Inside The House Of Tom Cholesteroleo

Yum yum ice cream cones, beef sticks, roly poly oleo,

Ring-A-Ding Dongs, clotted cream, whipped cream on my cocoa,

Buttered bread, pork rind puffs, rolling in my tummy-o,

Tom Tom, pudgy Tom, I'm Tom Cholesteroleo!

The catching song filled the air of the Old Forage* as Tom Cholesteroleo skipped along the path  from the barn to his house.  He pulled at the bottom of his treasured but under-sized Roll For Initiative t-shirt trying to cover the rolls of fat that seeped out from beneath it.  His leathery face was wrinkled with the ravages of time and he sported a frizzy salt-and-pepper beard that reached to the tops of his Birkenstocks.   Inside waiting with breakfast was Tom's common law wife Nutsenberries.   Dressed in a Holstein pattern black-and-white moo-moo accented by a cheese hat (made of real Swiss rather than foam) and a necklace with a golden cowbell charm, she was determined to bring The Master out of his current funk.  Tom stared at the table in the common room.  Ah, he thought, all my favorites.   “You've outdone yourself once again, Dairy Daughter,” he laughingly said to Nutsenberries, yet there was a sense of depression in his tone.  I see cheeses piled high, bread and butter, cream-filled doughnuts, and of course fresh clotted cream for my Honeycomb.  And look at you, all decked out in your party best.   May I assume we are having company.”  Tom's demeanor brightened a bit as he awaited an answer and sat his enormous doughy frame at the table.   He grabbed the bowl of cream and poured the Honeycomb onto it.   The cereal sat high upon the thick cream like a bottle cap on beer foam.   Tom dipped his spoon into the delightful mixture and shoveled it into his mouth.   Crunching on the breakfast cereal Tom mumbled,  “So they are finally coming!  I can't wait for the excitement of a film shoot.  We've been passed over by so many productions.”   He ran his fingers through his beard to chase out bits of cheese  and bacon that had made themselves a home long ago.   “I guess I should finish up here and clean up a bit,” he laughed.  But the laughter was short-lived.

“Oh Tom, I'm sorry but I know of no one coming to visit.   I just wanted to cheer you up with a fantastic meal before you start your new diet today.   A promise made is a promise kept.   You do agree that you are  a heart attack waiting to happen,” Nutsenberries  dolefully replied. 

“What's the use, Dairy Daughter, “Tom whined as  he grabbed a handful of doughnuts.  “I used to be Master of all, now I've been left behind and forgotten.   I can understand why the Elvis' are leaving.  Piddle Earth has changed.   I don't have what the world  now demands of its heroes and I'm too old to change.”  There are no hot babes at my beck and call ... no offense, my dear.   Fowl utterances do not cross my lips.  I have no fantastic weapons or cool armor.  I don't have six-pack abs or a chiseled face.   Blood doesn't flow from the wounds of my enemies.   I can't behead  my foes with the fling of a doughnut or eviscerate them with beef sticks.” 

“Nonsense,” scolded Nutsenberries.   “You are a man of wisdom and virtue.   Your songs are your sword and your honor is your armor.  Regardless of your wimpiness you are still The Master!”

Just then the doorbell chimed.


Ring-A-Ding Dillo

Pork Rinds on my pillow,

Tee hee, chuckle chortal

Open up the portal!

“Someone has come!  You are so wise, Dairy Daughter.   I AM THE MASTER!” shouted a newly energized Tom Cholesteroleo.

He opened the door wide to see a geeky looking  man wearing a blue suit.   In the visitor's right hand was a sealed manilla envelope. The man studied Tom's overweight frame through black horn-rimmed glasses that were taped together at the left temple.  “Tom Cholesteroleo?” he queried.

“I knew it, Nutsenberries, he has brought us a script!  You must have known he was on his way and you never let on.” 

An impatient Tom, forgetting any manners,  tore the envelope from the man's hand and handed him a half-eaten doughnut.   “Keep the change,”  he stated as he enthusiastically ripped open the package and read the first page aloud, “Tom Cholesteroleo, you are hereby evicted from the Old Forage.   You have until sunset to vacate the premises.”   Tom's heart sunk as the sun rose.    He then unexpectedly burst into song, a foul gutteral tune that was never heard from him before, or ever  would be heard from him again.  


**&&%%$$     !&$$#@#      *&^&#$%%^   -dol

^#$$?><”5        *#:::”@#       &*??”{}##@@  -nol

&^***$%%      :}{^&^%$    I'm Tom Cholesteroleo

The astounded messenger turned and ran as fast as he could and disappeared deep into the Old Forage.

Tom's spirits hit the floor.   “That's the final insult, Dairy Daughter,” he fumed.  “There's nothing left here for us.   I will not put up a fight.   We may as well start packing.  My one hope is that this embarrassing event  won't be chronicled in any of the history books of Piddle Earth, for I still retain some pride.”

Nutsenberries addressed the Master, trying to comfort him.   “Don't worry, Tom Cholesteroleo.   I have a feeling that even in a spoof we would be edited from the narrative.”

* In times long ago forgotten by everyone except Tom Cholesteroleo, The Old Forage was the recepticle for all discarded magical items  and the waste from their making.   Little was known of the dangerous effects from the residual mana either stored in the items or  subtly changed in the discarded materials of manufacturing process. 

Not until Tom had noticed changes in the look and  demeanor of his dairy herds that drank from nearby streams and grazed the adjoining fields  did anyone pay heed  to rumors of deformed creatures and odd tasting dairy products.   Of course, once discovered, it was too late.  Men had rummaged  through the waste for centuries.  The cruel by-product of their folly  resulted not only in the more benign evolution of beings called Stubbies but also included many more frightening creatures soon to be revealed.

Tom Cholesteroleo was quick to react and closed up the magic dumping ground and encouraged the recycling and recharging of all magical items.  All manufacturing waste was directed to  the dregs of Murmur where it was whispered that no one lived. 

The Old Forage remained and out of it grew a great magical forest that still housed Tom’s dairy and spawned many new fantastic but annoying creatures.

Copyright  2002, 2012 John Keefe


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