Eastbound & Downton Abbey
“I’d smote that.”
INT. LIBRARY – DAY]
MR. CARSON: Your guest from America has arrived, my Lord. Shall I show the Honorable Mr. Kenny Powers in?
ROBERT, EARL OF GRANTHAM: Yes, indeed Carson. And have Thomas look after his things.
(A shrill, appreciative whistle is heard off-screen. In wanders Kenny Powers, recent American expatriate and washed-up, former baseball pitcher)
KENNY POWERS: Quite the digs you got here, Earl. Tu casa is muy bueno! Right? I’ve been boning up on my European. Seriously though, this is some stately shit. Your heating bill must be a motherfucker.
ROBERT, EARL OF GRANTHAM: Yes. (clears his throat) Please, call me Robert. You’ve had a long voyage, Mr. Powers. Would you care for a drink?
KENNY POWERS: Does the Pope shit in the woods? Hellz yeah! I’ll take a shot of that English absinthe shit, if you got it.
(Robert gestures to a skeptical-looking Carson, who exits the room)
ROBERT, EARL OF GRANTHAM: Mr. Powers, I invited you here because I have a business proposal.
KENNY POWERS: (Listening but distracted, looking around the library) Any books here with photos of naked ladies?
ROBERT, EARL OF GRANTHAM: I’ve followed the arc of your career in the dailies, Mr. Powers. I’m an admirer of your work. It’s a shame your former employers don’t feel the same. Your prowess on the mound, not to mention your obvious, um…physical stamina.
KENNY POWERS: That’s what she said.
ROBERT, EARL OF GRANTHAM: The presumed heir to our fortune met his untimely demise on a certain sinking ship. By the rule of British law, I must entail my estate to a male heir, but all the other candidates are vulturous. They want only my title and my wealth. That’s where you come in. The Crawleys keep meticulous genealogical records, Mr. Powers. It appears that you’re a sixth cousin, nine times removed. That makes you eligible for the inheritance. I would like you to marry my first daughter, Lady Mary.
KENNY POWERS: Get the fuck out! Is she hot?
ROBERT, EARL OF GRANTHAM: In addition, you will sign a prenuptial agreement waiving claim to the Grantham estate. In return for your favor, I will ensure you permanent tenure as a bowler on our country’s national cricket team. Your star will rise again, Kenneth. The common folk of England will embrace you as a hero.
KENNY POWERS: A second chance. Well, maybe more like a tenth chance, but let’s not get all hung up on technicalities and shit. I like it, Bobby. You rub my back and I rub yours. Not literally. That would be fruity.
_ _
[INT. GUEST BEDROOM – LATE DAY]
(Thomas enters, followed by Kenny)
THOMAS: And this will be your room, sir. Our finest guest deserves only the finest quarters Grantham has to offer.
KENNY POWERS: This is some dope ass shit! We’re gonna’ get our interior decorator on when I’m man of the house. For instance, this here would make a fine orgy room. And that library will be the opium den, and the servants’ quarters will become my laboratory for experiments in animal husbandry. Little hobby of mine. I once bred a chinchilla with a Burmese python, but it didn’t take. Try, try again, right? Quitting is for pussies. Does this place have an attic?
THOMAS: Your belongings are unpacked and your bath is drawn…
KENNY POWERS (interrupting): That woman we passed in the hall downstairs? You know the one: redhead, big nose, poster child for the Itty Bitty Titty Committee? Is that Lady Mary?
THOMAS: No, sir. That’s Lady Edith. Lady Mary is away in the city. She is expected to return tomorrow.
KENNY POWERS: Whoo-hoo, what a relief! You could land a prize-winning bass with the schnozz! Not our cup of tea, am I right Tommy?
THOMAS: Quite. Dinner is at six, Mr. Powers. Will there be anything else?
KENNY POWERS: Hey, speaking of tea, can you score me a couple grams of opium and a hookah? Strictly for, you know, medicinal purposes.
_ _
[INT. DRAWING ROOM – EVENING]
(The Crawley family and guests mingle about, having retired after dinner. Kenny and Cora, Countess of Grantham, are locked in conversation)
KENNY POWERS: (letting out an impressively deep belch) Damn, that was some fine mutton.
CORA, COUNTESS OF GRANTHAM: (clearly enchanted) Please don’t think me to forward, Mr. Powers, but I have to remark, you strike me as a thoroughly modern man.
KENNY POWERS: (suavely, with a wink, perceiving a come-on) How you doin?
