He Ain't Heavy; He's My Effigy

All entrepreneurs know that the formula for financial success is to “see a need, fill the need,” and by financial success I mean the making of so much money that you have to carry the cash around in metal buckets—with two hands. So here’s my business plan for a hot new start up company and don’t try to copy me.  I’ll sue.  I’m an American. I know lawyers. Well, I know of lawyers.

Okay, I’ve seen lawyers on TV.

After watching Greece, France, England, and large chunks of pretty much everywhere else riot their way through 2011, I recognized the need for a company that can provide realistic and anatomically correct effigies for improved public displays of righteous vexation and discontent—through burning.

Note:  Effigy is a fancy word for a stuffed dummy constructed primarily of dryer lint for ease of burning during public displays of righteous vexation.

I’ve called the new company Burn Big Dummy Burn, Incorporated, and I’m insisting that my family work in the factory, without pay, to keep costs down and profits high; I prefer to call them “my little dummy stuffing monkeys” rather than slaves. The Effigy Engineering Division is already in full production out in the garage—where all global mega-conglomerates begin.

Are you as tired as we are of watching a couple thousand of your fellow, global citizens whipping each other into a frenzied mob only to realize that their effigy stuffing committee forgot to bring the effigy? Or worse, the committee shows up with a dummy that looks like a pair of Granny’s panty hose stuffed with Kleenex.

Our company motto:  “Burn one of our dummies and no one will think that you’re torqued off at your garbage or Billy-Boy’s laundry; they’ll know exactly who you just reduced to ash.”

We at Burn Big Dummy Burn are continually shocked by the poor quality of the effigies we see burning on cable news. Those things don’t look like bad scarecrows, let alone recognizable international greed mongering leaders. We make it our business to keep poor planning and execution on the part of your “dummy stuffing committee” from putting a damper on your mob’s righteous rage.

We’re offering (at a reasonable price) effigies with both recognizable features and accurate cultural attire. You want to burn a government official in effigy, and we want you to. Just give us a name, and we’ll Google a face.

For a few cents more, your personalized effigy will come pre-soaked in the highest grade lighter fluid known to mankind for the flashiest, most dramatic flames possible outside of space exploration. We recognize that there’s nothing worse than a dummy that refuses to go up like a third rate re-make of “The Towering Inferno.” Don’t let your mob’s murderous hate fizzle.

In addition, our gorgeous effigies come with a dozen complimentary sticks, because we recognize that a lot of our clients enjoy beating their stuffed dummies senseless with sticks before they torch ‘em. Here at Burn Big Dummy Burn we know what gets your mob hopping mad and keeps your mob hopping mad.

Our expansion plans include the mass production of highly flammable flags, icons, posters, placards, and symbols. Why burn one flag when you can burn thousands? Of course, we’ll have group discounts for our very best repeat rioters. And you know who you are.

Your foaming, spitting, rock tossing protesters can count on us to be discrete, efficient, and prompt. We understand how tricky planning “spontaneous demonstrations” of anarchy can be, and for our international clientele it’s easy to place your orders 24/7 at our website: <www.WhotheheckisGUYFAWKESanyway.com>

Remember! Our mission statement:  You plan the snarling hate filled demonstrations, public conflagrations, and window smashing brick chucking, and we’ll take care of the details.

Complimentary bricks included with your first order!!!!!  Act now!!!!!!!

Sincerely,

Linda L. Zern (Entrepreneur, Small Business Owner, President, Whip Cracking Overlord, and CEO of Burn Big Dummy Burn, Inc.)

Book of Zern - Chapter Umpteenth

1  In the year in which common courtesy didst die and the people didst make much of their “Angry Birds” and their “Farm-Villes" saying, “Just a minute whilst I dost harvest my pumpkins,” I didst continue the record of my people.  

2  And in that selfsame year, I didst curse the harvesting of the imaginary pumpkins saying, “All ye that do virtually that which they do not care to do physically needs must repent or be smitten by the wrath of mine tongue.”

3  And they didst reject all mine words, being much taken with their Apps, and while they were thus engaged with their faux pumpkin growing, I didst watch and make note of all that didst happen.

4  Now the year of 2011 was on this wise: Sherwood the Mighty Hunter didst go forth to Detroit to collect the shekels that were his due, both for the support of his tribe and the blessing of others. And he didst consider himself rich both in flocks and fields and children and grandchildren. And he didst prosper in the land of Saint Cloud, wishing neither to covet or be coveted upon.

5  And I, even the Ya Ya, didst continue in that which I did begin, saying, Yea have I not come to be that which all doth desire to be in our land? Both unemployed and fed like unto Elijah the Tishbite when he wast fed by the ravens that were sent forth by the hand of God? And I doth make an answer—Yea, Yea, I sayeth, I am most blessed in that I am fed by ravens—also Sherwood the Mighty Hunter, and all mine needs met by both he, who is mine husband, and by UPS.

6  And the elder son of our tribe didst return once more from the land of the heathen and didst set up camp in the lands round about and didst make his home at Fort Campbell. There he didst work most earnestly both protecting the Colonel and overseeing the warriors and finding out that which is to be found out concerning weapons of war. And in all this didst he pray most earnestly for peace in the lands round about.

7  And Heather, Maren, and Adam (with their husbands and wife) didst bring forth much children and didst spend their days commencing the work of the Lord, even the work of Eternal Life, in that they did teacheth to their children that which the world could not understandeth, no, nor comprehendeth! And they did live after the manner of happiness,

8  Excepting when the parents were harvesting of their crops on Farm-Ville. Then they did ignoreth the rising generation, excepting to say, “Why doth that kid haveth no pants on?”

