WHERE THE WILD THING IS

Most of my readers should be familiar with Mr. Badger from Wind in the Willows by now. And realize that in some part I model myself after that estimable gentleman. A mature individual, a pipe smoker, and by necessity somewhat solitary. In the book there is no evidence that Mr. Badger was ever romantically involved, and as a brock it would not be one-hundred percent likely that he might find a suitable mate. That is to say, someone with many of the same calm habits as himself, and inclined towards strolling silently through an overgrown forest late in the day while enjoying a smoke, or reading with a pot of tea under the cosy, while whisps of ethereal fragrance curl and drift upwards and a long deep bowl of pale Virginia flake tobacco gently reduces to ash.
Perhaps followed by a bit of curry for supper.
All English people are fond of curry.
It's what they eat best.


How, one wonders, would Mr. Badger fare when meeting the Disney characters? Marvelously well, one should think. He'd drive the little saccharine creeps out of his neighborhood with his blackthorn walking stick, uttering deprecatory remarks under his breath. Well, except for Tinker Bell. He'd probably keep her around a while for curiosity's sake, as despite his wealth of experience he would never before have seen a pre-pubescent with such astounding knockers.

What on earth is it?!?

Humanoid? Android? Dingbat New Jerseyoid?

Is it the legendary Snooky Kardoozian?

Nah, it's far too blonde.

Must be a troll.

Let's find it a bridge underneath which it can hide. Then erupt forth occasionally, scaring goats.


As for the others, it's astounding what that scarlet-pantsed rat has done to the icons of our youth. All right-thinking animals should descend on Disney World and torch the place. Frogs, chickens, and pigs need to run amok there, waving big cast iron frying pans and scaring away the brain-deadened brats of America and their misguided parents, before festooning themselves with smoking jackets and huffing some big, big stogies. Accompanied by Bourbon. Make the place Pluto-free. Then write rude graffiti on the walls, and open a casino.
Make it look urban-decayed.

Mr. Badger, of course, will be nowhere near.

While he approves wholeheartedly of rioting to destroy the dross, he is not social enough to engage in something so much like an orgy.


Instead, I will head across a bridge and spend time with grumbly old men smoking pipes, while strenuously avoiding the subject of what the world is coming to, my heavens. You will kindly keep your Disney-fed monsters out of our hair, as we have irritable natures. We may wave our briars at them, and make rude comments. Then introduce them to adult vices. Capstan Flake (blue tin). Capstan Ready Rubbed (yellow tin). Three Nuns (brown tin). Various blends for Castello, by Cornell & Diehl (several colours). Several jars of well-aged Virginias from L. J. Peretti in Boston, as well as densely rich flakes by Sam Gawith in Kendal, Cumbria. Products that the original Mr. Badger would surely have liked.

We shall enjoy ourselves, while chatting about rivers and boats and fishing tackle. We might even have some port wine. One of us will make wise remarks about Dunhill's London Mixture, another will remind us that he only smokes McClelland's Arcadia.

It is the meeting of the Golden Gate Pipe Club.

Grumbly old men is merely an intellectual concept, please understand. Most of us do not grumble (much), many of us are not old at all, and some of us are women.

If Tinker Bell showed up, we'd introduce her to Sam Gawith's Bracken Flake. Just to "man her up", and get her off of those horrid trollop aromatics she probably smokes.
And cover yourself, girl!
Stop being so immodest. Mr. Badger is staring at your tits.
Also dump that icky Bear.
He looks like poo.
We're adults.

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