Monday, April 30, 2007

Chapter 2: Savage Drums in The East

It pains my heart to bring you the events of Yester-eve. Sunday, as I walked into rehearsal after finishing a double scoop of this delightful apple dish our pastor’s wife had prepared for visitors, I thrust both sanctuary doors open in usual fashion. Near the piano, a young, barley-male, blonde weirdo was standing with the music minister-incompétent. They seemed to be waiting, as subjects do, for the King to enter court. I approached with stealthy caution still eating my dish.

Blonde-boy said “Yo” then tossed his hair back. “Love the beard dude.” Soon followed.

I half expected him to grunt and bang around on rocks for his next attempt at broadcasting thoughts. I returned his cave-talk with a deadly silent and barbed glare, mid-chew. His cologne was nearly gagging me from 4 feet. It was my ruining palate and cobbler experience. Two strikes in 9 seconds. A new record.

The music minister seemed to be stunted by my Regal and disapproving silence but I allowed the awkward silence to ensue and continued to chew. The young hippie made another worthless attempt at proving his existence by saying “dude, you should lay off that bread pudding and pancakes. Your zipper looks like it’s beeeeggin’ for mercy.” With this, the vermin stepped over the line. I unsheathed my verbal sword, “Duuude, you may keep your simpleton compliments in your vacant skull if you please. Your brain just might turn vacuum and implode with a pop if another thought escapes the desperate grasp of the 4 remaining, bewildered cells twiddling around the limping tissue between your homoerotic ear-peircings.” To that rather brilliant slice to the jugular, the “Music” minister nervously interrupted.

“Herbert, this is Austin, he is replacing Linda as our church pianist.” My mouth was agape.

“You must be joking. From his attire and attention to perfume dosage, I doubt he is able to fasten his diaper without injuring himself, let alone manage chopsticks on the Organ’s younger and weaker brother, the piano…” To which the simpleton chuckled as if he was choking and I was joking. I was not. I continued,

“And what was wrong with Linda? There was that instance of missing the key-change last Sunday but she can’t be blamed for that when the new “Praise team” hussies are on the prowl and invading her space. I might have fainted myself out of horrid surprise if one those mic-bearing, desperate housewives would have ventured into the holy ground surrounding Elizabeth. (The name of my Organ) As a matter of fact, they can consider themselves warned! If any one of those middle-aged floozies so much as saunters near MY Elizabeth area I shall be forced to respond swiftly and harshly. They might find my silver plated spit-cup emptied onto their over-highlighted, fake curls”

The music Minster interrupted my fair-warning with a typical, but surprising rudeness, “Will you shut up you fat sonofa…” He calmed himself and continued “And I told you to quit spitting in that cup and leavin’ it there.” To which I replied

“And I told you that I cannot help it if I salivate excessively before my offertory. Some people have gas or bloat, like yourself, I salivate. I am sure that excessive salivating is a trait that many a monarch must have been haunted with. That is why many dipped snuff in the middle ages you know…” I said now beginning to feel like I needed to flatulate from too much visitor’s coffee. And well I should have! It would have leveled the playing field as far as the intelligent conversation went.

Maestro Incompétent continued to speak in his high, nasally, tenor voice. “Well the janitors say they ain’t cleanin that cup out anymore. They’ve been thinkin’ it was water all this time till they saw some chunks of a donut or somthin’ in there last week. One of em’ threw up right on the spot.”

I retorted, “I can’t be blamed if the custodial wonder-team are incapable of controlling their urges while doing their job. If our janitors can’t take the heat, maybe they should stop raiding the kitchen reserves or taking naps on the 3rd floor youth-room divans and find employment at Wendy’s. I hear there is an opening for someone who barely mutter Spanglish at the blown-out drive-through speaker.”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” He interrupted. “Now Austin is playing and that is that. And you’re gonna start cleanin’ your slobber out of the cup or you’re gonna drink it. You hear me? We can’t loose another janitor this week on the count of your stupid slobber problem.”

I stared off as if I hadn’t heard a word. He continued,

“Now, from now on, we need to meet a half an hour earlier than regular time to go over the Choral song with the band.”

“You mean, the Anthem?” Said I.

“No, we ain’t callin’ it that anymore. The pastor thinks it is too stuffy.”