CORA, COUNTESS OF GRANTHAM: (cheeks flushing) You wear your hair in a most unusual style. Conventionally kept on top but long in the back, forming a sort of neck blanket. It brings to mind the mane of a fiery Arabian stallion I once rode.
KENNY POWERS: It’s called a ‘mullet’. Affairs of the estate in front, ruttin’ with the scullery maid in back. You look like you could use another drink.
(whistling at Thomas)
Tommy! My fair lady here has a hollow leg. Jameson’s, double shot. Make it fucking snappy!
_ _
[INT. LIBRARY - DAY]
(The telephone, recently invented and newly installed at Downton, is ringing. Mr. Carson, at first startled by the sound, clears his throat. He answers with some trepidation.)
MR. CARSON: Hello. This is Mr. Carson, butler of Downton Abbey. To whom am I speaking?
VOICE ON PHONE: Ummm, yes. Ahem, very good. Have I reached the library?
MR. CARSON: (looking around at the books that line the walls) Why yes, I suppose you have. How can I help you?
[CUT TO INT. MR. CARSON’S OFFICE – DAY]
(Kenny Powers is on Downton Abbey’s other phone, flanked by Thomas and Miss O’Brien, who are leaning in to hear the conversation. All are stifling their laughter. Kenny holds his hand to his mouth to mask his voice.)
KENNY POWERS: I’m looking for a particular book. It’s called Bloody Stump…
(Thomas and Miss O’Brien struggle to contain their glee)
KENNY POWERS: …by the famous Russian novelist Whobitcha Cockoff. Do you have it?
(All three, Kenny Powers, Thomas and Miss O’Brien break up in hysterics. Kenny drops the phone and they each dash off in different directions, still laughing.)
MR. CARSON’S VOICE: (from the abandoned phone) Hello? Who is this? Hello?
_ _
[EXT. DOWNTON ABBEY GROUNDS – DAY]
(Kenny Powers, with lit cigarette dangling from his lip, practices his cricket “bowling” pitch. William stands in as batsman, while Thomas is off to Kenny’s side, handing him balls)
KENNY POWERS: Here’s the set. And the pitch…
(Kenny hurls a Texas-style fastball past William, who lamely swings and misses)
KENNY POWERS: (pointing at William in a taunting manner) ST-R-IIIIKE!
THOMAS: You’re delivery is incorrect. In cricket, you’re expected to bowl the ball, not throw it. The arm should make a wide, circular arc…
KENNY POWERS: Fuck that. Bowling’s for fat asses in glasses.
(Kenny throws another fastball. This one beans William squarely on the head. He falls down in the dirt, motionless)
KENNY POWERS: (shouting at William) Hey, asshole! Stop crowding the fucking wicket!
(A motorcar pulls up. Lady Mary emerges, returning from her sojourn. It is the first time Kenny has seen her)
THOMAS: The future Mrs. Kenneth Powers.
KENNY POWERS: I’d smote that.
_ _
[INT. LADY MARY’S BEDROOM – NIGHT]
(Mary is reading in bed. There is a quick knock on the door, then Kenny Powers let’s himself in. Mary scrambles, gathering up the comforter to cover her nightgown.)
LADY MARY: Are you insane, Mr. Powers?! You can’t just barge in here!
KENNY POWERS: Let me be straight with you. You’re a terrific girl and I’m warm for your form, but Kenny Powers never bought a horse he didn’t take out for a test drive first.
LADY MARY: Please leave at once, or I’ll…
KENNY POWERS: Oh, you’re a saucy minx, huh? Well I’m a saucy minx hunter and I’ll chase you over hill and that guy Dale and straight down your minxy little hole, face first, if that’s what it takes to prove my love to you. Release the hounds!
LADY MARY: (shouting) That’s it! FATHER!! HELP!!!
KENNY POWERS: Jesus! Cool it, girlfriend! I’m trying to woo you here!
LADY MARY: (enraged, pushing Kenny) GET OUT!
KENNY POWERS: Listen, there are rumors flying around about you killing some Turkish diplomat. “Lady Mary did it in the bedroom with her vagina,” is what they’re saying. Is that true? Because if it is, that is fucking awesome!
(A commotion is heard in the hall – footsteps and yelling as people rush to Lady Mary’s aid)
KENNY POWERS: OK, don’t get your chastity belt in a bunch. I’m leaving. Which is a shame, because we could have had something beautiful, baby. Just you and me. And sometimes maybe your mother for a threesome. A Kenny-salad sandwich, you know? Doesn’t look like that’s gonna’ happen, does it? Hey, a word of advice – lose the flannel nightie. Smokin’ hot bod like yours deserves an audience. Catch you later.
