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Known for his legal thrillers, novelist John Grisham successfully turns to comedy with "Skipping Christmas." Although it has little sentimentality, this tale about a couple intent on taking Christmas off (no decorations, no gifts, no cards, no tree - they just want to leave town and take a cruise) could potentially become a holiday favorite. Not participating in Christmas proves not to be so easy, however, as everyone Luther and Nora Krank know seems intent on making sure they put up lights and tinsel and the neighborhood-mandated rooftop Frosty. An enjoyable fireside read (with maybe a cup of hot cocoa). The film version, "Christmas with the Kranks," is faithful to the book and recommended as well. ]]>
Nuthouse Magazine
added a quote:
"It goes without saying that you should never have more children than you have car windows" — Erma Bombeck
"It goes without saying that you should never have more children than you have car windows" — Erma Bombeck
Nuthouse Magazine
added a quote:
"She had lost the art of conversation, but not, unfortunately, the power of speech." — George Bernard Shaw
"She had lost the art of conversation, but not, unfortunately, the power of speech." — George Bernard Shaw
"Return of the Dittos" by Dale Andrew White (humorous short stories) ]]>
bookshelves: currently-reading
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"Seriously" by Dale Andrew White
(excerpted from RETURN OF THE DITTOS)
When B. B. Motley became an adult, he moved several states away to unroll as much distance as he could between him and his family. Embarrassed by their relentless foolishness and silly customs, he didn’t want to be publicly associated with them anymore or for newfound acquaintances to know by whom and how he was reared. After a childhood of being mocked and required to look and feel ridiculous, he yearned for normalcy and respectability.
Determined to enter a dignified profession of real meaning, maturity and consequence, he studied law. The subject enthralled him. Weighty and significant, law brought order to society -- and long-needed discipline and reason into young Motley’s life.
After clerking for judges and graduating from law school, Motley joined a large firm for which he litigated cases steeped in complexity. His mind became a reliable archive of dry quotations from statutes, appellate rulings and Attorney General advisory opinions.
Eventually, Stearne, Grimm, Graves, Staide, Steele & Stone considered promoting him to senior partner. In the firm’s conference room, his glacier-faced superiors -- dressed in Inquisition-black suits, the uniform of their trade -- interviewed him about his won cases, lost cases, revenue potential and abilities to convince clients with deadpan earnestness that he could be a ruthless bulldog of an advocate.
As Motley explained his interpretation of the wages and workers’ compensation bill pending in the state Senate and how it could affect shareholder value for several of the firm’s publicly-traded corporate clients, the receptionist apologetically interrupted on the intercom. "Some people in the lobby want to see Mr. Motley."
"That’s odd," Motley said. "I didn’t make any appointments for this time. Who are they?"
"They, uh -- well, they say they’re your family."
Motley tried to suppress his panic. "Oh, uh, tell them I’m busy and cannot be disturbed --"
"Nonsense!" Stearne, the eldest partner, scoffed. "How serendipitous! This will give us an opportunity to learn more about you." He spoke into the intercom. "Please direct them to the conference room."
"Oh, I don’t think that would be a good idea, sir," Motley urgently cautioned. "My family - they, uh, are very shy around strangers."
The receptionist broadcast an update that Motley considered as welcome as a severe weather advisory: "They’ve already headed back there."
Motley covered his face with his hands as the conference room door got thrown open. Peeking through his fingers, he watched the senior partners’ eyes pop and jaws dangle.
"Sonny boy, how are you?" Motley’s father shouted, punctuating his question by squeezing the rubber bulb of a tin horn. He wore his usual porkpie hat, orange wig, painted face, striped clown suit and floppy, oversized shoes.
"Dad, you didn’t tell me you were coming," Motley said, standing and feigning some degree of pleasure in seeing his relatives.
"Surprise, surprise!" Motley’s mother declared. She wore her Sunday best, a mock nurse’s uniform with a heavily padded derriere. She hugged her startled son. "Oh, Bobo, it’s been so long. Just let me get a good look at you, my precious pancake." She clasped Motley’s hands, stepped back and examined him. "Oh, you’re so thin, Bobo. And flying flapjacks! You’re dressed like an undertaker. Why, these trousers aren’t baggy at all. And you’re not wearing your red suspenders that Aunt Candy got you for April Fool’s Day!"
She pulled numerous handkerchiefs from a sleeve, dipped one into a small make-up case she removed from her medicine-bag purse and powdered Motley’s face with clown white. "You just have no color at all."
Motley’s sister, dressed in an overly frilly, billowy child’s dress designed to expose her polka-dot bloomers, twirled her parasol and watched with curiosity. "Gee willikers, what’s become of you, Bobo?"
"I’m fine, Lollipop," B.B. assured her. "Really, everybody, I’m doing well."
"Have you been keeping up with your juggling, son?" Motley’s father asked. "Please tell me you’re still practicing some of the family traditions."
"So, B.B.," Stearne said as he recovered from his initial shock. "You never mentioned that you come from a family of -- uh --"
"Clowns," Motley’s father said with bravado. He reached forward to shake the elderly attorney’s hand and instead misted him with water from a fake boutonniere. "Oh, indeedy, Bobo comes from a long line of fools and jokers -- court jesters, carnival and circus performers, rodeo clowns. We thought he had real potential. But he suddenly scrammed and ended up here." He looked around, mystified. "What is this place?"