“What!!! Does the pastor want to change the name of the Bible to ‘that big heavy black thingy?’ Maybe he would like to change the name of Jesus to “that really cool robed bearded peace-out duuude.” Said I, vaguely mocking his new piano slut. The minister was now frantically unwrapping some Rolaids and stuffing them into his mouth. I seized the chance and finished with this verbal punishment:

“Well you may call it what ever you like sir, but a diamond is a diamond no matter how hard an ape bangs around on it with a stone. And if you ask me, the pastor and this whole program is starting to resemble a de-volution of sorts. Pretty soon we’ll all just be grunting naked in the pews, waving our freshly knawed cow-bones fearfully at the sun and dragging our women folk around by the hair while pissing out in the open air like a bunch of wild chimps ala 2001.”

He looked strangely interested at this last comment with the word “pastor” and paused his rabid antacid consumption. “Would you like for me to tell Pastor Babbs what you just said about the program?” Said he.

“You may relate my feelings to Pastor “Baboon’s Ass” if you like.”

“Oh I will then,” said he. Then he and the “pianist” seemed to suddenly relax and exchanged a strange, suspicious smirk and walked to their posts to begin rehearsal.

That last “glance” is what is disturbing me dear Anthemites. I had to make an emergency trip to Dunkin Donuts after rehearsal to sooth my ulcer from the worry. (For some reason the Boston Crème is the only medicine that will sooth its flaming embers these days. A delightful turn of fate I might add!) However, I fear I said too much for the cause. I may hear the drums of war in the east. A Musical Ku is on the horizon. I must make up for it in my volcanic Offertory. That should silence the natives or leave them in awe-stricken stupor.

Prepare for my mounting my trusty steed Elizabeth!

Stay tuned dear readers...

Herbert of Arc


Choiraholic said...

Herbert, I couldn't agree more. I am 72 and if I see one more shameless butt-wiggle on stage by those trampie women, I think I'll quit giving my money!

Good luck in your quest!

MamasBoy said...

That was funny. You would be the perfect observer to write up a piece on my friend's experience of watching young women dance around the front of the church with bowls of fruit on their head during the offertory. For my own entertainment's sake, it's too bad you weren't there. For your own heart's sake, its probably a good thing.

Herbert S. Crotch said...

Yes Mamasboy, that sounds like an interesting night. I might have fainted on the spot or stormed out. It is hard enough to stay non-bitter.

I must stop typing now, I may have had too much German beer to speak with confidence. Until then...

Flannery Alden said...

I agree with your strategy to let your organ lead the way. Good luck!

Mz Jackson said...

Herbert, however do you endure these shameless, culturally depraved underbeings?

Detuned said...

Whoa, man...

that really cool robed bearded peace-out duuude...

that's like, a really good name.

I'm going to tell that to my youth group.

Oh yeah: stop usin' so many big words, dude.

The Boob Lady said...

This was hilarious. I hope that the Boston Creme did the trick for you. It's a shame that the penis, I mean, pianist is such a douchebag. :)

Anonymous said...

Sir!! in my youth I did thinkest that a 32-foot Die-a-pace-en (forgive my phonetic spelling!!!) would be most interesting if stoppard and made into a 64' die-a-pace-en. If nothing else, such sound would be below the range of human hearing and thenceforth at least sensed upon a sublimial level.

Of course, good sir, we realize that most chambers cannot accomade 64 feet let alone the preveviously mentiontioned 32', so it was discussed amonsgst mine chronies that a genetically engineered person-- who's midriff should be in a perfect square so as to stop up the end of the pipe with little problem-- would fit the bill perfectly.

IT sounds to me as if this waifish-oaf of which you speak would be perfect candidate for aforementioned position of "die-a-pace-en Child." Veriily he could be adapted to stuff his pedantic and usless self into the end of aforementioned Pipe and therefore double the pitch of that fine Pipe!! His calls of dissonance and his ridiculous little opinions would be therefore lost in the throaty calls of the Pipe in which he found himself stoppering!! This, in turn, shall affect the world in both the assistance to the aforementioned Organ and also thouroughly mute any pathetic complaints he should vox along the way.

Your thoughts, good sir??

Anonymous said...

You preach aright, sir! Let the namby-pamby girly boy and the two-dollar praise hookers have it!

Herbert S. Crotch said...

Big Orange. I like the way you think! You remind me of an exotic Moth and caterpillar somehow flashing between dimensions. Fascinating! I love your solution to the current problem. However, I wouldn't defile a single pipe with a single greasy follicle from the intruder.

Cachinator, "Two-dollar praise hookers" HA!!!

Boob Lady, It is a shame indeed.

Detuned, It would do you well if you started reading an encyclopedia for fun. You'll find that a healthy vocabulary will do you much better than the hundreds of hours you spend defiling yourself in the name of unreachable love.

Mz Jackson, You are officially off probation.