(Kenny exits)
Coffee, Maybe I’m Expecting Too Much From You
Word.
Coffee, our relationship is one of mutual dependence: you depend on me to keep you fresh in an airtight container and brew you to the perfect, balanced flavor and temperature using unbleached paper filters and a maker that’s semi-occasionally decalcified, and I depend on you to keep me awake. We complete each other.
But our alliance doesn’t end there.
Coffee, you are the Jeeves to my Wooster, the way you scrape me out of bed every morning, prop me up, pry open my eyes so that I can shave without blood-letting. The way you lay out my clothes and shine my shoes and fork-split my English muffin, toasting it twice on a low-to-medium setting for optimal crispness. You make me taller, smarter, more attractive. You smooth the disagreeably sharp edges of my world. You remove the bed creases from my face. Sure, you don’t do much for my morning breath, but whatever; in life, there are always tradeoffs. And Tic Tacs.
You are the Alfred to my Batman: extremely resourceful, skilled in the gentlemen’s arts of swordsmanship and archery, fully certified in emergency medical care. When it seems that all hope is lost and our brave hero (that would be me) about to perish, you show up all dapper and austere and eliminate the problem with the utmost propriety and discretion.
Remember when that breakfast waitress accidently poisoned me with decaf? And later, at work, my colleagues discovered me twitching and mumbling, blinded by migraine, curled in a fetal ball on the rarely-hoovered, commercial grade carpet of my office cubicle? You arrived on the scene, directed them to fashion a makeshift coffee I.V. drip from a jumbo-sized paperclip, hallowed out ball point pen and used Starbuck’s cup plucked from Bob the Sales Guy’s garbage, and snatched me miraculously from the Jaws of Death. “Field medicine,” you said, with a knowing wink. Then you packed up your kit bag and awesome Samurai sword and bolt-action crossbow and went to teach that breakfast waitress a lesson in personal accountability.
Coffee, for decades you’ve been loyal and dependable to the core. You’ve served selflessly in the background, managing my affairs, stimulant to my mood and bowel, postprandial, social lubricant, hair volumizer and trusted valet. You are truly my “gentleman’s personal gentleman.” Or my “personal gentleman’s gentleman,” if you’d rather. I have also, at various times, referred to you as my “gentleman’s gentle personal man,” my “gentleperson’s man’s gentles” and my “French Roast homey,” but never to your face because that would make things weird between us.
That’s why it’s difficult for me to say what I’m about to say. I won’t sugarcoat it because I respect you too much and I think it’s important that we clear the air.
Coffee, lately you’re letting me down.
The performance issues were small at first. I’d come home from work and the dirty dishes were still in the sink or the dog hadn’t been walked and there you were, chilling out in your carafe, studying the Dunkin’ Donuts quarterly financial report. I was thinking “What the hell, Coffee?!”, but I didn’t say anything. I bit my tongue.
But when you forgot to schedule the oil change for my Subaru, and then you made those errors on my Federal tax return, claiming a dependency exemption for Sweet & Low as a qualifying relative? I don’t even use artificial sweeteners! If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to get me audited.
Oh, and let’s not forget the capper, the coup de grace of your recent slide into laziness. It says right here in our agreement that you’re to “liberate the Management from unintended engagements, romantic imbroglios and other assorted pinches and stews.” So where were you during this year’s Bachelorette-themed school fundraising auction, in which I was conscripted to participate as one of twenty so-called “Lucky Suitors,” the chattel in the evening’s concluding date auction/most dramatic rose ceremony ever? You utterly failed to fulfill your role in the plan we contrived, to bid up my value and bow out at the final moment, thus leaving me to the capable, well-manicured hands and deep, deep pockets of the dowager Ms. Lavidia Fleshpot. Instead I went for a single bid in the paltry sum of $19, paid out of pity by my poor wife. As if that weren’t insulting enough, later I fell asleep before we could even consummate the transaction. You’re slipping, coffee. You’re really slipping.
Maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe I have unreasonable expectations. You have always proven yourself eminently, infinitely capable. There was no problem I could throw at you that you weren’t able to solve. That’s why I’m confident that you’ll solve this problem too. Coffee, you’re the Miracle Worker Chief Engineer. You’re the Scotty to my Captain James Tiberius Kirk! Speaking of which, remember the time when I had that crazy boring website development meeting with the teams from I.S. and corporate marketing right after lunch and I was so tired I couldn’t keep my eyes open and I turned to you for help and you shouted “DAMN IT, JIM! I CAN”T CHANGE THE LAWS OF PHYSICS!!” in a Highland Scottish brogue, only it came out of my mouth and everyone stopped and just stared at me? I still get a chuckle out of that.
