"It's Still a Wonderful Life" (Repost)
Quixotoes
They say that no man is a failure who has friends, but you could have fooled
George Daley as he stared at his own demise, standing in the HOV lane of the
Bridge to the 21st Century.
The water swirled angrily beneath him, and he saw in the roiling maelstrom a
panoply of familiar faces -- Papa Hemingway, Lenny Bruce, Abbie Hoffman,
Inspector Javert -- but none of the townsfolk to whom he had extended aid and
comfort. As Daley contemplated the notion that in Bedford Falls, which had
turned its collective backside on him, a few people thought him more valuable
off line than on, he heard a splash and a yelp.
Someone had jumped into the Crimea River, and George -- ever giving of himself,
especially when it involved a redhead -- dived right in after the splashing
waif. They thrashed about in the crushed ice cocktail of despair on the rocks,
but quickly rose to the surface courtesy of the woman's natural buoyancy.
"Wha... bbbllubbb ... huuhhhh," George Daley spluttered, gasping for air. "Why,
why it's Hope! The schoolmarm, Hope! Why did you jump?" asked George, with the
quick and incisive interviewing style that had catapulted him to the editorship
of the Daley News while his contemporaries struggled in the plastics and solid
waste industries.
"Had to, George," Hope whined. "They couldn't get Della Reese or Travolta or
Damon or Affleck. Sheesh, the Company is usin' schoolteachers now for this kind
of deal," she complained. "I just hope the NEA won't mind my taking this
holiday job. I just got my card from the Angels Local #28.8 of the Teachers
Union Sisterhood for Hebrew Youth."
"I guess my saving your life like this will make the front page tomorrow,"
George said, oblivious to the confluence of events that had led one of Bedford
Falls most prominent literati to contemplate committing a fatal exception.
"Horse hockey" sneered Hope, freed on this temporary assignment from the
"self-esteem" rhetoric of educationalists. "You didn't save ME! I saved YOU,
putzhead!"
"Save me? From what? From losing my newspaper, the voice of reason, to the
ruthless takeover artists from the Far East? From going home to that vanilla
wafer Donna Reed. I mean she wouldn't even smack that slut Shelly Fabares, much
less lay a hand on that perverted little Paul Peterson. What did you save ME
for?
"Little ZuZu's basketball team lost their 15th in a row, and some parent said I
couldn't coach. Well, I'll tell you, my guardian teacher," he spat the last two
words, "that team is so bad they couldn't even play dead! Why they have the
worst record since France in World Wars!"
Chimes tinkled forebodingly at what he thought was exaggeration. Hope just
listened, toweling off George Daley, as he continued his litany of woe.
"The newspaper is publishing its last edition on Christmas Eve. The Daley News
is being bought by the Moonies and given to old man Potter to run as a free
"advertiser." The library is closing down because of the tax-limitation
amendment. And the school board has adopted ebonics as a second language. Can't
nothin' GET no worse? I might as well have never been borned!"
"Now, now, George," crooned Hope, cuddling his head against her amplitude. "You
were going to kill yourself for THAT? Piffle! If you hadn't have been born, why
you wouldn't have gotten at least that one spanking!"
George's head was spinning, and the events of the last hour -- storming out of
his home, punching out Bert and Ernie, throwing a rock at Big Bird besides and
now listening to a Jewish angel from New Jersey whining -- had clouded reality
for him more than would have six straight hours on line.
He slapped himself -- a habit he picked up long ago to compensate for the
dearth of spanking in Bedford Falls -- and found himself standing with Hope in
the morgue. Oh, not the medical examiner's Igloo, but in the "morgue" of the
newspaper, containing back issues of the Daley News,whose motto was: "All the
News That Fits, We Print." He had no idea how he had gotten there, but it must
have had something to do with this strange angel of a teacher.
His melancholia in full gallop, George pulled out a dusty bound volume and
opened it up, hoping to relive some memories before deleting his URL, detaching
his motherboard and going 404. The layouts looked the same, and the spelling
was perfect, as was to be expected. But the news George remembered reporting
and editing seemed different. These headlines were all upbeat; only good news
appeared in these newspapers. The weather map took up two full pages and was in
eight colors.
He took off his glasses and held the newsprint up to his eyes to read the
weather for this date, two years in the past: "Eyes partly cloudy, with
occasional tears, followed by blazing hot. Chance of pain, 95 percent."
He glanced at the nameplate and, to his shock, found it was not the Daley News
at all, but the Assville Town Crier, the paper of record for the mythical town
everyone had heard about but never visited. It appeared on maps as only a few
inches away from Bedford Falls, but it might have been a yardstick away for all
anyone had ever seen of it.
The lead story in the Town Crier was the mass whipping of faculty at Bedford
Falls Elementary School for allowing children to run home for the Christmas
holiday without buttoning their coats. There was a large photo near the top of
Page One of a tart named Violet bent over a chair for a caning for having
wiggle-danced in public. The picture was credited to Al ("Butts Above the
Fold") Oldfarth.
