clan MacAlister Ancient Tartan. Now Janie and Maybelle won't clash on New Year's, which would be awkward. I also got Doris some junk jewelry.

Otherwise, it was a routine year: earmuffs, scarves, old-fashioned long red underwear with the crap-flap in back. I did splurge on Alonzo; I got him a beautiful Boston Bruins hockey sweater. I love hockey. It is the most fashion-conscious sport, and also with strong overtones of violence. I think that is why I chose to study bears, too.

Field Notes: Christmas Morning. The bears are opening their presents and trying to eat them. It used to discourage me when they did that, but now I understand: It is simply the Wisdom of Nature at work. Anyhow, they give up pretty quick, trying to eat thermal socks, and then they start batting them around.

I shot Alonzo in the ass with a tranquilizer dart, and I put the Boston Bruins hockey sweater on him. I had to use the winch and the forklift to sit him up straight, but it was worth it. All the girls are following him around, sniffing that sweater. Alonzo is quite the ladykiller today.

After Alonzo, I shot Janie and Maybelle in the ass with tranquilizer darts, and I dressed them up in their Clan Stewart and Clan MacAlister tartan dirndls. That took a little longer because I had to recharge the forklift. Maybelle started to wake up, so I had to shoot her in the ass a second time. But now that it's all said and done: They look divine.

The bears don't know it's Christmas, but they sure make mine. As a trained field biologist, I am not supposed to get emotionally attached to my study subjects. That's what they taught us at Central Montana Normal, when I made it to class. We were supposed to maintain what they called professsional detachment. Screw that. I love my bears.

Dr. Ursula Whipple is a freelance animal behaviorist and a contributing editor of Walden Puddle. Since 1990 she has lived in an abandoned cabin near town, studying the local bear population and being studied by them in turn. Often referred to, by herself and her mother, as the "Jane Goodall of the North Woods," she shares her field notes with us twice monthly, because no scholarly journal will publish them.



A WALDEN PUDDLE
CHRISTMAS CAROL
(from The Walden Puddle Chronicles)
1179 words

by the Walden Puddle Writers Uncooperative

Christmas Eve 2009

Dave Le Barquipe, the owner of Walden Puddle's only -- thus favorite -- watering hole, the Village Idiot Pub, had just called last round early, at six p.m. It was Christmas Eve, and he wanted to go home. He didn't have much to go home to, being freshly divorced and missing his two young daughters very much, but home was still home, for lack of anything better.

The four customers in his bar didn't see it that way. The last place they wanted to be was home. Each ordered a double of whatever he had been drinking all afternoon. Dave sighed. In fifteen minutes, he promised himself, he would call time.

Dave had once been a monk, studying for the priesthood. If he were tending bar in those days, he would have been reprimanded by his superior. But he also would have been a more compassionate bartender. He might have kept his bar open a bit longer, precisely because it was Christmas Eve, and his customers had even less of a "home" to go home to than he did.

Somewhere along the way, Dave had lost it all: his faith, his compassion, his hope. Simple as that. As profound as that.

He had left the monastery on a wicked December day, walking into sleet that blew horizontally, stinging his face like pebbles. The Abbot, Father Francis, had asked him to reconsider.

"Could you repeat that, Dave?" asked Father Francis.

"I don't like getting up at four in the morning," said Dave.

"And you regard that as sufficient reason to leave us? On Christmas Eve, of all days?"

"What can I say? I'm a night owl."

"Dave, this is frivolous. Are you poking fun at me?"

"Why would I ever do that, Father?"

"I believe you are poking fun at me. Keep in mind, Dave. I am the Abbot."

"And I'm the Costello. So long."

With that, Dave walked out. His bitterness was already showing, but it was nothing compared to the bitterness that would poison his marriage and make him mean, covetous and, because of those traits, extremely rich. No one in Walden Puddle liked Dave Le Barquipe, but because he owned the only bar in town, he was regarded as a necessary evil.

"Time, gentlemen. Time," said Dave. "We're closing."

His four customers looked up at him, their eyes sorrowful and needy, like the eyes of puppies who had been handled too roughly.

"I said we're closing," Dave repeated. "I can pour your leftovers into coffee cups."

His customers said nothing. Someone else did.

"I say," said one of three well-dressed gentlemen walking into the Village Idiot. "Are you Mr. David Le Barquipe?"

