A Whitesnake Story

A Cowboy's Cowboy
or a story for Whitesnake...

A cowboy, who just moved to Wyoming from Texas, walks into a bar and orders three
mugs of beer. He sits in the back of the room, drinking a sip out of each one in turn.  When
he finishes them, he comes back to the bar and orders three more.

The bartender approaches and tells the cowboy, "You know, a mug goes flat after I draw it. It would taste better if you bought one at a time."

The cowboy replies, "Well, you see, I have two brothers. One is in Arizona, the other is in Colorado. When we all left our home in Texas, we promised that we'd drink this way to remember the days when we drank together. So I'm drinking one beer for each of my brothers and one for myself."

The bartender admits that this is a nice custom, and leaves it there.

The cowboy becomes a regular in the bar, and always drinks the same way.  He orders three mugs and drinks them in turn.

One day, he comes in and only orders two mugs.  All the regulars take notice and fall silent.  When he comes back to the bar for the second round, the bartender says, "I don't want to intrude on your grief, but I wanted to offer my condolences on your loss."

The cowboy looks quite puzzled for a moment, then a light dawns in his eyes and he laughs.

"Oh, no, everybody's just fine," he explains, "It's just that my wife and I joined the Baptist Church and I had to quit drinking."

"Hasn't affected my brothers though."
                                                                                   Whtesnakes do do it better but Old Grizz does "doo doo" better


My Castration

I can still remember my grade for a piece of art assigned to me in the third grade.  “Draw a picture of a horse using stick figures…Stick figures”, my teacher said…easy, I thought.  I got an “F”.
Apparently I wasn’t supposed to show some parts of the horse.  In my defense I pleaded that it was a stallion and a stallion, well you know what a stallion has.
My teacher, Miss whatever the hell her name was, got all pink and red just talking about it.
I got all red and angry just thinking about it.  I got all red and angry because I was embarrassed.
I still get angry but not because she embarrassed me.  I still get angry because she castrated me…not my manhood…no she castrated my creativity
I wonder about what may have been.  I wonder what may have been had she not ripped the soul from my creative heart.
 I am reminded of the old saying, “Kilroy was here” and the picture of his face peeping over a wall…all you can see is the top of his head, his eyes, his nose, his ears and his hands.
Some people saw Kilroy as someone or something watching them.  They saw someone keeping track of what they were doing.  I have a different take on Kilroy.
I see Kilroy as a timid soul trying to break free of the imaginary shackles that bound him and kept him from creating the person he wanted to be.  I saw me.
Now, in the latter part of my life, the so called golden years, I still see that timid soul.  I see a man wary of taking the steps that could free him.  I see a man wary of those steps because he doesn’t yet relish the freedom of creation more than he fears the humiliation of failure.
My mind radiates a picture of my inner strength beginning to form as imaginary oils flow across a crumpled piece of canvas as if a bucket of paint were spilled.  The oils flow slowly, picking the perfect bumps and crevices of the canvas to form the realities of my life.
A luscious green pasture filled with vibrant flowers appears.  On the far edge of the pasture in the shadows of a giant oak tree stands a castrated stallion.  The golden rays of the sun reflect from his sleek ebony body. 
The stallion lifts his head and his flaring nostrils take in the smells of life.  His shining black eyes glisten with the desire to sample the truth of daring.  His heart begs for the courage to walk among those flowers on his own terms.
The giant oak’s gnarly branches are his haven.  Its leaves are his blanket of warmth. He is protected from whatever snakes are hidden among the flowers.  He snorts, he paws the earth, he charges the flowers, but he has yet to taste the flowers because his fear of the snake is too great.
The oil continues to flow.  The sun edges closer to the earth.  Shadows become part of the oils.  The stallion lifts his head and once again, the smell of the flowers beckons him.  He paws the ground.   He knows the oil is beginning to dry.
Old Grizz

my mind is your mind

I subscribe to only your books
 I listen to only your words
 I only walk only where you walk
 I read only what you tell me to
 I subscribe to only your life
I am only you
our stories and our poems
will be on the newsstand

