Graphic by JRT 2007

Folks,

Dux,C51:

Some right cheery stuff this fine summer's morning. Summer?? After several gloomy days of wintry mix and a cold, misty rain, it is once again short-sleeve weather here in Dixie. Our windows are open and the heat is off. No, C51, it will not be warm enough for the A/C however unseasonably warm it gets. Every time I turn that thing on the utility pole outside is sucked 3 more inches into the ground.

It is still raining on Derbyshire? What a difference several thousand miles and the Atlantic Ocean can make. We are in extreme drought conditions here in North Carolina. Be of good cheer. I have it on very good authority that Olga is even now busily at work upon one of the higher peaks of the Peaks Dist. There, at least 12 love slaves are hard at work (as is their normal custom) building an ark. Dux, if you can just tread water for another 6 months or so the flood may be high enough for your heroine to cast that ark afloat and come to your rescue. Meanwhile, she has asked that you assemble at least 2 of every creature native to Derbyshire... excluding mosquitoes, debt collectors, barristers and solicitors of course. Help definitely is on the way.

Speaking of Olga, here is her kaleidescope and an insert showing the ghastly photo presently residing inside. It seems that we have a great mystery here. When I told Olga that I was returning her kaleidescope she hadn't a clue what I was talking about. In fact, although she immediately recognized and took possession of her lost property, Olga was absolutely astonished to find that the bullet shaped cap could be removed allowing one to see the photo inside. If Olga did not even know that the thing was a brass kalidescope...then what in blazes could she have been using it for? Knowing Olga as I do, I was afraid to ask.... So friends, Olga could not have placed her photo in that kaleidescope after all. And if not Olga, then who did? Who would? Who.....?

Wherever did Dux go? See if you can catch him up and bring him back for questioning C51. I would be happy to accompany you, however I have just poured myself a small drink and the bucket seems to be leaking.

Chaps,

That looks like a 3D image of Olga and a clean shaven one at that!

Folks,

Dux:

3-D? Hmmmm. Stereoscopic in nature?

Indeed, the odd colors might indicate that. I suppose that Olga's could be one of those new-fangled 3-D kaleidoscopes developed in Switzerland just before the war? Sales of those to tourists was meant to offset the terrible cost of painting snow on the Alpine peaks during the summer months.

When the war intervened and the tourist trade dried up almost overnight, several factory loads of un-salable kaleidoscopes were piled high in boxcars near the city of Bern. One of those boxcars was reported to have been stolen by a band of renegade female Cossacks led by a red-haired giant of a woman with a terrible stench and an equally thick Russian accent. Hmmmmm. Does that sound familiar to you, too? Perhaps Olga kept one of those precision instruments for herself? On the other hand, and this hypothesis is much less dramatic, those aberrant colors may be caused by simple lens refraction and the fact that the focal adjustment was set for Hymie's nearly lethal astigmatism.

Either way, it was deucedly hard to create in PhotoShop....

LOL! Your powers of observation are indeed legend. No fuzz on the chin is evident, is it? Actually (not clearly shown in the graphic above) there is a 5 o'clock shadow visible if one adjusts the instrument's focus and looks closely. The fact that Olga has one blue and one brown eye can also be noted. Olga's tattoo showing an arrow piercing a heart with the name "DUX" inscribed in the center on her exposed right arm can be clearly seen.

I admit that some details are more pronounced that are others. We can all see that one of Olga's teeth is missing. That was lost when she attempted to land a Snud 13, wheels up, right off the number 2 Studley Grange runway. She set the ungainly Snud down right in the center of Farmer Drubins's muddy cow pasture. Olga aborted takeoff after the on-board Dunski chemical toilet malfunctioned and filled the aircraft with a deadly gas.

At least that is what she claimed in her official report filed that very day. However, confidentially and to my own certain knowledge, Olga was seen eating a deadly concoction of boiled sauerkraut, yams and pork'n'beans the very night before the ill fated takeoff. As there were no other survivors from the crash save a nearly asphyxiated mule, cat and 3 chickens, it was impossible to determine whether it was the Dunski or, in fact, Olga from which the deadly gas originated.