"Yes?" said Dave suspiciously, eyeing the impeccable bowler hats all three of them wore, and the long black umbrellas they carried. People didn't outfit themselves that way in Walden Puddle.

"Splendid," said the new customer. "We've come to save you from yourself."

"What?" said Dave. He noted the customer's British accent.

"To save you from yourself, old chap. You're in a spot of bother."

"And you are?"

"Christmas Present," said one.

"Christmas Past," said another.

The third said nothing.

"You're Christmas Future, right?" Dave said to the third one. "C'mon, Christmas Future. Try and scare me."

"Would you be so kind," said Christmas Future, "as to mix me a triple Rob Roy. No ice."

Dave flinched. As every bartender knows, Rob Roys are the choice of serious drinkers. No one had ever asked for a triple Rob Roy in Dave's bar before. The last man to ask Dave for a double Rob Roy had immediately taken the drink out to his car and poured it into the gas tank.

"A triple Rob Roy," Dave repeated. "No ice?"

"A triple, please. No ice. Ice dilutes things."

"Is this a joke? Who are you guys?"

"We told you."

"Two Spirits of Christmas, accompanied by a problem drinker?"

"Our friend has much to drink about," said Christmas Present. "Shall we commence?"

"No," said Dave. "I want to go home."

"You have no home, Dave," said Christmas Present. "You have a small, untidy flat where you sleep, keep your belongings, and to which you bring take-away pizzas."

"What business is that of yours?"

"Mankind is our business," said the Spirit. "Thus, so are you."

"Then get it over with, Mr. Looney Tunes," said Dave. "Show me my past, present, future. Then go back to the asylum."

"I shall go first," said Christmas Past. Suddenly Dave found himself no longer in the bar, but tumbling through time and space like a rag doll. Christmas Past showed him every wrong turn he had taken in his life, every sorrow he had inflicted on others, every opportunity he had missed to ease another's pain. He brought Dave back to the Village Idiot on Christmas Eve 2009.

Dave yawned. "Been there. Done that. Next?"

Christmases Past and Present looked at each other. Dave's reaction was not the usual.

"C'mon, Mr. Funny Farm," said Dave to Christmas Present. "Show me what I already know."

Christmas Present frowned. "Coals to Newcastle," he said. "I shall pass."

"Excellent," said Dave. He turned to Christmas Future. "Your turn, Smiley-Face."

Christmas Future pushed his empty glass toward Dave. "Another triple," he said. He drained the drink in three long pulls and slid a fifty-dollar bill toward Dave. "No need to break it, old chum," he said.

"You I like," said Dave to Christmas Future. "You want another?"

"Please."

Dave mixed him a third triple Rob Roy. He was curious now. He wanted to know from this hard-drinking Spirit what lay ahead for him.

"Tell me my future," said Dave.

The Spirit was silent.

"Tell me my future!" Dave demanded.

The Spirit looked up at Dave blankly. "Fuzhure? Whuh fuzhure? I'd'n know whuh fuzhure."

"You're supposed to know!"

"Whuh? Why zhuh I know? I'd'n know."

"You don't know?"

"I dun ho any-dubby's fuzhure," said Christmas Future.

"Why not?" Dave said angrily.

"Becuzhhhh ... your fuzhure ... is hup to yew."

Dave stared.

"You moke a toosty Rob Ree, my dood man," said Christmas Future.

"Thank you for your hospitality," said Christmas Past.

"We must be off. Other calls to make," said Christmas Present.

"Wait a minute, guys!" said Dave. Now, suddenly, he wanted the Spirits to stay. The thought that they were leaving, having told him nothing, struck fear into his heart. He felt the block of ice encasing that heart begin to melt.

Dave wanted nothing more now than to be like Ebenezer Scrooge himself, reborn on Christmas morning. He wanted to feel the throb of hope. He wanted to believe again ... in all that he had ever believed in, before he lost his faith in life, in himself, in everything.

"And so you will, Dave," said Christmas Present. "You will believe again."

Dave swallowed hard.

"Becuzhhhh your fuzhure," said Christmas Future, poking Dave in the chest with his finger, "is hup to yew."

"Thank you," said Dave.

"Didju juzh tell me to bugger off?" said Christmas Future.

"No."