"A law firm," Stearne condescendingly explained.
"How sad," Mr. Motley observed as he continued to inspect the room. "How can you work every day in a place with so much -- paneling?"
"Now don’t make fun of them, Gumball," Mrs. Motley scolded her husband. "Not everyone was brought up with our advantages -- or your sense of décor and decorum."
"Ought to try some balloons," Gumball Motley suggested. "Balloons can brighten anyplace -- even this hole."
"Uh, Dad," B.B. quickly interjected, hastily trying to wipe the make-up off his face with a paper he stripped off a legal pad. "I was in the middle of being interviewed for a promotion. Perhaps I can meet all of you later for dinner -- or, if you prefer, corndogs and popcorn."
"I told you that, whatever we found him doing, he would be taking his work seriously," Mrs. Motley reminded her family, shaking her head in disapproval. "Didn’t I tell you that?"
"Oh, indeedy, Bubbles -- so you did," her husband confirmed, honking his horn. "I just had no idea the boy could sink so low." He turned to his son. "Tell me, Bobo, exactly what do you do around here?"
"I’m what they call a litigator, Dad," B.B. nervously answered, casting a hesitant smile at his bosses.
Stearne intervened. "You see, Mr. Motley, while you may earn a living throwing cream pies and pedaling unicycles, we at Stearne, Grimm, Graves, Staide, Steele & Stone conduct a relevant business. We take people to court on behalf of our many clients, sue them for monetary damages and then garnish a percentage of that money as our fee."
Gumball Motley appeared astonished and perplexed, his painted lips drooping into an exaggerated frown. "Well, drop my drawers, that doesn’t sound like fun at all." He quickly grinned and offered a snappy suggestion. "Wouldn’t you rather just make ‘em laugh?"
"Nooo," Stearne answered through pursed lips.
Gumball Motley shrugged as if he regarded Stearne to be a hopeless cause and again turned toward his wayward son. "Bobo, what are you doing here?"
Stearne abruptly answered. "Your son prefers to live in reality, Mr. Motley. Life is not an amusement arcade. It is hard. It is unfair. It is desperate, savage and predatory. At least the practice of law brings some semblance of order to what otherwise would be the anarchy your kind would let consume our society. Obviously, you know nothing about pain, struggle and suffering."
Gumball Motley tossed aside his horn and porkpie hat in a sudden, atypical burst of temper. "I know nothing of --- of pain, of struggle, of suffering? You think my life is all parades and birthday parties? Come with me to cheer up kids with leukemia in the pediatrics ward or the terminally ill at the hospice. I know damn well life isn’t fair and it isn’t pretty. But I didn’t raise my kid to wallow in despair or take advantage of others’ misfortunes -- or -- or -- or to just be a gloomy Gus. Ain’t there hope for your clients -- beyond mere monetary damages?"
Stearne settled into his amply-cushioned chair and paused in deep thought. "I -- suppose -- there could be. Perhaps B.B. -- uh, Bobo -- could offer our clients a bit of comic relief with each dose of legal advice -- a spoonful of sugar mixed into the medicine, as the children’s song says." His failing eyes brightened as he looked hopefully at his firm’s protégé. "What do you say, B.B.?"
B.B. scratched his skull as he mulled over the possibility. "Well, humor also might be a way to win over undecided jurors -- especially during closing arguments."
"Don’t let ‘em deliberate until they’ve heard your best one-liner," Gumball enthusiastically advised. "Hey, I’ve got an index card inventory of jokes for every occasion -- divorce, malpractice, contested wills, whatever. You just ask, sonny boy, and I can get you whatever material you need."
Stearne grinned, stood and clasped Gumball Motley’s gloved hand. "Sir, I am delighted to inform you that your son is about to become a senior partner at what will soon be known as Stearne, Grimm, Graves, Staide, Steele, Stone & Motley."
In a spontaneous celebration, Gumball, Bubbles and Lollipop tooted kazoos and tossed confetti. Unsure how to respond, the law firm partners awkwardly grinned and applauded.
When the revelry at last ceased, B.B. cheerfully -- but hurriedly -- escorted his jubilant family out. "I really appreciate your dropping by. I promise to keep in touch more often."
In the rush, Gumball Motley failed to notice the "wet floor" barricades that custodians set up as they mopped the lobby. He wobbled and slid across the slick surface like an uncoordinated ice skater on broken blades, until his feet and head swiftly performed the unexpected stunt of exchanging positions. He then traversed a corridor on his back and inadvertently exited into a stairwell, which he descended echoing cries of anguish that sounded somewhat like a collapsing accordion.
The flowers and "get well" cards he received in the hospital failed to amuse him.
The Motleys’ slip-and-fall lawsuit against Stearne, Grimm, Graves, Staide, Steele & Stone is pending.
B.B. "Bobo" Motley, Esq., now in his own firm, is uncertain whether he should represent the plaintiffs or defendants.
(copyright 2009, Dale Andrew White)
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