JRT,

The pre-Chistmas days bring indolence and lethargy while dreaming of becoming over-stuffed with turkey and booze. Laziness and neglect become the order of the day as visits to the forum join the list of things that need attention. We are gradually slowing down and look readily to others that we can delegate responsibility to.

I went for a long walk today, and with temperatures below freezing, there were icicles in evidence along the old disused railway line which once ran between the craggy Derbyshire cliffs which flank the River Wye. This stretch of the Manchester to Derby line saw the construction of many embankments, tunnels and bridges which still stand as a hallmark of Victorian engineering expertise. Snatches of an old poem came to mind:

When icicles hang by the wall
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail....

When all aloud the wind doth blow
And coughing drowns the parson's saw....

Tu-whit, tu-whu; a merry note
While Olga, fair, doth keel the pot.

Folks,

Dux:

"...while dreaming of becoming over-stuffed with turkey and booze." But not necessarily in that order, right?

Lethargy? You? Not I. At about the midway point in the holidays, I am finally immune to lethargy. When one is already gripped in a catatonic stupor it is almost impossible to become even one iota more lethargic. All this tedious typing is so tiring and I simply must take a nap. I am in desperate need of someone to close my eyes for me.

As for the Bard's slightly altered lines, I'm sure old Will could not have uttered them better...report immediately to the Globe theater and offer your inestimable services. I can see you now, gazing thoughtfully upon a freshly dug skull held in one hand as your compelling voice carries to the very last row... "Alas poor Yur?...Yor?... Yer?...Urine, I knew him well..."

Although it is unseasonably warm here in Dixie right now. We had a toasty 27 C/80 F. here today. I expect winter to return presently. And so with thoughts of the pregnant skies and raw winds of winter, I kinda like this one :

Blow, Blow, Thou Winter Wind

Blow, blow, thou winter wind
Thou art not so unkind
As man's ingratitude;
Thy tooth is not so keen,
Because thou art not seen,
Although like Olga thy breath be rude.

Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

Freeze, freeze thou bitter sky,
That does not bite so nigh
As benefits forgot:
Though thou the waters warp,
Thy sting is not so sharp
As a friend remembered not.
Heigh-ho! sing, heigh-ho! unto the green holly:
Most friendship if feigning, most loving mere folly:
Then heigh-ho, the holly!
This life is most jolly.

William Shakespeare

JRT,

80F! You lucky old scribe you! I can't remember that temp being reached at any time during our typical Derbyshire summer this year.

It is a bright frosty blue morning here, and some time today I will have to toddle out with a bottle of warm water to unfreeze the car windscreen unless the low December sun will do it for me.

G'wan Sol - do me a favour!

Perhaps we will have a very rare white Christmas - just like the ones we used to know. Mmmmm, that could be the cue for a song.

Folks,

Dux seems to be getting into the Christmas spirits... I meant to say into the spirit of Christmas. We should all rise now, and turning toward Derbyshire, give our heartfelt thanks that our vocally challenged pal kindly resisted bursting into song..

Dux:

To be honest I'm sure that you have a fine singing voice. Unfortunately there seems to be something terribly wrong with my ears. When you sing all that I hear are fingernails scraping along a classroom blackboard...and that does nasty things to my store bought dentures...grit...gnash...grind....wince

We anticipate a blast of seasonal weather here soon. We do get a little snow some years but that melts quickly unless mixed with ice. I cannot remember more than one white Christmas and that bearly qualified. As a result we do not have the equipment to clear snow like the big cities of the North. It was a shock to me to see the main roads cleared by morning when I was once caught in a blizzard in Chicago. At midnight the snow had piled up in drifts up to the no parking signs. Had that much snow fallen on Lizard Lick it would have taken a hot day in July to get it off the roads.

