The Towne Crier

Local Spiritsmith Conjures up Mayhem

2006-08-24T09:38:00.000-07:00

Spiritsmith Briley McPendlebritches summons Father Christmas unexpectedly from his slumber

Traveling spiritsmiths are usually of little concern to the residents of New Peebleshire, but one in particular has caused quite a stir as of late. Briley McPendlebritches has long been known for his dastardly wizardry, which has now found its way to the cobblestone streets of our fair village. His conuring of disgruntled spirits has disrupted seemingly everything in town, from bootblack guild beet cook-offs to playwrite Fritz McJulip's latest production, "Poppycock!"

With little hope of running McPendlebritches out of town peacefully, the commoners may be forced to resort to a town-wide booting (a practice which involves all residents wearing a boot on their dominant leg whilst leaving the other foot bare. The residents then give chase to the object of the booting, who, if caught, suffers no less than 140 kicks to the midsection). Such drastic measures have not been taken since 1611, when a suspected witch was caught tampering with the sorghum mill.

Needless to say, there must be found a resolution soon, lest the drunken spirit of Father Christmas show his face again.

A devout follower of McPendlebritches, wearing the signature hat and cape of all his apprentices.

Local Residents Pleased with Saint Hubbins Day Festivities

2006-03-07T07:39:00.000-08:00

A depiction of Saint Hubbins, here seen warning snakes against touching his shoes.

March 4th has come and gone, and so has another fruitful Saint Hubbins Day celebration. Candied figs, fresh Poppycock, and malted sorghum were in heavy supply on this, New Peebleshire's most beloved holiday.

This marks the 435th observance of the legacy of Saint Hubbins, who was the patron Saint of Quality Footwear. The holiday was formed when one of New Peebleshire's local scholars observed that March Fourth is the only day of the year which also functions as a complete sentence (March forth.). Given that proper marching and quality footwear are inseparable, the day was borne with much rejoicing.

The holiday begins with friends and family giving one another the gift of shoes. Perhaps one will receive the standard black shoe with golden buckle, or perhaps a wooden clog, or even the occasional house slipper made from fresh pumpernickel.

Then comes the great parade which, unlike most, encourages all of the citizens to "march forth" with their new shoes, bearing proudly their most prized gift of all...self-esteem. It is a grand occasion for every citizen -- from the lowest commoner to the highest bearer of scrupleberries -- all are considered equal on Olde Saint Hubbins Day.

This type of wooden clog was a popular Saint Hubbins Day gift for 2006.

A Tribute to the Fife

2006-02-09T11:44:00.000-08:00

When dawn breaks in New Peebleshire, before the cock crows or the bootblack soots his cheeks, one will inevitably hear the sweet whisper of fife music ringing through the cobblestone.

The melody strengthens as the local fifer's guild parades up the street, greeting the new day with the joyous sounds of the flute's illegitimate cousin. Children burst forth from their cottages when the fife wielders draw near, if perchance to join in the magical procession that seems to pass all too quickly.

"Fear not little ones," the Head Fife assures, "we shant refuse you such delights when the morrow morn commeth." So the children return to their sorghum-based breakfast cereals while the fifer's songs dimmeth. "Where do they go?" the children wonder, and their parents point them eastward. "To Gillowsbry Forest, of course!" they'll say, "to join with the birds in song."

A rightful tribute to the fife, which brings to all both joy and life, which toots its song for all to hear, and ushers in our daily cheer.

New Peebleshire's Official Snackfood: Poppycock

2006-02-02T22:24:00.000-08:00

Sweet sweet Poppycock. Warning: Eating poppycock whilst wearing fingerless gloves can cause quite the sticky, or should I say satisfying, predicament.

Poppycock is the one type of morsel you're sure to see at the top of the liquorsmith's late-night menu or carelessly lodged in the beard of an unsuspecting magistrate. Composed of sweetened popping corn fused with puffed millet, nothing satisfies the palate after a long day at the grindstone quite like poppycock.