who me
no I don't subscribe to plagiarism
by Old Grizz - for Sunday Scribblings

naked in the moonlight

when all was said and done,
She stood alone
naked in the moonlight

above the jagged cliffs
watching the crashing water
wash away her soul

her naked form
a silhouette across the moon
for hounds to call
her lover from below
seemed to rise again
and beckon her
to remember
all that they
had been
 and begged of her
to join him
when all was said and done

old grizz  -  written for Keith and carry on tuesday

Christmas past

I was snoozing in my easy chair when the "Ghost of Christmas Past" spirited my spirits a way, meaning that he snuck into my house, drank all of my booze and then he wanted me to take him to the liquor store for more.

But on New Year's Eve, I wasn't about to drive or walk so he agreed to take us there.

I do not know why I agreed to go.  Maybe because I was still half a sleep and thought I was dreaming.

We floated on the fumes of his breath. I did enjoy floating along with the breeze looking into windows until I saw a naked man exercising. When I flinched from the view, I almost fell off the drunken ghost's breath.

I asked to fly higher or maybe take the freeway but he grumped something about me not keeping my mind on the business at hand. We were going for booze, not window peeping.

"You've had enough booze," I snorted "and if I want to window peep I will." I reacted like a teenager. "Don't tell me what to do."

He also reacted like a teenager. "I will drink if I please," he snorted.

We floated to a stop in front of the liquor store and his breath dissipated. I plopped to the cement in a heap.

 He chortled, "There you go, smart ass. You don't even know how to dismount from a cloud of alcohol breath. Where would you be if you were riding a storm cloud? I'll tell you where. You would be flipped around like a rag doll and probably thrown all the way to Mt. Ararat and all those stranded animals."

 "Mt. Ararat? Stranded animals? You're crazy."

 "You're confused," he replied. "Ghosts can't be crazy. Or to put it another way, crazy people are not allowed to become ghosts."

 "I suppose you have a ghost control center," I said,

 "Sure! Do you think it would be smart to allow just anyone to become a ghost? Think of the havoc it would wreak. I mean, consider letting Charles Manson become a ghost. I shudder to think of what harm he might do to our reputation."

 "If crazy people can't become ghosts, what happens to them?"

 "I don't know, that's not my department. Besides, we came for a bottle of booze so if you would please just hop on in there and get me one, I would be grateful."

 "Where's your money, I asked?"

 "My,  you are slow," he said. "Haven't you ever heard the phrase, 'you can't take it with you'? So, if I couldn't take it with me, maybe you might just figure out that I don't have any."

"I'm not paying for your booze," I told him.

 "Well if you're broke just go in there and steal a bottle. I'm not particular. Any one of them will do."

"I'm not a thief. I think we should just forget the whole thing. It's almost midnight and I'm tired. You just go on back to wherever the hell you came from and I'll take a cab home."

"What time is it?"

 "One minute until the New Year arrives."

 "Oh no," he moaned.  "It's too late."

 Then I heard a voice that seemed to come from the moon.  "Okay, CP, it's time to return.  You're done for this year."

 The Bells in the church tower began to usher in the New Year and Christmas Past just faded away.

White Elephant in my Mind

I know it’s not good to let things fester in my mind and I‘ve told that to my mind more than once.  But unfortunately I have a mind that doesn’t pay attention.  It’s going to do or think whatever the hell it wants to.

Oh, I can control my actions and I can push back or stem thoughts that are not acceptable or at least the actions that would go along with those thoughts that are not acceptable.

You know the thoughts that I am referring to, or at least I think that you know. They are the thoughts of robbing a bank or some other nefarious activity that sneak though my mind on occasions.  Just before I slap those thoughts into submission I tell my mind that I could do that.  I could rob a bank and get away with it.  I am sure I could.

Okay, why don’t I or why haven’t I?  Well I choose to think it’s because I have a strong moral fiber (don’t you dare giggle) and the fact that I can still hear my mother’s voice telling me to be a good boy.