Have you installed the latest patch? How is BoB running for you now? Post a little HWH story to get us back on topic, won't you?

JRT,

Still need a card and stick for BoB. Don't have the latest 2.07 download yet until that is sorted out.

Olga has just ravaged the Dominican Republic according to BBC News. Missouri has had a battering too eh? Was it floods?

Folks,

Dux:

Still hobbled with hardware problems? What a shame! I was hoping that those minor details had been sorted out already. Perhaps Santa, in his infinite wisdom, will stuff your moldy stocking with all the necessaries this Christmas? You have been good this year, right... As for moi, I hung up one of my old socks...but the health department already made me take it down.

A major winter storm is wrecking havoc across a broad expanse of the US. We will get just the tail end of it tonight with only a few much needed showers. More rain is predicted for Sat. when Olga's passing kicks up some moist air from the Gulf and sends it dripping our way. No snow down here but New York and New England kids will have plenty of the basic material for making snowballs and snowmen for days and days.

How is handsome old Ollie these days, and all those rabbits, you must have millions of them by now? You never mention them anymore. Don't you also have a lovely black Lab named Bunty?

Folks,

Pull up a comfy stool near the fire, nurse your drink, and I'll tell you a story. Here's what MIGHT have happened:

C51’s Volatile Encounter
By JRT

The comely young beermaid winked and then lowered her blue eyes as she slipped a cocktail napkin across the bar toward him. On that napkin was something scrawled in red lipstick.

There were at least 100 excellent reasons why he should finish his beer and just turn and run. Number one, Olga would kill him if she ever found out and the other 99 were just variations on that very same theme.

Yet the RAF fighter pilot was made of sterner stuff. Too bad that stuff in his stern was at present loaded to the gills with Pouritt & Sypp ale. The pilot picked up the napkin, sniffed the delightful scent of cheap perfume still clinging to it, and put it into his uniform pocket with a little reassuring pat. He was mentally removing the last article of her clothing when everything turned quite dark and he, ever so slowly, slid right from his barstool. Dux never even felt the floor when it suddenly came up to meet him.

Three blocks away C51 and JRT were rushing headlong toward the Prince and Polecat Pub. They had heard there was a new beermaid and they wanted to get there before the amorous Dux had a chance to poach her. Precisely how they might divide her up between the two of them had not yet been considered however flipping a small coin had always been the usual arrangement.

The night was brisk and damp. The cobbles were wet and slippery as they crossed Distillery Avenue in sight of the watering hole. As they approached the pub they noticed a dark figure dragging himself along in the gutter toward them. As they drew closer the glimmer of a street lamp caught the figure’s face. JRT and C51 looked at each other. It was Dux!

Just as they were about to slip on past their poor mate and rush into the pub they heard a terrible groan and saw, to their dismay, that Dux had fallen face down into a deep puddle where he lay making hiccup noises and blowing bubbles. The gargling continued as the conflicted pals flipped a coin 3 or 4 times before finally giving up and going to Dux’s rescue.

They pulled their pal’s ghastly-contorted face out of the oily water and managed to turn him onto his back upon the pavement. The rain fell upon his now smiling face running in great rivulets that eventually got into his nose and caused him to cough and sputter. Up he sat coughing and wheezing, cursing and spitting. The boys helped their mate to stand and carefully leaned him against the nearest building where he stood there grinning.

Something was clutched in Dux’s hand. JRT said he thought it might be the fiver Dux owed him, so he took it away, and as he steadied the slippery Dux, he handed it to C51 to examine. You could count on Dux every time, it was a note from the new beermaid C51 was more than willing to wager but he said nothing. JRT asked C51 what the item was. C51 crossed his fingers, and with a straight face, stated that it was nothing more than a bar napkin. This seemed to satisfy, JRT who apparently never gave that less than truthful answer even a second thought.