9  And all this was done that it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the Ya Ya when she sayeth, “Cometh on over. There are leftovers yet to eat.”

10  And they didst eat of the fat of the land and laughed oft and didst watch the Heavens diligently for the signs of that great and terrible day which was to come when all their children, yea all, were trained, yea trained to go in the potty and not behindeth a tree, in their pants, or on the dog.

11  And I maketh an end. May the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob bless thee and keep thee in the lands of thy own inheritance this Christmas season and in all seasons of the years, excepting if this year which is to come, even 2012, be the last year then may the God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob buildeth thee a bunker, well stocked with Vienna sausage. Amen.                 

Happy Christmas and Merry New Year

I am a reindeer. Those are my antlers. It was a holiday moment of gamesmanship and high jinks. Nothing says Christmas like a panty hose crotch on your head stuffed with balloons. Some would question my wisdom in posting pictures of my "antlers gone wild" moment. Let them. I stand by my second place win! 

Down on the Hobby Farm - Zoe, Emma, Conner, Kipling, Sadie, Reagan, and Zac (Christmas 2011)

Merry Christmas - May your way be as pleasant!

Sugar Plums Dancing on my Gray Matter: A Christmas Story

The Christmas Crush

Last year I did not decorate for Christmas. I don’t know; I just wasn’t feeling it. Aric was in Afghanistan. The housing market was in the local landfill. Everyone who had decided to have only one or two kids so that they could “spoil them” had succeeded.

Instead of decorating, I started my spring cleaning—in December. And I heard about the decoration desert at YaYa’s all year long.

This year I decorated. For two days I unpacked, hung, strung, pushed, moved, arranged, draped, rearranged, assembled, located, dusted, displayed, climbed, and hung. (Oh wait, I already said hung; too bad, I’m leaving it. It’s a double hung kind of story.)

Last night in glittering triumph, I prepared to hang the last ornament on the last branch of the most beautiful Christmas tree I have ever personally overseen. In exhausted triumph, I hung that last gold whatever on the tree, stepped back to admire my work, and—the whole silver and gold vision toppled straight over on top of me—shattering about half of my most cherished holiday ornaments and crushing me to death.

In fact, I’m sending this to you from the spirit world. It’s not so bad here. Lots of time. Lots of interesting folks to chat with. In fact, I see Charles Dickens right over there. I think I’m going to go over and ask him a couple of questions about the inspiration for his Christmas story. Shalom from the other side.

Linda (Holly Jolly) Zern  

Weirdo Magnet

Warning: Some of the observations in this essay may appear politically incorrect, boorish, or just plain snobby. My advice is to “roll with it” and take comfort in the knowledge that your judgmental attitude toward my judgmental attitude is superior in every way.

I am a weirdo magnet.

And when I say “weirdo” I mean I attract people who are loonies, goonies, and possibly sand people. These are folks who stray from the norms of normalcy in ways that are hard to predict under normal circumstances and often involve the wearing of tinfoil pantaloons.

My husband, Sherwood (a man with a somewhat unusual name) once tried to help me find the cause of my weirdo magnetism.

“It’s because you make eye contact, listen to what the sand people have to say, and treat them like regular people.”

“Oh, you mean I’m kind.”

“Exactly! Knock it off.”

I try. I really do. But the tinfoil pantaloon people take me by surprise, often at WalMart.

Like Saturday, when the world’s oldest living hippy spotted me, sized me up, and cut me out of the herd. It’s possible that his grizzled ponytail was pulled a bit tight. From under a moustache the color of old lemonade, he informed me that he enjoyed picking up the clothes that shoppers carelessly threw on the ground in the children’s department at our local WalMart.

“Oh no. I hope it wasn’t me,” I said, feeling my hands clench reflexively around the purple velour hoodie I was holding—sized twelve months.

He continued, “But my back hurts now, and I’m done picking up clothes.” His shopping cart effectively cut me off from the shoe department, the dairy section, and electronics—also freedom.

“Would you like to know something?”

Looking the grizzled hippy man straight in the eye, I said, “Of course.”  I can’t help it. I’m the curious sort.

He gestured vaguely toward the baby seat of his shopping cart.

“I’m getting a little something for myself for Christmas.”

I can’t help it. I’m a visual person. I did look.

Risking a quick glance, I saw that he had two packages of women’s underwear in his cart. White. Polyester. Not thongs. Hopefully. I looked away as quickly as my eyeballs could swivel in my eye sockets.

With a flourish and a wink, he said, “I’ve got two honeys, but they’re different sizes; I’d better not get the panties mixed up. Hee, hee, hee.”

I closed my eyes and tried to picture his “honeys,” plural. I couldn’t.

“Wow, no, I wouldn’t mix up their sizes. That might be big trouble, and you wouldn’t want that, especially at Christmas time. Hee, hee, hee. Well, good luck with that.”

Growing irrationally more concerned that he was about to ask me my panty size I began to inch away and look for my grown daughter, a daughter who had managed to completely disappear into a rack of little girl’s pajama bottoms during the conversation. See above.

I know. I know. It was a harsh, biased, judgmental response to the perfectly nice overtures of a perfectly nice panty-loving, weirdo. 

I can’t help it. I’m a weirdo magnet.

Linda (Two-For-One) Zern