However, my story is about the white elephant in my mind that will not go away.  I can only blame myself because I am the one the put it there.  I put it there sometime in the first years of my marriage.  I like to call those years the passionate years or at least I think they were.  To be truthful, I’m not sure if I remember.

I’ll bet you’ve already guessed that the white elephant in my mind revolves around…yes, I’m going to say it…sex.  Yes …sex.  Don’t get worried.  I’m not going to write a porn scene for you or even a soft porn scene.

The white elephant in my mind is only a beautiful, sheer sexy white negligee. Well now I say only, but back then it was more than only.  It was one of my passionate desires.  I bought that beautiful, sheer sexy white negligee and ask my wife to wear it on those special occasions; well maybe it was my special occasions.

You have to be wondering what could turn a sheer white sexy negligee into a mind filling white elephant.  At least, I hope you are.

It’s simple, she never wore it.  I never saw that beautiful, sheer sexy white negligee again.  It seemed to just go poof and the longer it went poof the bigger it grew at least, the bigger it grew in my mind.

Now don’t think that I asked her to wear it when anyone else was around.  No, I planned the occasion just for me and I’m still waiting.  Actually I finally gave up about six years ago.  To be exact, 6 years, 5 months, 3 weeks, 2 days, and now… 5 hours, 36 minutes and 15 seconds ago.

The frustrating part is that way back then, I was stubborn and refused to ask her about that beautiful, sheer sexy white negligee and the longer that beautiful, sheer sexy white negligee was poofed, the bigger it grew in my mind and the less I could ask her what happened to it.

Now, umpteen and some years later if I was to ask her...

“What happened to that beautiful, sheer, sexy white negligee that I bought for you to wear for me?”

I know exactly what she would say.

“What negligee?”

Honey, I'm home

He held her close and whispered in her ear, "The pain of parting is nothing to the joy of meeting again,"

The feel of his demanding body and the heat of his warm breath caused her to shiver in anticipation of his next words and the movement of his hands.

What would he say next?  Where would his hands roam?  Should she encourage him or pull away?  She wanted to feel his touch,  She wanted to hear his words.  she had dreamed of him...of his touch...his voice. 

But, the dream had faded   He hadn't returned as he promised and now she was wed to another.

She gently pushed him away.

He wondered why?

Her voice trembled. Tears washed her cheeks.  She did not try to hide them nor wipe them away.  She turned from him.

He ask again, "Why?"

She turned, hers tears still falling.  "I could not bear the pain of you leaving me again and you know you would"

written for "Carry on tuesday"

Paradise is not forever

Paradise is not forever...nor should it be
paradise is really those special times
when your nose and and ears and toes are warm
when your kids are safe
when your health is good
when you sleep warm at night
and finally the best of all
when your wife realizes that you are right.
Old Grizz would hope that you all have many moments of paradise in your lives...

the egg

Saturdays were Jeremy’s favorite days.  Saturday mornings were those times when he felt no pressure to get anything done or the need to go anywhere.  The time was totally his to do with as he pleased and on most Saturdays he chose to sleep in all the way until 6 A.M.
When his body told him that he had been in bed long enough,he would defy that knowledge and lay there with his eyes closed and fight his bladder demanding that it be emptied.  He would think about the morning meal that he was going to cook for himself.

He always considered it a morning meal and not breakfast because he never ate like other people.  His work day meals consisted of donut shop coffee and a cold blueberry muffin or a mid morning bagel from the deli near his work. Lunch was a mid afternoon health bar on the way to or from one meeting or another.  His evening meals were never in one place or at a scheduled time and he missed a lot of them because he was so wound up in his work.  By the time he realized that he hadn’t had his evening meal it was usually passed eight at which point his mother had always admonished him never to eat.

Whenever he tried to get a snack or a sandwich her image would always appear and the voice he remembered and loved so much would advise him that he would get fat and lazy by eating after eight.