At this point Dux leaned forward on JRT’s shoulder and let go his trifle, splashing JRT and an innocent passerby in the bargain. Thoroughly disgusted, JRT loaded the now comatose Dux across his shoulders and began to stagger through the downpour toward HWH Hall. C51 bayed them a fond farewell and, clutching the bar napkin, he slipped inside the warm and dry but crowded pub.

Holding the napkin close in the dim light, C51 could just make out “ Want a good time? Ask the landlord for Barbara.” So he was looking for a young lady named Barbara. Making his way through the pressing crowd C51 approached the landlord and pulling him aside he draped his arm around the big fellow’s shoulders gave him a big, conspiratorial wink and showed him the napkin.

A block away Dux suddenly came to life and struggled to regain his feet. Dux and JRT were both laughing hilariously as they splashed down the long alley ending behind the P&P pub. At the back door to the pub they found both the new beermaid and a lovely friend waiting. What have the boys been up to?

The rain had stopped and the two couples began walking back down the dark alley toward Distillery Avenue. The new beermaid introduced herself to JRT. Her name was Gracie. The other young woman’s name was Betty. Gracie was in on it of course however Betty hadn't’t a clue as to what the big joke was all about. Dux explained that he and JRT had sent an unknowing mate into the pub to ask the landlord for a good time with Barbara. The two girls now absolutely screamed with laughter. Barbara it seems, was the name of the extremely jealous Landlord’s wife.

It is several weeks later. C51 somehow survived the volatile encounter with the irate landlord and, after the first day of recovery, he claims that he actually enjoyed the restful environment of the base infirmary. Dux came down with the worst cold he had ever had in his life and spent five days in constant fear for his life but recuperating despite his fears of retaliation in the bed right next to C51.

JRT got nowhere with Betty. However, in the absence of Dux, he struck up a very friendly association with the new beermaid, Gracie. That mutually beneficial association continued on until one day it just ended abruptly. That was the eventful day when the deceitful Gracie’s husband found out. No one knows for certain how the trusting husband found out that his wife was unfaithful, however, there is an unsubstantiated rumor going around that, on the day of his release from the hospital, Dux made a special trip to Studley Grange where Gracie’s husband was in training for the Derbyshire heavyweight boxing championship bout coming up in just two weeks...

JRT,

A completely new story. and I'll give you three LOLs for that!

Could there be a sequel to this tale with me confronting the Derbyshire Boxing Champion? If this is the same bloke that defeated our Jem Slamwell, forget it. Jem used to plough without a horse and he could lay 50 yards of dry-stone walling in one day - single handed. He also won the Annual Anvil Throwing Contest for 12 consecutive years and would pull a cageful of Glapwell coal-miners to the surface with his bare hands whenever the winch failed. Sod that for a lark. Count me out, and you certainly will be doing if I ever met up with him.

Email card on its way to your battered mailbox!

Folks,

Dux:

Thankee kindly for all those delightful giggles.

As for a possible rematch between you and 'Bruiser' Ritekross, the Atlantic Fleet Champion, I would advise against it myself. He put Slamwell to sleep 6 seconds into round one of that Derbyshire championship fight and, had it not been for the friendly touching of gloves just before the fight started, Jem would have never have been able to claim that he had ever laid a glove on 'Bruiser'.

Like Slamwell, Bruiser was accustomed to heavy labor all his life. As a child he used to work with his dad down at the railroad shops pulling rolling stock around by his teeth. As an older lad he made himself useful down at the dry dock by lifting the smaller vessels out of the water so their keels could be scraped clean and repainted.

One day an admiral happened to see the young 'Bruiser' carrying an anchor and 100 feet of steel chain over to the newly constructed aircraft carrier Saratoga. So impressed was that flag officer that he waived all the red tape regarding minimal intelligence and morals standards to induct the big kid into the US navy on the spot. 'Bruiser' joined up with the rank of seaman last class and many weeks of boot camp at the Great Lakes Naval Induction Center immediately followed.

