Tuesday, December 25, 2012


There are two fruitcakes in my kitchen right now.
I have no idea how they got there. This must be the mysterious confectionery multiplication that I've heard about. They increase exponentially.
One single fruitcake leaves Texas every year. Just one.
And before you know it, they are everywhere.
Cell-division, like a primitive life-form.
By the time the solstice comes around, civilization is awash with fruitcakes, then just as suddenly they disappear.
It's a mystery.

I am alone in the house. With TWO fruitcakes.

And, remarkably, I think I now must wander around the neighborhood smoking my pipe.
If I should see a nice young woman who looks lonesome, I will likely ask her in, to share some fruitcake.

[Not, strictly speaking, the most practical of ideas at present, as it is raining buckets outside; but a drenched orphan might appreciate it.]

Hello, Young Lady! Can I offer you some fruitcake?
I have EXCELLENT fruitcake at home!
Two of them. Please.

The world is NOT ready for anyone tempting innocent young persons with a promise of divine fruitcake. That is the kind of queer shiznit you read about in newspapers.


This, you will agree, would be the perfect holiday headline in the San Francisco Chronicle. A middle-aged bachelor using fruitcakes as a decadent and possibly depraved lure for the unwary. The city is a dangerous place, when people like me lurk in residential neighborhoods with fruitcakes.

Miss, I'm going to feed you fruitcake.
Till you scream.

I am evil.

Nevertheless, they are truly wonderful fruitcakes. And there is far more than I can possibly eat by myself; I should like some help. But being both a practical man as well as just a wee bit gluttonous, I do NOT want the assistance of someone with a humongous appetite.
Forgive me, but I wish to consume the greater portion.
So naturally a youthful female of modest physical dimension comes to mind as the logical partner in fruitcake.
Her dietary self-control will limit her intake.
We'll have equal portions, with cocoa.
Later I will walk her home.

Then at around two in the morning, I shall have some more.
Toasted, with melted butter, and a little whisky.

Percentage-wise, I get most of it.

Unless she twists my arm.

Or offers me a carrot.

NOTE: Readers may contact me directly:
All correspondence will be kept in confidence.


indignantly amphibious said...

"Elderly delinquent"? I'm not having that. Middle-aged delinquent, surely?

The back of the hill said...

That would be precise. But comparatively, in terms of delinquency, everyone over thirty counts as 'elderly'.

Both among Generation Blah and headline writers.
To the first we are veritable antiques, to the second it likely looks more arresting to write "elderly delinquent".

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