His mother had always been punctual and demanding of their meals. Breakfast, lunch and supper had to be served and eaten at the proper time with the proper dietary foods. Due to religious teachings they fasted on Sunday and donated the cost of their Sunday meals to a local homeless shelter. Their religion did not require them to fast on Sundays but it was suggested that they do so on the first Sunday of each month for health and charity reasons. Jeremy’s mother decided that if it was good for one Sunday, it was good for every Sunday.

As a result he never felt that he ate breakfast, lunch or supper.  He ate meals.  He ate when he had time and what was quick and ready. He continued to fast on Sundays and send money to a homeless shelter. He only allowed himself one cup of coffee on week days and none on Sunday. He drank eight bottles of water every day except Saturday. On Saturday he drank coffee.
When his bladder finally won the battle he would hurry into the bathroom, satisfy his bladder, wash his face with cold water and put three handfuls of cold water over his hair and head.  He had no idea why it was three, it just was and if he did only one or two it would bug him until he found a bathroom to throw that third handful of water over his head.

After his water ritual he would make exactly twelve cups of coffee measured to the exact ounce of coffee and the exact drop of water.  While the coffee was brewing he would climb back in bed and continue the planning of his Saturday morning meal.
On this particular Saturday, Jeremy was struggling with the menu that was flipping page by page through his mind.  Nothing looked good or sounded good or maybe on this particular Saturday he didn’t want to take the time. 

He struggled with the menu for a while and finally gave up and went back to the kitchen for his first cup of coffee.  He poured the coffee into his favorite mug and, as always, his mother came to mind.  He remembered how she hated those silly frilly cups.  They were for the Queen and her afternoon tea.  Coffee was to be drank from mugs and she had given Jeremy his for his twelfth birthday, the first year he was allowed to drink coffee.  Twenty-nine years later he still used the same mug but only on Saturdays. He never took it out of the house and it was always hand washed and returned to the exact cupboard shelf and place that his mother had assigned to it.
Jeremy never bothered to dress on Saturdays and this morning it was not different.  He leaned back against the counter top in only his underwear and sipped his coffee. He was frustrated with his inability to decide on a breakfast menu.  He opened the door of the refrigerator and looked inside.  His eyes focused on the egg container and suddenly his menu and day was planned.

He would boil one egg for breakfast the way his mother had taught him and then he would prepare his mother’s favorite meal for supper.  He hadn’t prepared her meal in a long time and he knew she would be disappointed in him but he knew she would forgive him if he prepared her meal and dressed properly for the occasion.

He removed one egg from its carton and carefully placed it in a small pan of water.  He sipped his coffee and watched the flame on the stove curl around the pan.  As the water began to form bubbles he went over his mother’s instructions.  How long to boil the egg, how to cool it and how to spin it to make sure it was hard enough.
The water boiled bouncing the egg in the hot bubbles. He sipped his coffee and read the embroidered quote that had been carefully hung on the kitchen wall many years before he was born. It was from Victor Hugo and stated his mother’s philosophy of life.

“Life is a flower of which love is the honey”. He had heard it stated over and over, always preceded by his mother’s words, “now remember Jeremy”.  The egg danced in the boiling water while he sipped his coffee and read the words over and over.
Finally the timer informed him that the egg was ready and he carefully placed the pan with the boiling water and the egg under cold running water.  His mother’s directions rolled through his mind. When the egg had cooled he picked it out of the water and held it with two fingers.  He always felt as if the egg were his mother and he apologized to her for presenting himself to her in only his underwear.  He laid the egg on the counter and spun it like a top.  Spinning the egg was the final test, the final direction that determined how good the egg would be.

The lights from the kitchen reflected from the egg and two bright eyes and a long smiling face appeared in the egg and he heard his mother’s soft voice telling him how good the egg would be.  He spun it again and asked her if he could have more coffee.
“Sure,” she said.  “It’s Saturday, you know I always let you drink extra coffee on Saturday’s.”