The Circle of Madness
“It’s a simple formula. If you make mom mad, she takes it out on me and that makes me mad, which I take out on you. See how that works? It’s the Circle of Madness. So do us all a favor and don’t make mom mad.”
Unfinished Business (2011 Edition)
Though I posted a number of new pieces in 2011 (the number 7, to be exact), there were a lot of other writing projects that never really got off the ground. And because I’m a stickler for thrift, I figured it prudent to wrap them all up, nice and pretty, and put them out on the curb for curio-seekers and bottle pickers to peruse. Some are excerpted, some are merely described, but all are hereby proclaimed “ancient history.” It’s 2012. We’re moving on.
It’s Not You, It’s We
The Man Crush
The original idea for this piece was something about couple’s crushes. You know the feeling, when you and your spouse or partner or whatever find yourself falling a little in mostly platonic love with the Smithersons, those cool new parents who just joined the PTO, and suddenly your inviting them to parties and going out for cocktails with them and wondering whether they would consider joining you on your summer vacation? That’s a couple’s crush. I worked on this piece for a really long time, too long, and the digressions and locutionary contortions were epic.
There was a complicated explication of crush roles and responsibilities:
For the sake of grammatical clarity we’ll call the one with the crush the “crushee,” as in they who have been crushed. Unlike other acts of romantic violence, the crushing has no real offender, not in the operative sense of the word. The “crusher,” aka they who inflict the crushing, does not inflict harm purposefully. There is no malicious intent. The crushing is an accident, caused by their boundless, unbridled irresistibility.
And this bit, a rumination on the various types of standard-issue, non-couple crushes:
The One-Way Crush – In which the crushee’s affections are not reciprocated by the crusher. Otherwise known as “unrequited love.” Symptoms include waiting, weeping, sitting alone in dark rooms listening to sad songs, frequent masturbation and unchecked consumption of high-caloric snack foods.
The Mutual Crush – In which I like you, you like me and we dance around the subject for the duration of at least one cocktail before retreating someplace private to collapse in a tangle of naked limbs and clawing fingers. Results are varied, running the gamut from post-coital amnesia to unplanned pregnancy and/or marriage.
The Man Crush – In which a member of the male persuasion displays an unseemly degree of interest in George Clooney. May also refer to a “bromance,” in which a man much prefers the company of his comrade(s) in gender, drink, gaming and general vice to that of his vice-averse girlfriend and/or wife.
The Wrong Team Crush – In which a heterosexual crushee’s affection is misdirected toward a crusher whose sexual preferences are clearly homosexual. Symptoms include the delusional belief that the crusher’s sexual orientation will magically change if only he/she would give straight romance a chance. Terminal.
There was a lot of other stuff too. The enterprise was irrevocably doomed when I tried working in geometrical constructs. In struggling to portray two-person crushes as lines and four-person crushes as parallelograms, I was obstructed by my own hopeless ignorance of mathematics. Four drafts, five weeks, pretty much a complete write-off.
Mercury in Retrograde Killed My Goldfish
The Evidence
“Mercury in Retrograde” is this thing that happens a couple/few times a year when the relative aspect of Earth, Mercury and Sun make it appear as if Mercury has changed direction and started moving backward through space. During these periods, electronics seem to go on the blink and everything feels more complicated and your more mystical friends will blame their screwed up lives and dead pets on the vagaries of astrology. In this piece, I labored mightily to couple every other planet in our solar system with a corresponding temporary state and describe its influence on earthly matters; for example, “Venus in Furs,” “Saturn in Gastric Turmoil,” “Uranus in a Sling.” A wreck, really. A real “what in bloody hell was I thinking” piece of crap that took three weeks to write and shall never see the light of day.
Sagamore
The Sagamore
Something I heard while listening to This American Life inspired me to consider my favorite bridge, and I decided on the Sagamore, one of two that connects Cape Cod to mainland Massachusetts. See, when I was a little kid, up until about the age of seven, my family lived in Western Mass and vacationed for a few weeks every summer on the Cape. Those are fond memories. Fondest of all was the feeling I had every year when we crossed the Sagamore, the true moment when you’d reached Cape Cod. We ended up moving to the Cape in 1975 and I never again had that “we’ve made it to Cape Cod” feeling. I wanted to somehow capture that; how the experience of being on vacation, of losing one’s self and one’s troubles, is itself lost when you make vacationland your permanent residence. Oh, and along the way this started to become a story about my parents and their sad, short marriage, with a bit of grisly folklore (ever heard of iron workers entombed in the bridge’s cement pilings, anyone?). More than I could chew, as they say.