There was a one column transcript of the pre-spanking whining, arguing and
pants-removing dialogue from the Wainwright house the night before. There was a
box called "Hands Across America," rounding up prominent spankings administered
in each state and the District of Columbia the day before. And finally, there
was an advice column by Andy "Pangloss" Panders, telling everyone that this is
the best of all possible worlds and that if more children and adults were
spanked, it would be well nigh Utopia, but then again, maybe not.
"What's this all about, Hope?" a curious George asked, scratching his head and
munching a banana.
"You see, George Daley, this is what Bedford Falls MIGHT have been had there
been more spanking. You need to live, George. Bedford Falls needs you to
restore a sense of discipline, provide an environment in which correction is
the order of the day, just like it is in Assville around the bend."
"W'alll, wait a minute. Wait just a darn minute," George cut her off. "I have
been in newspapers all my life and I would rather have to watch television all
day than utter the word "'correction.'"
"Tush," she reprimanded, with a short U. "You know perfectly well what I mean,
George Daley. You must live up to your potential. You have the power now,
having seen these old papers, to lead Bedford Falls into a new era of spiritual
prosperity and educational attainment -- where the schools operate on a
detention-based curriculum and every child has a corner to stand in.
"Imagine, if you can, a town where the mayor and council speak courteously to
each other lest the sergeant at arms use the mace as it was intended. Where not
only the police carry handcuffs. Where the malls are anchored by department
stores like Chesapeake Knife and Tool, Over the Crate and Barrel, Leather and
Lace, Victoria's Not Secret Anymore and Bloomingarses."
"Yes, yes," replied George, his nose buried in newsprint. "Here it is! A story
about how an 8-year-old boy never fell into the ice and his 12-year-old brother
never lost hearing in one ear by saving him, and all because their father gave
them a willow switching the last time they played on thin ice.
"And here's an account of the Pharmaceutical Board drugging and then
horsewhipping a Mr. Gower for accidentally slipping strychnine into a package
of ginger root. And the strapping those boys got for opening the dance floor at
the reunion back in '28!"
"There's more, isn't there?" Hope asked, knowing as all teachers do what the
correct answer was without even looking in the back of the book.
Beads of sweat were forming on George's upper lip as he read on, eyes wide, jaw
slack and pants abulge.
"That Mary! She caught holy Hell from her dad after he found her in the
hydrangea in her underwear! It says her wailing could be heard all the way to
Elmira! And Ernie the cab driver got a spanking from the Taxi Commission for
taking a tourist on the long route from the airport. Bert, the cop, got his
butt blistered for missing a word in Darlene Gillespie=s Miranda warning. And
look! Look, Hope! Here is tomorrow's edition! It says ZuZu Daley was caught
faking an illness to get out of helping mom with the Christmas baking and got a
ping pong paddling over her pajamas when dad got home from the newspaper."
George Daley heard a harp, and simultaneously the fluorescent lights brightened
500 watts. "That's my ZuZu!! This means I am finally going to spank her tiny
little butt! Hallelujah!!!"
He barely heard his Hope, but when she stopped nagging and employed Schoolmarm
Rule No. 43 -- silence -- George paid attention. "Listen, George. You can't lay
little ZuZu wriggling and squirming across your lap if you are dead. You can't
bend Mary over the dresser and hairbrush her vanilla ass if you are dead. And
you can't have Ma Daley tan your hide if your hide is floating down the river."
George was dumbstruck, not a new condition for a newspaper editor. But hand in
hand with guardian teacher Hope, he slouched and stumbled back toward home. His
will, alone, had already had a salutory effect on the village that lay before
him.
The wooden sign reflected the burgh's new name: Trouser Falls.
The school was freshly repainted with red stripes and renamed Fannyup High.
Though there was wide tolerance in town, there was a notice of a 90-day
moratorium on Filipinas and salesmen from Hong Kong. All telephones had the 9
and zero removed. Where the Buttfuckus Arcade once stood, there was a new race
track: Pullem Downs. In this rejuvenated town, six inches would be the norm --
for annual snowfall, too.
The air was clear, so clear and bright that every parent intoning, "Get over
here right now," and every child whining, "Not on the bare!" could be heard in
a celestial symphony of philharmonic penitence.
George raced through town, passing the intersection of Hickory St. and Family
Ct., with a bemused Hope springing eternal beside him and a Christmas present
for his daughter B a living, breathing, dancing one-eyed pocket monster B in
his other arm.
"What a wonderful life there could be here in Trouser Falls," he exulted. "I
hope I get home in time to give ZuZu her spanking! And you, Hope! You! You are
an angel!"
* * *
Yes, fellow Assonians, you have served as a shining example of how spankings
and good cheer the year 'round can inspire other towns to prosper and grow, to
lean over in humility and find their souls by staring at carpets and parquet
floors.
The lesson here is, of course, that no man or woman alone sets the tone for
good or evil. THAT is fantasy. WE are real. It is all of us, acting together,
and erring together, and fighting together, and banding together with but one
overarching ideal. And it is this: Every time an angel whines, someone gets a
spanking.
Or something like that.
Merry Christmas.
Ted
Alex Birch
says...
>
>"It's Still a Wonderful Life" (Repost)
>
Alex
Raptor
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NYIrishRed
One of my all-time favorites, and no less sweet for it's familiarity.
Thanks for the annual repost, Ted!
IrishRed