He spun the egg again and told her of their dinner date that evening.  The egg seemed to dance with excitement but in  his excitement he had spun it to hard and it danced right off the counter.  He tried to save his mother but he couldn’t. He was too slow, too hypnotized in his mothers face and voice.  The egg fell towards the floor.  He heard his mother’s screams.  They were the same screams that he heard so long ago when he had pushed her off that cliff.
“Yes, mother,” he smiled.  “I will dress properly for our date this evening.”


NaNoWriMo - National November Writing Month challenge.
I made it.

For the readers that do not know about this challenge it is simply to write a book or part of a book in the month of November.  The only criteria is to submit 50,000 words.  The only rule is that you cannot use the same word 50,000 times or the same sentence or paragraph over and over.  You are supposed to write a novel or part of a novel.

50,000 words per month is 1667 words per day or about 5 or 6 pages per day.  At the beginning it doesn't sound alike a lot but for me 5-6 pages per day take 2-3 hours and I still work so I have to write in the mornings or evenings.  Normally I try to write one hour each morning and then may a short period of 15 or 20 minutes in the evening.  My mind doesn't work that well after  the long day.
On the weekends I try to write for 2 hours each day.

I figured it would be easy but it wasn't.  I should have known better.  This year was my second attempt.  I don't think I finished 25,000 words last year.  It is very easy to put off writing for a few days and then you are behind be several thousand words and pretty soon the task is very easy to put off until the next year.  I did learn from the first try that it is very important to have an out line and a direction and and to keep close track of your cast of characters and the time line.

The novel is called "The Bent Spoon" and is a murderer mystery based around the slaughtering of horses, an old miner's mule, the town pastor and three young people that are accused of slaughtering wild horses.  The three disappear and the old miner is the prime suspect of killing them for revenge and dumping them down an old mine shaft.  The trouble is that the bodies of the three have not been found and there is no evidence that they have even been killed.

When I submitted my 51,355 words I hadn't even named the killer and in fact I haven't even had the bodies discovered.  I have trouble with my time line and in order to reach my 50,000 word goal the story tends to ramble on in several places.

The big problem is that I seem to have written myself into a corner.  It is the corner of writers block.  I have not been able to even go back and try to finish the story.  In 2012 I wrote 3 short stories, 1 novella and finished the NaNoWriMo challenge and ran a writers work shop that entailed writing at least two pages each week and the weekly prompt.  I also attempted to continue blogging but didn't do a very good job with that one.

However, since Christmas and New Years fell on Tuesday this year and I had just finished the November marathon I was glad to take a break from writing.  Unfortunately is has been very difficult to get back into the swing of writing again.  I posted one blog this last week and hope to be more prolific in this area.   Tomorrow I start the writer's work shop again and I am excited about that.

This next weekend I am planing on getting back into the novel. It would be a shame to not finish it

NOTE: Only about 19% of the writeres who sign up for the NaNoWriMo finish

the elephant tree

When I am looking for a place to be with only me, there is a place where I can go.  It is a place that I call the elephant tree.  It’s down the way a piece beyond the pasture and by a stream.  I walk there to think and soak my feet.  I sometimes feel that the cool water filtering between my toes is where my mind goes to seek the words that I use to create the stories I write.
It was not too long ago that I stopped to cool my feet when I heard a voice above me.
“Ahem” I heard someone say.  I looked, but I could not see anyone.  “Ahem” the voice said again.  “That certainly is not perfume I smell.  In fact I smell a smell that is awfully stale.”  I looked again but still there was no one to see. 
“I’m sorry” I said.  “I thought I was alone.  Where are you?” 
“Up here,” the voice said. “Above you.”
I looked up to see who that was above me.  I coughed and sputtered, snorted and gagged because I could not believe who I could see in the tree above me.  Not a word did I say so the voice in the tree above me said, “What is wrong?  Have you never seen an elephant in a tree?”
“Of course not,” I replied.  Elephants do not belong in trees and are never seen in trees”  “Certainly you cannot climb a tree.”  “How did you get in the tree,” I asked? 
“I put myself here,” he replied.  
“How so,” I said.  “I cannot believe that you could put yourself in a tree.”  “But, if you did, why would an elephant want to be in a tree?”
   “I did put myself in this tree and I did so to hide from the little boy that lives over that way,” the elephant replied indignantly pointing through the trees with his trunk.
Then I heard a tiny young voice echoing through the woods, “Oh, Mr. Elephant, where are you?” 
“Shush” the elephant said.
I put my shoes and socks back on my stinky feet and left the two friends to finish their game of hide and seek.
I walked back toward the place I called home.  I came across another part of the little stream and decided that I still needed to soak my weary feet.  I sat on a rock and looked into the tree above just to make sure there wasn’t another elephant in a tree.  I removed my shoes and socks and placed my weary tired feet into the cool water and sat and thought about the elephant in the tree.
No, I thought, you didn’t see an elephant in a tree and I convinced myself that was in fact true.  I could not have seen an elephant in a tree.  I was just tired.  I must have fallen asleep and was dreaming.
As I relaxed and my feet began to feel better and then I heard the little boy’s voice again.