Be Still My Fibrillating Atria
Back in July my heart went on the fritz. It’s called “atrial fibrillation” and it wasn’t the first time I’d had it. The first time was ten years ago and I thought I was dying. The second time was six years ago, and I thought I was dying that time too. The third time was two years ago, and I although I didn’t think I was dying I did get pretty pissed off. The fourth time? I thought I’d write about it, and did for two straight months until I changed my mind, deciding I was in no mood to cast my infirmities as entertainment for a callous world.
But since it’s the start of a New Year and I’m cleaning up shop, I felt like some of this was pretty decent and share-worthy. An excerpt:
Every so often my heart does this strange thing called atrial fibrillation (also known as A-fib, if you’re feeling short on time). Technically speaking, A-fib describes a cardiac arrhythmia or irregular heartbeat. The upper chambers of the heart, called the atria, stop beating in the usual, rhythmic way, and start quivering instead. Imagine if you will a spasmodic gerbil, tweaked on meth and hell-bent on escaping the Habitrail that is your thoracic cavity. It feels a lot like that. Maybe a little worse.
A-fib can result from poor heart health, as it sometimes does for people with coronary heart disease or severe hypertension. But people with otherwise healthy hearts can experience it too. A-fib with no underlying heart cause is commonly called Lone Atrial Fibrillation. That’s the type I am diagnosed with. I’ve always liked the name. For a cardiac condition, it sounds unusually dashing and mysterious, as if it might, in the face of extreme peril, show up on horseback, masked and mighty, guns a-blazing, to save the day!
Causes of Lone A-fib can include an overactive thyroid, excessive consumption of adult beverages (otherwise known as Holiday Heart. If that’s not a Bruce Springsteen song, it should be), stress, allergies, certain foods and beverages, sand in your bathing suit, etc.; in other words, living. You might not be aware of this, but scientists have discovered that living can kill you.
The trigger for my atrial fibrillation has been very consistent over time. Three of the four times I’ve experienced A-fib it’s started suddenly, with me running to my car in a rainstorm. I shit you not. You’d think by now I would have learned to stop this extremely dangerous activity.
My cardiologist – yes, I have a cardiologist. It’s part of the A-fib package deal. Visiting his office is an object lesson in humility, to be the only 40-something in a waiting area filled with elderly, slow moving, heart clutching near-deathers. You can’t help but worry that your chances of long-term survival are royally screwed – he speculates that A-fib may be triggered by the sudden release of adrenaline in my system, the result of moving abruptly from a state of rest to a state of urgent activity. The prescription for future wellness is simple, then; DON’T DO THIS! Exceptions should reasonably be made in the event that I’m chased by something large and carnivorous, like a bear, for instance. In such a situation, a little pesky A-fib will likely come as a welcome respite from the greater concern.
A-fib is not an immediately life threatening condition. Many of your friends and family, when they hear about this thing that put you in the E.R., will assume you’ve had a heart attack. They’ll send well wishes or premature condolences, bring casseroles and lasagnas to your house, offer to help with laundry and dishes. When the meal is finished and the kitchen cleaned up, you can break the bad news to them: you’re going to live!
Some people require no medical intervention at all to stop their A-fib. Their heart converts back to normal sinus rhythm on its own. I have never been so lucky. Once started, my A-fib hangs on like a dog to a bone.
If it doesn’t stop on its own, that’s when you seek medical assistance. If A-fib persists too long, like 48 hours or more, it can become quite serious, causing clots and strokes and vegetative states and other unpleasantries. Then you need to go on anti-coagulants, blood thinners and all that, bad stuff that greatly increases your risk of bleeding out from a minor shaving nick.
There are three primary types of E.R. treatments for patients with A-fib:
The first is called the “wait and see” approach. First time A-fibbers might be admitted and observed, treated with little more than aspirin and electrolytes and maybe a beta blocker, to slow the heart rate and convert the rhythm back to normal sinus mode.
The second is called chemical cardioversion. This involves the administration of a little drug cocktail, an intravenous martini of various channel blockers and anti-arrythmic agents. As luck would have it, though I have no other known allergy to medication, I am allergic to a key ingredient used in chemical cardioversion. This was discovered during my second episode, when my arm broke out in hives and the itch was on a beeline for my heart. The bartender quickly unhooked me from the diltiazem drip and needled me with antihistamines until the reaction subsided.