On a side note, New Peebleshire's dental care boycott has the local milletsmith's guild up in arms. Poppycock sales are down 4% this quarter as commoners are reportedly avoiding sugar in an attempt to preserve what's left of their smiles. In related news, sales of beef-flavored boot leather are up 9%.

Modern Dentistry Lacking in New Peebleshire

2006-02-02T10:39:00.000-08:00

A lechermaiden receives less-than-adequate dental care.

Residents of New Peebleshire are becoming increasingly aware that their village's dental practices have fallen a bit behind the times. It all began when Shumpert McGildersneed shared the story of his rich Uncle Reginald from London. Apparently, London's dentists are able to remove cavities with a drill not operated by hand crank. Such news came as a great surprise to the commoners of the village, who naturally associate dentistry with blinding pain.

When local dentist Billiam McDeert was questioned about his own practices, he became quite defensive. "Dentistry without extreme pain is like a schoolboy without ribbon candy! If these well-to-do dentists in the city are removing pain from their procedures, then what's next...no longer using the white cloth that we tie around a person's head to alleviate the common toothache?!" (see file photo below).

While it is unlikely that such dramatic advancements in dentistry will be realized any time soon, the residents of New Peebleshire have instituted a strike against the likes of McDeert. Until changes are made, no resident will brush his teeth nor refrain from eating figged candies.

The common "cure" for a toothache.

Residents Outraged Over Giblet Shortage

2006-01-25T13:54:00.000-08:00

The residents of New Peebleshire are reasonably upset over their current lack of giblets, a necessity in making dinner gravy. The village has been turkey-free since the great turkey famine of 1807, but the bird's meat remains a popular import from far-away Belfriesboro.

Giblet gravy has been a staple in the diet of the commoners here since 1741, when young Derelect McFoote famously drank a pint of it at the urging of his fellow cobblers. McFoote's legend, and the gravy's popularity, grew rapidly.

Belfriesboro, which is in the midst of its own turkey famine, has been unable to spare even a gizzard to its giblet-starved neighbors. With no certainty as to when the famine will end, members of New Peebleshire's local giblet guild are ready to give up hope. Only time will tell.

A popular Gravysmith whips up a fresh batch of the good stuff.

New Peebleshire Myth of the Week: The Slumber Fairy

2006-01-19T12:36:00.000-08:00

The Slumber Fairy, anxiously awaiting the coming of twilight.

The Slumber Fairy, one of New Peebleshire's oldest and most favored myths, is the tiniest of all the fairies. Whilst her dainty appearance and whimsical nature appeal to the children of the village, her value among the elder members of New Peebleshire cannot be overstated.

The Slumber Fairy appears, approriately, whilst one sleeps. Unlike the more commonly known fairies, she carries no pixie dust or magic wand. Instead, the Slumber Fairy brings with her a sumptuous banquet of English delights. Any citizen earning their fair share of scrupleberries will likely awaken to a table of salted meats, fig jellies, warm peppered gravy, and fermented cider.

Whilst the fairy herself has never been seen, she remains the subject of much literature and bedtime storytelling. Letters written to her by local children are often left 'neath the willow tree that sits in the middle of Gillowsbry Forest, where the Slumber Fairy is thought to reside.

New Peebleshire Word of the Week: Gilgemry

2005-06-15T09:30:00.000-07:00

In an act of sheer childhood gilgemry, young Blythe McTootlesbury requests a second bowl of belfrie stew from the ladlesmith.

Gil-gem-ry
n.
(gill-gum-ree)

1. An act relating to uncommon valor
2. A particularly courageous effort, usually involving a member of the lower class.

Ex: "Young Michael Schmindt received an extra pan of evening comeuppance for his gilgemry during the bootblack's strike against the magistrate."

New Peebleshire Drink of the Week: Sumpter

2005-05-27T15:40:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-22T19:31:00.000-07:00

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"

2005-05-08T19:57:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-05T05:53:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-05T04:57:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-02T21:01:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-02T20:56:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-02T20:25:00.000-07:00

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

2005-05-02T20:20:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-05-02T17:05:00.000-07:00

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