“Oh, mister elephant, where are you?’

Oh, no, I thought.  Maybe I wasn’t dreaming.
I listened to his searching voice hoping he would go into another direction.  But his voice got closer and stronger.

“Oh mister Elephant, where are you?”

Then he was upon me and gasped in his surprise to see me dangling my bare feet in the running water.

He paused for a moment and then decided it was okay to speak to me.  I am sure he thought I could be of no harm to him with my bare feet dangling in the water.
“Have you seen an elephant?” he asked.
“As a matter of fact I have,” I replied
“Could you tell me where he is?” he said
“I am not sure if I should,” I answered.

“Why not?”  He demanded.  “It is important that I find him”

“I sort of promised mister elephant that I would keep his secret,” I replied.

He came closer and said in a soft low voice, “If you tell me where he is, I won’t tell him that you told me.”
“That wouldn’t be honest,” I answered.

Well, maybe not, but I have to find him and I have looked everywhere,” he said.
“I am very sure you haven’t looked everywhere,” I said.  “Have you looked under the rocks, or in the bottom of the brook or even in the trees?”

“That’s stupid,” he laughed.  “I know you’re teasing me because an elephant is too big to hide under a rock and an elephant is too big to hide in a small stream and an elephant cannot climb a tree.”

“Maybe and maybe not,” I replied.  “He could be a magic elephant.  Maybe he used his big ears and flew up into a tree.”

He paused for a few seconds and then he took his shoes and socks off and dangled his feet in the water about 10 feet from where I was dangling me feet in the water.

“My mother told me never to get to close to strangers,” he said.  Do you suppose this is far enough away?  I am not to close, am I?”

“No,” I smiled.  “I am pretty sure you’re safe where you are.”
He was thoughtful for a few moments and the said, “I never considered an elephant flying with his ears.  Do you really think they can do that?”

“It’s possible,” I said.  “Elephants are not supposed to talk either, but mister elephant talked to me.”
His eyes got wider, “Really, what did he say?”

“He doesn’t like my stinky feet.”
“Is that why you’re washing them?”

“No, they were sore, but they feel better now.”
“If you will tell me where he is I will give you half of my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.”

“Do you have any potato chips”?

“No, but I have two Oreo Cookies.  I will give you one of those.”
I decided I had teased him long enough so we struck the bargain for the cookie and we went back down the path to find mister elephant in the tree.

“Is he really in a tree?” the boy asked.  “How did he get in a tree?”

“Yes,” I answered.  “He told me he put himself in the tree.”
“Oh,” was all the boy could say.

The boy and I walked side by looking for the tree with mister elephant. When we arrived at the elephant tree, mister elephant said, “Oh it’s you mister stinky feet.  I guess now I will have to call you mister squealer with the stinky feet.”

“I guess that’s true," i said. "I did show the boy where you were, but he was very worried about you.”
“He sold you out for a cookie,” the boy chirped in.

“Figures”, mister elephant said.  “He’s probably some kind of politician.”
"Hey elephant,” a strange voice said.  “What are you doing in a tree?”

“Oh, hello donkey,” mister elephant said.  “I’m hiding from the boy.”