“Lucky you were in a hospital!” he chirped.
The ER is life in microcosm; exceedingly long periods of boredom punctuated by brief moments of sheer terror.
With “wait and see” and chemical intervention off the table, I’ve graduated to the third type of treatment – electrical cardioversion.
Electrical cardioversion is performed in the Intensive Care Unit (ICU) of the hospital. The ICU is like the Emergency Room’s Emergency Room. If someone is going to die in the ER, they’ll kick it in the ICU. And you’re wheeling me in there? Great!
The procedure goes like this. A bunch of doctors and nurses show up and introduce themselves. There’s The One in Charge, The Alluring Doctor-in-Training and The Antediluvian Nurse Who’s Shift Is Almost Ended. I won’t remember their real names; that’s perfectly normal. I’m a little distracted, what with all those patient defibrillation tropes from popular culture flashing through my memory: “CLEAR!” *BAMF* beepbeepbeep….
The One in Charge explains the game plan. First, they’ll sedate me with Propofol. They’ll slip me a little Fentanyl too, “to manage the pain.”
“Pain?” I whimper unintentionally. The Alluring Doctor-in-Training, practicing her bedside manner, makes a pouty lip and nods.
“We’re going to start with 100 joules of electricity administered through paddles attached to your chest and back. It doesn’t feel great.” 100 joules of electricity! I don’t have a good frame of reference, but that sounds like a lot. My mind wanders some more, wondering what the toaster/fork = joules conversion rate is.
“The Propofol should take care of that. It’s an anesthetic with terrific amnesiac qualities. We’ll give you a low dose. You’ll be in a semi-conscious state, so we can talk to you, ask you embarrassing questions, shock you, stuff like that. When it’s over, you won’t remember a thing. Probably.”
“Propofol? Isn’t that…isn’t that the drug Michael Jackson overdosed on?”
“Good memory! We’ll try not to give you that much. So listen, people sometimes have a bad reaction to this stuff. Your body forgets to breath. If that happens, we’ll get you on a respirator. Open your mouth.”
I dutifully complied.
“How many fingers can you fit in there?” I liked the One in Charge. He seemed like a good guy, a regular Joe in his fleece, North Face vest; the kind of guy you could get shitfaced and go fishing with. Hoping to likewise impress him, I got a little show-offy and attempted to insert my whole fist.
“Whoa. That’ll do. Three fingers is plenty. Just want to make sure there’s room in there for the intubation. I know it sounds a little scary, but the good news is you’re in the ICU. If you’re about to die, there’s no better place to be!” LOL! ROFLMAO! VHGJIYVYUFJMMMFAO!! Hospitals are funny.
On these sedatives, you go into a state of semi-consciousness. You’re awake, but barely alert. You’ll answer questions. You’ll register pain. Later, I asked whether I made a sound when the shock was administered and was informed by the attending nurse that I made, in her words, “sounds of anguish.”
“What did they sound like?’ I asked.
“AARRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHH! Sort of like that.”
Yes, sort of exactly like that. Hopefully, there won’t be nearly as many “sounds of anguish” in my writing experience this year. Happy New Year, everyone!
The Night Before Christmas
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, and filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk. Named Steve. His wife’s brother, who insisted on coming along and was constantly recommending more efficient ways of doing things.
The Christmas Plunger Incident
To: Martha, From: Santa
From Wonkypedia, the encyclopedia that’s free for a reason
For other uses of “Christmas Plunger Incident”, see Christmas Plunger Incident (disambiguation)
This article relies on references to primary sources or sources affiliated with the subject, rather than references from independent authors and third-party publications. Please add citations from reliable sources.
The Christmas Plunger Incident took place on the morning of December 25th, 1978, when Martha Abbott opened an oddly shaped, poorly wrapped holiday gift given to her by her husband, Winn Abbott. The gift in question turned out to be a simple plunger, yellow-handled with a black rubber cup, of the variety commonly used to unblock toilets.
Background
Winn and Martha Abbott were married on May 22nd, 1971. It was Winn’s first marriage, Martha’s second after an initial attempt was scrubbed due to a slight misunderstanding over the paternity of their son Brendan, then just an infant.
While a kind and loving father to his adopted son, Winn Abbott soon proved himself a less than ideal helpmate to his wife. Drink was thought to be the main problem. It is often said of people in the grips of alcohol addiction that they “struggle with alcoholism,” though for Winn there was no struggle; he gave himself to it whole-heartedly.