Once 'Bruiser' could salute, sign his name, count to ten, tie 3 knots and tread water for 12 hours he was commissioned a first lieutenant and shipped out to England aboard the Titanic class minesweeper the USS Birchbottom. Encouraged by the admiral, aboard ship 'Bruiser' mainly busied himself with reading comic books and his boxing training.

He jumped chain, swam around his ship as she steamed full speed ahead or behind her while actually pushing his ship well past the 12 knots that she was ordinarily capable of making on her own. Once safely birthed at Southampton, he took on all comers in sparring matches throughout the British and American fleet until some bright spark noticed that soon there would be no one physically able to man those fleets if the terrible beatings continued.

Historical note: A much looked forward to challenge match between the US 'Bruiser' and the Axis Olympic champ Max Schmelling was suddenly and deliberately canceled on December 7th 1941.

Your card is bright spot in my otherwise very cloudy day. Apparently you sent along some of that surplus Derbyshire moisture because 1-2" of rain is expected upon our parched garden late tonight. Could that be a Kenkaide print? What a coinkidinky, I actually have one of his holiday paintings as my current desktop wallpaper. A suitable reply is in the works. Standby your frosty, possibly even drippy mailbox.

Folks,

Dux....Dux?....DUX! There is something Christmasey waiting in your rusty mailbox.... Earth calling Dux..? R U there?

Well, it seems that Dux has been visited by too many ghosts of Christmas past and now spends his evenings in church or else he has secreted himself away with Olga someplace where no one will be bothered by the screams.

Whatever the case may be, it seems that I must kick start this old thread one more time. So here is a very little something that you will not get much of a kick out of and that, hopefully, if read quickly, will not entirely ruin your holiday spirit.

A Duel of Egos
By: JRT
HWH Cont.
Page 12
5/13/02


JRT flinched as dust and rust, particles of mud, flecks of paint and most anything else not glued down fell from the cockpit floor onto his wrinkled face. Now, as the cockpit came into shadow, he found himself in level but inverted flight. His Spitfire was sailing along fairly smoothly thought he, considering it had several large holes in each of its broad wings.

The tail plane had one neat perforation through it as well although JRT was unaware of that. Slowly he scanned the sky below him for signs of the mortally wounded enemy fighter. There was nothing to be seen of the ME110. Only a pair of dark smears that contrasted sharply with the blue-white clouds was visible. Two streaks of oily, black smoke twisted down hundreds of feet into the nearest cloud. That was two for the day.

Off to the East and high over the Channel, another fighter pilot was also having an excellent day. Major Eric Von Bustenhalter, one of the Luftwaffe’s highest scoring pilots, watched as the Hurricane he had just finished off fell out of control toward a watery grave. To his disappointment there was no parachute. He banked his brand new Emil toward the sunny West and thought he noticed a slight sluggishness in his controls. Referring to all the newly painted hash marks on his tail plane, the successful Major laughingly thought to himself that perhaps the sheer weight of all that extra paint might be slowing him down. Actually the sluggishness he noticed was due to a few well-placed hits by .303 shells from the doomed Hurricane. Scanning the skies ahead, the alert Major noticed a streak of black smoke and then a small glint of light higher up. He gave his 109 full throttle and began to climb toward that spot in the sky in a well-calculated manner that would soon bring him somewhat above the spot and right out of the sun. Momentarily, he lost sight of his quarry.

Seeing nothing below him, JRT rolled his Spit over and turned his attention to the darkening clouds to the East. Just as he was about to relax and turn toward home his straining eyes locked upon a small speck climbing toward him. Instantly alert, JRT pushed his throttle forward to the stops and climbed into the sun. Having reached what he considered to be the perfect location between his climbing adversary and the sun; JRT rolled his purring Spit into a dive toward what he’d recognized as a swiftly climbing BF109E. There seemed to be some imbalance in the wings of his Spit. This most likely was due to the battle damage. JRT thought no more about it because he seemed to have good enough control for this easy slaughter. Apparently unaware of the danger falling upon him, the 109 pilot made no attempt to alter his course as JRT fell out of the sun with blood in both eyes and certain victory clinched in his teeth.