“It looks like he found you,” donkey said.
“No he didn’t,” mister elephant answered.  “The man with the stinky feet sold me out for a cookie.”

“He must be a politician,” donkey said
“I am not a politician.  I was just concerned for the boy.”

“You’re it mister elephant,” the boy said.  “It’s my turn to hide.  You count to one hundred while I hide.”

“I can’t,” mister elephant said.
“You can’t count to one hundred mister elephant“, the boy and the donkey said in unison.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I can count to one hundred,” mister elephant said with disdain. “But, I cannot get myself out of the tree.”

“Why not?”  I asked.  “You put yourself in the tree so you should be able to get yourself out of the tree.”
“That is not necessarily true,” mister elephant replied.  “Just because I was able to put myself in a tree doesn’t mean that I can put myself out of the tree.  Cats do it all the time.”

“This is not good,” the donkey said.
“Let’s call the fire department,” the boy said.

“No,” both the donkey and mister elephant yelled in unison.
“Why not?” the boy asked.

The donkey said, “It’s because of the press.”
“What does ‘the press’ mean?” the boy said.

“The press is the newspapers and the TV news,” I answered.
“Are they bad?” he asked.

“No, they are not bad,” mister elephant said.  “But, they will tell the world about me in this tree and donkey on the ground and then someone will say donkey put me in the tree because I represent the Republicans.”
“And then someone else will say it’s not fair for mister elephant to be higher up than me,” donkey said.  “Then someone will put me in a tree.”

“Then,” mister elephant said, “They will put me higher up the tree until the branches won’t hold me anymore and they will break and I will fall out of the tree.  Then someone will blame donkey because he represents the Democrats.  I would rather stay in the tree.”
“What are we going to do?” the boy said

“I’m hungry,” mister elephant said. “And I’m thirsty.”
“You can have my peanut butter and jelly sandwich and Oreo cookie,” the boy said.

“I ate my Oreo cookie,” I added.  “But, I’ll get you a hat full of water.”

“Great,” mister elephant said.  “A baseball hat full of water, an Oreo cookie and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich are not what I would call a gourmet meal for an elephant!”  All of that should last me about thirty seconds.  Look at me folks I am an elephant. E-L-E-P-H-A-N-T…elephant.  I usually get about a ton of hay per day.”
“I wouldn’t be so uppity if I were you,” I said.  “You put yourself in the tree.  You only have yourself to blame.  You do not want us to call someone that could help so you’ll have to eat what we can give you until we figure out how to get you out of the tree.”

Another voice entered below the tree.  It was the boy’s mother and she was very, very upset.  “Young man, you were supposed to be home one hour ago.  I was worried and upset.”
The boy, testifying in his own defense, said that he was helping his friend, mister elephant. The mother was leery, very leery.  “I do not see an elephant.  All I can see is a mangy old donkey, and a man with a wet baseball cap.”

Mister elephant said from the tree above her, “Ma’am, do you suppose you could fix me a few peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”
The mother looked up and saw mister elephant in the tree above her and fainted.

“Oh great,” the donkey said.  “Now we have an elephant in a tree and a dead woman under the tree.”  We better hope the fire department doesn’t show up now.  We will all be arrested for murder.”
“Is my mother dead?” the boy gasped.

“No,” I replied.  “She just passed out.  Sprinkle some water on her face and she should be okay.”
The boy was very gentle.  He did not sprinkle water on her.  He took his shirt off and got it wet from the brook and slowly wiped her brow until she woke up.

She sat up and looked back into the tree.  “Oh my God,” She said.  “There is an elephant in the tree.  For lands sakes how did an elephant get in the tree?”
“I put myself here,” said mister elephant.  “How many times do I have to say it?  Do you have any more of those peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?  I am really, really hungry.  But, I don’t want any more of those Oreo cookies.  I seem to be allergic to chocolate.”

Then he sneezed and the whole tree shook.

