curiosity...

Odd I should find a lonely easel at the edge of the woods. A human—painting a picture of the clearing, no doubt. I drew closer to get a better look. It was blank. The paint was still there and I found it interesting that wet paint had been left on the palate, almost as if the painter had left in a hurry. Perhaps he had been startled by something—a monster? Suppose that horrid little creature should return. I ignored my gut feeling. I was more curious about this unique find.

I picked up a tube of blue oil base and slowly unscrewed the cap. I must have been squeezing the tube because a thin stream of paint fell to the ground. I could resist no longer, I squirted some of the blue onto the palate and feverishly began unscrewing the caps of the remaining tubes. Taking the tubes into my hand, I squeezed them all at once onto the palate and began mixing them together with a brush I had found lying on the ground. When I had blended my paint to the desired colors, I began to paint. I painted soft curves and striking angles, fiery eyes, a leathery snout, hair, teeth, and nails. I painted for about half an hour until I had almost finished the most incredible picture of a monster ever painted.

I was just putting on the finishing touches when suddenly I heard a noise. Before I could move, through the brush appeared the most hideous looking human I have ever seen. We both screamed and I took off into the woods leaving my self-portrait behind. He’ll have a hard time explaining that picture.

Talk about your childhood wishes...

Who can make a sun rise? sprinkle it with dew?** (see below) Sadly, it is not the Candy Man. More or less it is a secret code warning America of impending holocaust. If you will notice, the song suggests the Candy Man wants the world to taste good. You and I both know that the only way the world could possibly taste good is if it was fried crispy. No one wants to bite into raw world. As you have probably already noticed, this song is mostly figurative. Obviously, the sunrise isn't the rising of the sun, it is referring to the flaming fireball produced by the atomic bomb. If you will also notice the line "because he mixes it with love." The song is obviously not referring to actual love. Here, "mixes" is the key word referring to the required ingredients delicately mixed together with a blender and, as mentioned later in the song, "makes everything he bakes satisfying and delicious."

Let us not lose sight of the reason this song was written. In spite of the many theories offered by more qualified men than I, the fact is, anyone can see that this song is a plea. Notice the urgent request repeated over and over again: "the Candy Man?" It is evident this song is America's plea to tax payers begging the guilty party to "please stand up. We won't get you in trouble."

Mazer Thumpkin


**In the past, the submission of worthy prospects such as Homer, P.T. Barnum, and Ziccafoose Fudge were a constant quibble among the common people. It wasn't until the early 70's the "Candy Man" became the widely acclaimed answer to this nagging question. In order to convince the public, liberal lawmakers advertised this theory as fact and, writing a popular song dedicated to the magical character "the Candy Man," suggested that such publicity would "render the Candy Man 'hip.'"

Lights Out

There is a belief held among the educated that all students of a higher level should be in bed by midnight. In order to insure their wishes are met, they send a short, creepy fellow to peek his head in the door of all poor learners. He peers in with eyes that prove to be unkind to privacy or to those who prove to be sleeping. All this to make certain that we are either studying or fast asleep, at least that is the lie they want you to believe.

Instead, they are going about due to their own fears. Fears of what we brilliant minds are up to. It is a true saying that lightning never strikes twice in the same place. However, that statement has no relevance here. They go crawling about with bellies lower than those of snakes. Cracking open the doors of our humble resting places, they peer in "to check on us" and "to make certain all is well." At least that is what they want you to believe.

We students know their suspicions, and they are all true. We do have plans. So dark, so dreary, so unimaginably terrifying that to whisper them would be almost sinful. We think not on sleep, but on revolution, reformation, and freedom. Freedom from the chains of adolescence that we so wrongfully thought were gone away.

This freedom will cost. This freedom is not at all free, which is puzzling, since the word "freedom" implies no cost. However, there is a cost. The blood of many will be spilt, or at lest sweat will be shed. It is also true that you cannot turn a donkey into a racehorse, but once again that has no significance here, although it is both wise and true.

Even as I write these words the Creeper is walking the hallways. He splunks his way down the dark corridors of this our residence, looking for blood. He searches for souls. Not just because it is his duty but also his passion. But tonight there will be a change.

I write this as I may be facing my last night of life. I will look into death's face tonight, and I will laugh. Not just a mere chuckle but a deep full forced laugh of enjoyment. I will stand. I will take this venomous Dragon down with a swift kick and swing of my hefty battle instrument of doom. At least this is the plan.

There is no telling what the Creeper will do, nor what he is thinking. All that can be known is his thirst for perdition. I stand. I wait. I feel my heart beat, until one of us strikes!

Godfrey Thatcher