New Peebleshire Drink of the Week: Sumpter

After a day of back-breaking cobbler's work, Filament McPilsbry enjoys a cool mug of sumpter whilst lounging 'neath a sycamore.

Sumpter is the commoner's drink of choice. In a world where the well-to-do insist on drinking ales with "more taste," the fingerlessly-gloved can still be found suckling upon this liquorsmith's gem. With its unassuming flavor and sedimentary finish, sumpter is sure to remain a staple in the diet of every citizen who plies his trade atop the cobblestones of New Peebleshire.


A den of carousers at the Saucy Jack Pub, fueled by a generous goblet of sumpter and enjoying the fruits of a hard week's trade.

New Peebleshire Word of the Week: Comeuppance

Come - up- pance
n.(singular)
(kum - up - entz)

1. Any of a variety of recompensory goods distributed in accordance with the growth of one's scrupleberries.
2. A tasty treat, usually delivered in a pan by a jovial baker.

Ex. "After returning home from hard week's brick-scrubbing, the chimneysweep found a pan of hot comeuppance on his Friday evening doorstep."


New Peebleshire's local "Muffin Man," probably on his way to deliver comeuppance to a deserving and chivalrous citizen.

New Peebleshire Phrase of the Week: "A Bit of the Old Thisums"

Percy McPilsner lustily offers a single daisy in exchange for a bit of the old thisums.

"A bit of the old thisums"

1. A common expression alluding to anything particularly swarthy or debaucherous
2. A carouser's term, almost always insinuating a desire for revelry
3. An act warranting the depletion of scrupleberries

Delmindt McSpindler's finely tuned viola, whenst mingled with cheap brandy, adequately establishes the mood for a bit of the old thisums.

New Peebleshire Word of the Week: Scrupleberries

Small scrupleberries: A tell-tale indication of a life riddled by lechery and hoodwinking.

Scru - ple - ber - ries
n. (plural)
(skroo-pull-breez)
1. Any of a variety of wild, nectar-rich, fleshy fruits, varying in size proportional to moral character
2. That undefined essence of a member of the well-to-do class

Ex: "After cheating at croquet, Deltoid McVenebles felt as if his scrupleberries had been plucked away."

Bountiful Scrupleberries: A tell-tale indication of a life overflowing with chivalry, galantry, and white horses.

Puffed Millet: The Little Giant

Ahh, puffed millet. Indeed the "little giant." The smallest of all the grains. Millet has been cultivated in the East since 4000BC. With its complete protein and low fat composition, this is truly a wheat-free gem!

Bootblack's Garb Deemed Worthy Cause

A crude rendering of young Michael Schmindt plying his trade, done in honor of his valiant efforts during the strike.

NEW PEEBLESHIRE, Eng. - After a long and arduous standoff, a boisterous group of soot-covered men and boys marched away from the towne square amid shouts of victory. This was the scene on Saturday morning in the small village of New Peebleshire, which has seen much blood spilt over the recent striking of the local bootblack's guild.

The standoff began almost two weeks ago, when the local magistrate, Thomas Pildridge, passed a bill forcing all bootblacks to wear light blue jumpsuits. The act of legislation, Pildridge said, was in an effort to encouarge tourism. "I think I speak for most when I say that bootblacks ought to look like any other good craftsmen," said Pildridge. "It hurts our image when visitors are bombarded by filthy streetdwellers."

The tension escalated when the bootblacks received the new uniforms at their bi-weekly guild meeting. Guild representative Grady McStiltser made an urgent call to the press to issue this statement: "Bootblacksmanship is a craft long steeped in the tradition of serving all clasifications of our society, from the well-to-do down to the lowest commoner. We refuse any and all attempts to rob us of the identity that has been passed down by our fathers. We take great pride in the fresh layer of soot that comes from a hard day's polishing, and we will continue to wear what little our wages afford us. It may not be good enough for the magistrate, but it'll always be good enough for us."

What resulted was a power struggle that sent shockwaves through the tiny village. Pildridge sent police into the streets to "weed out" any bootblack that refused conformity. The policemen were met with staunch opposition which broke into a violent struggle, leaving one young bootblack, 12-year old Michael Schmindt, seriously wounded. Michael was treated for a wound to the head, but is now recovering safely at home. For the bootblacks, however, the incident served as the last straw.

The bootblacks staged a strike on Tuesday and, instead of shining shoes, sat together on the steps of the magistrates office. After only three days, the bootblack's presence was beginning to be missed. "I was walking around with dull, filthy boots," said local man, William Adager. "I've been so accustomed to having my shoes look like mirrors. I guess it's one of the things in life you take for granted. For only a shilling you can look like a million pounds." Adager's lament rang true for much of the community, and Pildridge soon felt pressure from all sides.

On Saturday morning, Pildridge reversed the legislation, which sent the striking craftsmen into a frenzy. "It's just such a good feeling, you know?" McStiltser laughed. "To be able to serve your fellow man just as you are: filth, fingerless gloves and all." When reached for comment, magistrate Pildridge merely smiled and look toward the ground.

"The true spirit of these men has won out. Whether it be the cobbler, the liquorsmith, or even the bootblack, it's the heart of the workman that has made New Peebleshire great. I'm just glad to have whistle-clean boots again!" Pildridge laughed for the first time in what seemed like months. It was a good day indeed.

Woe is the Once Mighty Snake

Woe is the once mighty snake,
Who did coil in a ball of slight,

With a flurry of shamrock and goldenrod
He sprung forth into the night,

Woe is the once mighty snake,
Who slithered to and fro,

And hissing oh so softly
Did his fury ever grow,

Woe is the once mighty snake,
Who shed his former skin,

Only to forget himself
And find it once again,

Woe is the once mighty snake,
Whose battle cry struck fear,

Only to cower to lesser foes,
With every passing year,

Woe is the once mighty snake,
Who won despite the cost,

Oh woe is me, who loveth ye,
My innocence is lost.

Three Cheers for that Old Angry Snake

Three cheers for that old angry snake,
Who did sip from the goblet of vict’ry,

Who did slither from ‘neath the grindstone,
And did coil and strike with fervency,

Three cheers for that old angry snake,
Who did suffer the jest of fools,

Who did shoulder the weight of the hopes of men,
With a still and steadfast cool,

Three cheers for that old angry snake,
Who withstood the volley of youth,

Where age once stood a stumbling block,
Now wisdom bore its tooth,

Three cheers for that old angry snake,
Whose relent can ne’r be found,

To the East was the sun, and the West was he,
Who moves without a sound,

Three cheers for that old angry snake,
Now my innocence regained,

With a hope that shall outlast the night,
And a soul, at last, unstained.

Woe Is the IBC

Twas once a sultry morn,
‘Midst a summer since forgotten,

The Holy Spirit lay torn,
O’er three dyre souls so rotten,

Twas they who formed the pact,
They said should ne’r be broken,

‘Til Old Man Winter attacked,
Rendering the bond a simple token,

Oh once they met with urgency,
And voiced their hearts with glee,

Oh once they met with fervency,
And sang with jubilee,

But woe are we, both B and C,
Whilst ye doth digit’ly woo,

What strange a fate, we could not see,
Ye traded three faces for two,

This smuggler of fraternity,
Yet we haven’t even seen her,

Hath yoked us for eternity,
With one named master bay tina,

And so we sit with grundles bared,
And long for June’s return,

With hopes our prodigal is spared,
‘Til then our hearts doth yearn.

Woe is the IBC.

January '04

Put this in your pipe and smoke it.

Barbarian, Scythian
Slave or Free
Male, Female
Or Watchman Nee