Of course the donkey couldn’t resist.  “Now I suppose we will have to call the doctor?  If the doctor comes then he will call the paramedics and they will call the fire department and they will call the police and the police will call the reporters and the next thing you know, we will have fifty news vans parked everywhere.  Man, talk about an ecological disaster.”
Mister elephant was becoming agitated.  “Be quiet donkey.  Why don’t you take the boy’s mom to make me some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?  I think about three hundred should do it.”

“That’s the solution,” donkey said.  “We’ll just feed him until his fat rear end breaks all the branches and he falls out of the tree.”
“That’s just fine by me,” mister elephant snorted.  “Just get me food, any food.  But, I really want some more of those peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.”

The boy’s mom took the boy and they went to find some food for mister elephant.
I could hear her muttering to herself about going to the store for bread and peanut butter.

Mister elephant said, “Please hurry, my stomachs killing me.”
I sat down by the brook and said, “I’ve got a head ache and my feet are still killing me.”

Mister elephant said, “Don’t take off your shoes and socks again.  I don’t want to smell your stinky feet.  That smell will kill me.”
“Great,” Donkey said.  “Take your shoes and socks off and let your stinky feet kill him.  When he falls out of the tree, you can bury him and we can all go home.”

“Funny, funny, funny,” mister elephant groaned.  “I don’t have to smell his feet; your jokes are killing me.
Just then one of the boy’s friends came to the tree and started laughing.

“It’s really true,” he giggled.  “There is an elephant in a tree, and an ugly donkey.”
“Are you really a politician?” He asked me.

“I am not ugly,” donkey said.
“I am not a politician,” I groaned.

“Yes you are,” mister elephant and donkey said in unison.  “You sold out for one lousy Oreo cookie.”
The boy’s friend couldn’t wait to tell everyone about the elephant in the tree, the ugly donkey and the politician.  They never had a politician in their neighborhood and certainly not an elephant in a tree.

The boy’s friend told his mom.  His mom called her brother who was a local newspaper reporter.  The reporter came with a photographer and the evening paper had a picture of a frightened hungry elephant setting in a tree.

Naturally the story was picked up by the evening TV news and before dark there were news vans from every major news source in the world.

Nobody bothered to feed the poor hungry elephant.  Everyone wanted an interview.  Every person in the neighborhood was on one channel or another all across America and the rest of the world.
Animal cruelty was being reported.  Political tricks were being reported. The donkey was accused of kicking his political rival into the tree. I was asked what office I held.  I was asked to run for Governor and finally one group wanted me to run for president.

Everyone knew the “real” story and every “real” story was different than the other “real” stories and they were all wrong.  However, that didn’t bother the news media because each and every one of them had a “scoop”.
The Republicans accused the Democrats of demeaning their national symbol.  The Democrats put an ad on TV disavowing the “ugly donkey” as their symbol.  Their handsome donkey was somewhere in Maine stumping for an election.

The Republicans adopted the “elephant in a tree” as their new campaign slogan to show the entire world the cruelty of the democrats.

The Democrats accused the Republicans of campaign lies.

The elephant was still hungry and decided no one was going to bring him any peanut butter and jelly sandwiches so he decided to do what he should have done before the whole mess began.
He put himself out of the tree simply by jumping.  He landed with a great thud but all the news people were so busy gathering news that they did not see or hear the only news that was happening.

Mister elephant walked away without a word to anyone.

I could hear him mumbling to himself as he walked away, “I wondered if she made my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches yet.
The donkey followed behind mumbling something about being called ugly.

When the news media finally figured out that the elephant and the donkey were gone. They all took off in different directions looking for the terrorists that had captured the symbols of our fine and upstanding political parties.  They were sure the terrorists were holding them for ransom.
Since I was no longer part of the donkey and elephant story, I was not considered important anymore.

I took my shoes and socks off and resumed soaking my stinky feet in the cool water.
Every time I return to the elephant tree I secretly hope to find Mr. Elephant and Mr. Donkey waiting there to talk to me but then again I am always happy when they are not.  I think I have had enough politics for one year.

                                                                                                                                old grizz