Just before he was sure he was going to crash right into the German fighter, JRT began to fire. As he fired he rolled his Spitfire and passed inverted under the 109. One shell from each gun had been fired and that was all there was. He found himself pressed down in his seat as he zoomed up again with the 109 right on his tail. This fellow was good and JRT knew he was in for the fight of his life. The sticky part was that he was totally out of ammunition. What a stupid, dangerous, deadly mistake to make he admonished himself mercilessly as he side-slipped left and then right looking over his shoulder at the yellow nose that was gaining on him. It was time to think about that backup plan.

Major Von Bustenhalter just had time to scream in surprise and then he snap rolled his 109 to follow the attacking Spitfire as it passed close underneath his fighter. The RAF fighter had completely surprised him coming right out of the blinding rays of the sun. What a stupid, dangerous mistake, he chided himself. He should have been easy meat. The Gods were with him today for as far as he could tell, only one shell had struck his precious new Emil. Just one .303 shell had struck his radio mast, completely carrying it away.

Now he was in hot pursuit of the audacious RAF fighter and there was absolutely no doubt what-so-ever in the German Pilot’s mind as to the outcome of this duel. Slowly, even though the Spitfire was making well-timed evasive maneuvers, he was gaining on it. Unable to beat the 109 in a dive or a climb, the Spitfire pilot had wisely chosen a climbing turn as his defense. Each time Von Bustenhalter pulled his nose around to get his sights on the tail of the Spitfire the agile RAF fighter slowly turned a bit more sharply. They were going round and round.

JRT was flying as if his very life depended on it, and it did. He could not shake this blasted 109 off his tail. This fellow couldn’t have much fuel left; perhaps he would give up and go back to France? No such luck, JRT had to admit that it looked like he would be doing a swan dive into the Channel long before then. Pulling harder he began to feel signs of a blackout coming and as he turned tighter and tighter the Gs increased beyond the limits of his endurance and his head sagged to one side as he slumped down in his seat. Almost at once, the Spitfire eased off its sharp curve to the left. As the G load decreased, JRT slowly began to regain consciousness. His clouded mind began to ask questions his darkened eyes could not yet answer.

Suddenly, as Von Bustenhalter held in his stomach and fought hard against the fierce G forces created in his tight turn behind the Spitfire, he noticed he was gaining again. Slowly he was pulling right in behind the fleeing Spitfire. At last the Spitfire fell right into his sights and he now had a perfect shot. The excited German Major selected both guns and cannon and then pressed down hard on the firing button.

Coming around at last, JRT knew he was about to die. Before he could react, there were several hard bangs as cannon shells began to inch their way toward his cockpit. Something snapped and he found that he had no rudder. His controls were shot through and useless. JRT was completely at the mercy of his German rival who was showing no mercy. The RAF pilot reached for the hood release just when something unbelievable happened. The shelling suddenly stopped.

As a hail of his machine gun and cannon fire began to chew up the stricken RAF fighter ahead of him, Von Bustenhalter began to smile. This duel should have had a different ending my friend, it should be you who flies home the victor tonight, he thought. Then something happened that he was unprepared for, he too ran completely out of ammunition. The Spitfire continued along in spite of missing much of its tail and part of a wing. It was not maneuvering at all. Perhaps the pilot was injured or dead? Unable to continue the fight Von Bustenhalter pulled his 109 up alongside the battered and obviously helpless Spitfire.

Although he seemed to be in no immediate danger and his ride was still flying straight and level, JRT was just about to try for the hood release again when a movement off his port wing caught his attention. A BF109 sporting a bright yellow nose and an unbelievable number of hash marks on its tail had pulled abreast and the pilot was eyeing him with interest across the broad wings of their two fighters. The German was a big man, and fair-haired. He had on a blue flight suit and brown goggles. As the two enemy pilots eyed one another across a gulf that was far more distant than just the two wings, there was somehow an understanding between the two flyers that they would fight no more today.