In the years that followed, the toll of Winn Abbott’s dependency mounted. His career prospects plummeted, losing consecutive jobs as manager for a machine parts manufacturer, then as a middle school mathematics teacher, and finally landing as co-manager of a convenience store. He was quarrelsome with his wife and disinclined to come home at night, choosing instead the company of old high school and college friends at a bar called the City Line where, it is rumored, a stool was permanently reserved in his name. On the evenings when he stayed home, he would frequently fall asleep while seated on the toilet and could not be woken up, a problem in a house with one bathroom. Martha was forced to send their son Brendan outside to the backyard in order to empty his bladder before bedtime. This “pathetic display of indignity,” according to statements Martha Abbott made in papers filed for divorce, “was the second-to-last straw.”
The Incident
The Christmas Plunger Incident took place in the family home of Martha’s older sister, Barbara “Babsy Tits” Gill (1), in Chicopee, Massachusetts, where the Abbott family (including Martha, Winn and Brendan Abbott, aged 10, their only son) traditionally spent the Christmas holiday.
Others present that morning included “Babsy Tits,” her second husband Jim Gill, daughters Karen (aged 15) and Beth (aged 8); Nick and Flo McConnell, parents of “Babsy Tits” and Martha, grandparents to Karen, Brendan and Beth; and Maurice “Mo” Bronsky (friend of “B.T.,” godparent of Karen, former college roommate and current drinking partner of Winn), showing off his young, new bride, procured via mail order, whose name no one present could pronounce or later remember.
Christmas morning started normally enough, with a reasonable amount of festivity and cheer. There was coffee and cocoa with peppermint extract and rock candy; there were pastries and soufflé and German stollen dusted with powdered sugar. Johnny Mathis warbled from an 8-track. Here and there people drank a Bloody Mary, a profane choice for such a holy morning depending on who was asked. Children circled the tree like a bullying mob, gleefully trashing the carefully presented tableaux of gifts, tossing aside the wrap and the boxes and the treasures once concealed.
When all the presents were believed to be opened and thoughts were turning to clean-up and preparation for Christmas dinner, Winn Abbott surprised his wife with a final gift he’d produced from a secret hiding place, suspected to be the trunk of his Mercury Grand Marquis.
Martha Abbott accepted the gift with a mixture of curiosity and excitement. While everyone around her looked on, she weighed it in her hands and shook it by her ear, wondering aloud “what on earth can it be?”
Any warmth she had felt for her husband quickly dissipated when the wrap was torn away and the true identity of the gift was revealed. It came as a shock to Martha since “plunger” was neither a considerate gift nor an item on her Christmas wish list. In fact, the Abbott family already owned a plunger in passable working order. Adding insult to injury, Winn Abbott had left the price tag on, irrefutable proof that he’d not even sprung for a top-of-the-line model.
Reactions to the Incident
There would be many points-of-view expressed in the moments immediately following The Christmas Plunger Incident, much conjecture as to what in the world was he thinking?
The apologists in the group defended the gesture on merits of practicality. “A plunger is handy,” they said. “You’ll thank him later.” It should be pointed out that the apologists’ ranks were few and exclusively male and both were more or less ejected from their own marriages within the year for reasons only tangentially related to their opinions about the plunger.
“Maybe he had a coupon,” offered family patriarch Nick McConnell, a man who kept his money in his mattress and intimately understood the liabilities of unchecked thrift.
“Babsy Tits” Gill’s position was characteristically succinct: “He’s an asshole.” In this opinion she evidently had her supporters.
Martha Abbot’s reaction was more visceral than the rest (2). She descended upon her now estranged husband in a fury, wielding the plunger as a weapon and clubbing him with it in a manner reminiscent to witnesses of an Inuit hunter clubbing a seal. Only when she attempted to impale him with the handle’s butt-end did onlookers intervene to pry the two apart.
The Aftermath
In the days following the Christmas Plunger Incident, relations between husband and wife grew unusually cold. Martha and Brendan drove about town visiting local retailers, collecting the cardboard boxes which they would soon use to pack their belongings.
Realizing he’d taken his trademark insensitivity one offense to far, a wounded Winn Abbott strove for forgiveness. He cut back on his drinking, brought home flowers, and set an alarm before his evening constitutional, to prevent bathroom oversleeping.
Unfortunately, his efforts at redemption were too late. On January 20th, 1979, Martha Abbott and her son Brendan officially completed their separation from husband and father. They moved several hours away, to a brownstone apartment in the historic, former whaling center of New Bedford, Massachusetts, leaving Winn with little but his vices and the last Christmas gift his wife had given him, a medal of Saint Jude, the patron saint of lost causes.
