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Saga of the Peppermint Beasties

 

The beasties of Big Rock Candy Mountain lived simply.  They spent their days harvesting candy canes from the peppermint trees, trading with the beasties of neighboring Gumdrop Hill, drinking cocoa, and swimming in Fructose Lake.  Aside from occasional encounters with the pTerrible Peppermint Panther that roamed the woods, the peppermint beasties were content.

Until the dentists arrived.

It was later learned that the pTerrible Peppermint Panther—annoyed at being driven away from the peppermint orchard by fierce warriors armed with sugarcane spears—had sent a letter to a dentist he had met many moons ago.  The dentist had left his business card in gratitude for not being eaten (panthers never eat dentists, as they numb the mouth like Novocain) when he had wandered into the panther’s lair while lost in the forest.  To this day, no one is quite sure how the panther wrote the letter, as even pTerrible panthers lack opposable thumbs.

Upon receiving the letter, the dentist called an emergency meeting of the Committee to Poke People in the Gums.  “I have recently learned,” he said, “that there is a way to drastically lower the price of the peppermint we need to flavor toothpaste and mouthwash.”  He told them of the peppermint orchard, and of the beasties that controlled it.  The C.P.P.G. agreed that the only thing to be done was to conquer Big Rock Candy Mountain and claim the trees for themselves.

They invaded on a starless night, counting on catching the peppermint beasties unawares. The entire village would have been captured if it hadn’t been for the warning shouted by an elderly beastie rocking her grandchild to sleep on her peppermint patio.  As it was, the primitive spears were no match for the enemy’s dental drills.  Less than half of the beasties escaped.

Someday the peppermint beasties will take back their ancestral mountain.  They plot and prepare for the coming battle.  Planning for that day gives them purpose, but the refugees need a safe place to stay while their schemes are perfected.  They have heard of strange beings called “humans,” and are undertaking the long journey to human lands in the hope of finding sanctuary in their homes.

If you wish to offer shelter to three peppermint beasties, please visit our Etsy shop, TiMae Creations, and place an order for the Bag O’ Peppermint Beasties.  Each beastie is a unique plush toy made using an original design.

Poor Old Oscar

A few months ago I went crazy in a junk store and bought a bunch of stuff that I had no immediate plans for.  Among those items was somebody’s entire stamp collection, which filled a large box until I took the stamps out of the hundreds of tiny envelopes and dumped them in three jars.  Still, that’s a LOT of old stamps.

What I know about stamp collecting can be written on the head of a pin.  I guess some stamps are hard to find and therefore worth big bucks (at least to other stamp collectors)?  It’s unlikely that a rare stamp is somewhere in these jars, but there is still a tiny chance that there is something valuable. I now have a fantasy:

I am holding court at a party in a trendy gallery.  My stunning dress shimmers as I converse wittily with my many admirers.  (In my fantasy this is totally plausible.  Also, I’m a size 5.)  On the wall behind me is a series of my brilliant collages that incorporate the aforementioned stamps.

One of the guests idly peruses the art.  He is a short man in an ill-fitting tweed suit and a bad toupee.  His wife dragged him to this party against his will, and he’s hoping he can leave before someone tries to engage him in conversation.  Let’s call him Oscar.

Oscar glances at one of my pieces and is about to move on when he does a double-take.  Surely it couldn’t….no…wait….it IS!

“Noooo!” he wails.  “It’s the rare ten-cent three-headed red eagle stamp!  Generations of stamp collectors in my family have searched for it in vain!  It’s worth three hundred dollars!  And she’s glued it to a canvas!  There’s PAINT on it!”  He breaks down into sobs.  “How could you do that?  Did you know? Did you?”

All eyes are now on me.  “Of course I knew.  What you don’t realize, my dear man, is that art is more precious than mere money,” I say.

Spontaneous applause erupts.  Oscar is led away by kind people as I calmly sip a cocktail made of his tasty, tasty tears.

When no one is looking, I whip out a pen and write a new, hugely increased number on the price tag.