With a half-salute the Axis pilot banked away and disappeared from JRT’s view. Now that the RAF pilot knew he wasn’t going to be shot to pieces he had more important things on his mind. Things like getting over land and getting out of this death trap while it still had two wings. He would do so and consequently live to fly and fight again. The crash of JRT’s Spitfire would go unseen and uncounted by the Germans. Thus probably saving Von Bustenhalter an extra ounce or two of paint on the tail of his fighter.

About half way across the channel Major Von Bustenhalter noticed something serious was wrong with his Emil. His controls were mushy and he was losing speed. Losing speed meant he was also losing altitude. One of the few .303 shells sprayed by JRT had damaged the 109’s engine. Quickly estimating that he would not reach France at the rate he was descending, Major Von Bustenhalter pulled the hood latch release and standing in his seat, the stick held tightly between his legs, he rolled his fighter on her back and fell into space. All this happened well out of sight of any RAF observers, therefore, no claim was ever made for a kill by JRT. Major Von Bustenhalter was in the cold water less than an hour. His dye marker had spread around him only a few yards before he was picked up, completely uninjured, by a fast motor launch.

So ended the duel of egos. The high scoring RAF pilot, JRT, so sure of victory in the beginning that he carelessly forgot a very basic rule of combat that almost cost him his life. The German aristocrat, Von Bustenhalter, undefeated in battle and so confident of triumph that he also overlooked the same basic rule of combat that also nearly forced him to pay the supreme price.

Thus you the reader are and I am the only witnesses to how the duel of egos really ended. It ended with both men having their arrogance shattered when forced to bail out of their destroyed fighters. All the while they are thinking they have lost the fight, when, as we alone now know, ironically, they had fought an almost even battle that ended in, at worst, a mutually victorious tie. As the French say “Such is War”.

JRT,

I have to report that there is no Christmassy thing in my mailbox. Only a couple of spiders and an earwig. Perhaps it was swiped by some pesky carol-singers?

The nutcracker promotion message is a sound business proposition! I wonder if it can handle brazils as well as walnuts? The former are quite difficult and I've trapped my fingers too many times to mention when using inferior non-Olga nutcrackers.

Folks,

Dux:

The nutcracker WAS the Xmessy thing.... Don't you think it was at least a tad holidayish? Every home should have at least one Olga Nutcracker, especially during the holidays and on any occasion when fine dining and hard-shell nuts are on the menu. Yes, it functions especially well on Brazil nuts...which do not I understand, actually come from Brazil. A versatile implement, it can even help reset a broken finger, in a pinch.

The Faulty company, under whose brand name the Olga Nutcracker is marketed, is well known if not an especially trusted name in the kitchen aids manufacturing industry. Their slogan "If it's ours, it has to be Faulty" has raised some skeptical eyebrows in the advertising trades. Nevertheless they have continued to operate if not truly flourish for over 200 years. To date, their hand-crank Banana Peeler/Grapefruit Skinner and their battery operated Toothpick Sharpener have been their greatest success stories.

This being the first year the Olga products have been licensed only time will tell if the Olga brand Nutcracker, Can Opener, or Fast Fruit Squeezer will also become top sellers. They are priced right for holiday giving at just $5 us. Those desiring more information or needing to place orders in time for Christmas delivery should see page 8,674 of the colorful and very informative HWH gifting catalog so recently mailed to every home across the nation with an indexed household disposable income of over $100 per month. Anyone who has somehow not received their own copy of our catalog should borrow one from a friendly neighbor and have it professionally copied.

Chaps, I just wanted to drop in and wish you a very Merry Christmas. Ho-ho-ho!

Hi Jens - thanks! JRT, C51 et al. Merry Christmas to you all

Graphic By JRT 2007

Folks:

Jens, Dux:

Best wishes of the season to you both. We have long since posted the 2007 HWH Christmas greetings card so this crude effort intended to bring a smile will have to suffice.