See Also
Notes
(1) The sobriquet “Babsy Tits” was given to Barbara Gill by her first husband, Timothy “T-Bird” Gill, and kept alive by her brother-in-law Winn Abbott long after “T-Bird” went to prison for tax evasion, much to her chagrin.
(2) There has been some disagreement whether Martha Abbott’s assault on her husband was a part of The Incident or a result of it. The author contends that the “plunger beat down,” as it has come to be called, was not a part of The Incident proper, but a response to The Incident by its principal victim. Those with differing opinions can post their own Wonkypedia articles under the provisions and protections set forth in the policies of “disambiguation.”
References
Abbott, Brendan (2011)
More Things the Super Committee Failed to Agree Upon
Who's Hotter?
The United States Congress Joint Select Committee on Deficit Reduction, aka the “Super Committee,” was composed of 12 seasoned politicians, six each from the Democratic and Republican Parties. Like exalted members of some Bizarro World Justice League for policy wonks, they were handpicked by their party leadership and sent away to some remote atomic bunker or college dorm room for three months to solve our nation’s debt crisis. Perhaps not surprisingly, they failed abjectly and emerged from their sequester like voles from a hole: confused, blinking, greased to the elbows in take-out fried chicken and Crab Rangoon. Not a pretty sight.
Of course, no human being can reasonably be expected to think “debt reduction” for three straight months, (especially) not even Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke. Like most elected officials, these guys obviously had a little spare time on their hands. Let’s just say the conversation sometimes drifted. Here are a few more things the so-called Super Committee failed to agree upon:
The enforcement of Robert’s Rules of Order in pick-up games of paintball. Senator Jon Kyl (R- AZ) motioned to make the pejorative phrase “Move THIS, Muthafucka!” a required declaration whenever a player executed a successful hit. Before a vote could be taken, Xavier Becerra (D-CA) effectively “moved to amend” by sneaking up behind the Senator from Arizona and shouting “Butt Munch!” while unloading his pistol execution-style into the back of Kyl’s head.
A sidebar discussion over the Obama administration’s handling of troop deployments in Iraq and Afghanistan digressed into a heated debate over which strategy, Surge or Withdrawal, was the most effective method of non-contraceptive birth control. Partisan chaos ensued.
Breaking Bad: Season 3 VS. The L Word. “Walt and Jesse would kick those lesbians’ asses!” boasted Jeb Hansarling (R-TX) to Patty Murray (D-WA). No amount of internal gerrymandering could bring the sides together so, in a rare gesture of compromise, the Super Committee rented season two of Mad Men instead, ignoring the childish protests of Senator Max Baucus (D-MT), who ‘d already seen it and insisted on spoiling the ending.
The Hottest White House Press Secretary in History? Dee Dee Myers or Marlin Fitzwater? While everyone agreed in principle that Fitzwater resembles the Penguin from Batman, Republicans insisted that he was “way, way hotter” than Myers, with her “shockingly small bosom and Jezebel-eyes for George Stephanopoulos.” In the end, the conservative side of the rec. room invoked cloture and filibustered the vote, perhaps realizing that the position they occupied would not poll well with American voters.
Purple Haze VS. The Chronic. Super Committee members were again divided when attempting to IM their order for an ounce of “medicine” from Rep. Barney Frank’s (D-MA) super secret, ultra-exclusive marijuana dispensary and home delivery service. Failing to reach consensus, they ended up ordering both. Unbeknownst to members of the GOP (now referred to as Team Penguin), Sen. John Kerry (D-MA), a political colleague of Frank’s from the state of Massachusetts, had a coupon in his wallet offering 20% off the second baggie (of equal or lesser value). Though the savings could have contributed to the $1.3MM debt reduction objective, they went unreported to Kerry’s committee colleagues and were instead auto-deposited to President Obama’s 2012 reelection campaign fund.
The value of the gratuity paid to one Mr. Raj Donda, Mehndi Artist, for services rendered at the United States Congress Joint Select Committee on Deficit Reduction Henna Tattoo Party. Unfortunately, Senator Kerry did not have a coupon for this.
Who is the most 1%? Super Committee members put their bank statements on the table for nonpartisan analysis by a moonlighting member of the Congressional Budget Office, who noted in her final report that everyone in the room had “more money than God.” Dissatisfied with the inconclusiveness of the ruling, they turned to an independent arbiter – the avowedly apolitical pot delivery kid, who after 15 seconds of thoughtful deliberation awarded the prize to the Republican side, for their “really bad hair and Vineyard Vines ties.”