"Are yew tryingggg to start sometheeg wi' me, sunshine?"

"No sir."

"Becuzzzzh I'll kig your flipping aszzzz."

The other two Spirits of Christmas gently led Christmas Future away. They waved goodbye to Dave at the door. As the Spirits of Christmas left the bar, a black London taxi pulled up. They climbed in and rode off.

"Well done, chaps," said Christmas Past.

"He'll change," said Christmas Present. "He'll be a good man again. I saw it when I glimpsed into his heart."

Christmas Future said nothing. He had lost consciousness.

"Bit of a sticky wicket, though," said Christmas Past. "It's not like the old days."

"Indeed not," said Christmas Present. "One has to adjust one's methods to the times."


THE TALK OF
WALDEN PUDDLE
At the Agreeable Doughnut, we chatted with Dr. Louis Arroyo, whose self-help column sometimes appears as a filler in the Walden Puddle Tattler. Dr. Arroyo's press kit refers to him as "Walden Puddle's answer to Wayne Dyer, only humbler and more realistic."

"New Year's resolutions fail," Dr. Arroyo told us, "because people want them to fail. People want to fail in general. They want to go through life licking their wounds. There's less pressure that way. So they make resolutions they can't keep."

What would he advise?

"Make resolutions for the first week of the year. Seven days is about the limit on self-improvement. You know it. I know it. PBS knows it. Quit smoking for a week. Eat a balanced diet for a week. Be nice to people for a week. Then go back to wallowing."

That sounded good.

"And thanks for the coffee," said Dr. Arroyo.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Rev. Alvin Bisonnette, pastor of the Walden Puddle Church of the Definitely Saved, sends this message ... comprised of excerpts from his powerful Christmas sermon ... to all Walden Puddlers.

"If you're a sinner, stay the hell out of my church on Christmas!

"Christmas was made for the saved! That's us! Not you! We don't take kindly to sinners!

"And neither does the Lord! He hates you!

"Sinners shouldn't get presents on Christmas! If you're a sinner and you get a present, give it back!

"I hope your central heating quits on you today! Sinners don't deserve central heating on Christmas!

"Plus I hope you go hungry!

"Sinners should suffer on Christmas! I hope you suffer on Christmas! I pray for it!

"My congregation bought me a brand-new yellow Mercedes for Christmas! I just told them so. You know why they did it? Because they love me! And they should! And so does the Lord! And He should, too!

"I deserve a nice present! Because I'm saved!

"And you're not! You don't deserve anything! The Lord hates you! And don't you forget it!

"That's why you're going to hell! Praise the Lord!

"And that's why I'm going to heaven!

"In heaven, they give you even more presents! If I was in heaven today, I would have got me a whole fleet of yellow Mercedes!

"In hell, you have to ride the bus!

"Stay off our property on Christmas! I'm warning you! We've got dogs out there! Go ahead! Make their Christmas!"


NEXT POST: January 14, 2010

FEATURING: Dave Le Barquipe's story isn't over. He wakes up on Christmas morning a new man, filled with hope and love for all. Later that week, in an unlikely setting, he meets Col. Biff Sanders, a former astronaut. The story Colonel Sanders will tell Dave, about NASA's most embarrassing secret ever, will blow Dave away ... in more ways than one.

THE BEAR FACTS: Dr. Ursula Whipple catches some male adolescent bears leering at the waitresses in Hooter's and lectures them sternly on the exploitation of women. She then goes back to her cabin, switches on some Pure Prairie League, and stares at a poster of Paul Newman -- shirtless -- in a scene from Cool Hand Luke.

BONUS ITEM: Your Infallible 2010 Horoscope! Cast exclusively for our readers by Irving the Wise, also known locally as Irving Weiss, the only CPA in Walden Puddle. Because very few Walden Puddlers need an accountant even once in their lives, Irving also does optimistic Tarot readings, horoscopes, and palmistry in his office fronting the Village Green.

Editor's Note: This post kicks off Page 2 of Walden Puddle with Issue Number 6. If you missed Issues 1 through 5 ... or would like to revisit them ... just click http://onwaldenpuddle.blogspot.com/ and you're there.

All printed matter in this issue of Walden Puddle copyright © 2009 Walden Puddle Gift Shop. All rights reserved. All photographs reproduced with permisssion. Original artwork courtesy of Aytsan.