Contrary to popular belief, C51 swears that Santa is lactose intolerant, so it is our custom here at HWH Hall, to leave an offering of beer and stale cookies (biscuits) on the bar for good Old Saint Nick on Christmas Eve night. We have checked the security camera footage from previous years and here is what usually happens:

The beermaid always tries to stay awake to see Santa arrive. For some reason she seems to drop off just seconds before the prancing and pawing of each little hoof is heard on the roof. Santa soon wanders in, stomps his feet to make sure all the snow, mud and reindeer crud is left behind on our spotless floor. Then he waddles over to the bar, downs the beer, sniffs at the cookies, wrinkles his big, red nose, consults his list, shakes his head longest when he reaches my name and then he stuffs coal and twigs in all our stockings. The Jolly Old Elf is obviously quite loaded with gallons of milk, egg nog and at least one large beer sloshing about inside him.

After pausing one moment more to piss in the fireplace, he staggers off through the dark front portal and is gone for another year in a swirl of hiccups and snow. Ho-Ho-Ho.. Me-rr-iiii.... OUCH ... Christ...bump,...MAS... bumpity-thump, he shouts as he bounces and tumbles down the 50 front steps and then rolls right into the deserted street. He picks himself up, looks all 'round to see if anyone is watching, laughs another big Ho-Ho-Ho and, stooping a bit, lays his finger beside of his nose and, with a resounding great fart, he springs to the roof, jumps into the waiting sleigh, wipes the reindeer crap from his boot and is away in a flash. They ricochet off the nearest chimney with a blinding shower of sparks and we heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight, "A merry Christmas to all.. HIC.. and to me.... a good flight ...hic...Damn Randolph! Watch out for that bleedin' 747.....

We always leave that offering yet it never seems to help us much. In a few more years we will, collectively, have enough coal to warm all the poor and enough sticks and twigs to build them nice homes. 'Tis a pity Santa makes a list and checks it twice, I am so hoping for one of those Olga nutcrackers this year.

Yes, Dux the graphic was created entirely from scratch. I lost the photo you took a few years ago with your little Brownie Starflash Kodak. The one showing a nude beermaid jumping out of the giant present to re-fill the glass of a very pleasantly surprised Santa. I believe that was the only year that nothing was added to our growing mountain of coal.

The very merriest of Christmases to you all. May all your days be bright and all your Christmases be white.

Gentlemen,

JRT,

A Christmas dinner to remember and plenty of it.

A surfeit of Southern Comfort led to my Boxing Day dis-comfort

Folks,

Dux:

Sadly, they are not allowed to print Dec. 26 in red on our US calendars. However up in Igloo Country, C51 is no doubt celebrating Boxing Day in much the same manner as are you. Sorry about the aching noggin. I can only imagine that it is due to emptying the bottle of blended SC rather than the more refined Jim Beam or Jack Daniels that you had last year. I will not even mention my own nearly lethal favorite which is the high octane Wild Turkey.

They claim to make an ancient and supposedly smooth variety of whiskey in Scotland as well. Have you heard about it? C51 swears by it. He uses it for every ailment he has ever been afflicted with from a cut finger to hemorrhoids and he claims excellent results. I do not know if it would help with your headache. Scotland being rather close to Derbyshire, you might want to nip over there and pick up a bottle of single malt.

I too was blessed with a sumptuous feast on Christmas Day. Smithfield ham, a huge turkey with cranberry sauce, oven baked sweet potato and all the trimmings happily washed down with gallons of iced tea. A cup of fresh-ground Columbian coffee along with a slice of Lady T's legendary chocolate pie and another of her incomparable five layer pineapple cake finished the perfect holiday meal. I am pleasantly bloated with good food today but mercifully I have no aching head. Yes it is no doubt a clear conscious and clean living that protects me.....