Congratulations to grasswire, the #07 Top DUmmie of 2012!
The pie-and-jam primitive, who’s in her upper 60s, and from a suburb just east of Portland, Oregon, has never once appeared as a Top DUmmie, not even in the bottom half of the top twenty, which surprises one.
It surprises one because the pie-and-jam primitive’s been a fixture in many of the “small†forums on Skins’s island for years now, and her addled antics well-publicized here in the DUmpster. The pie-and-jam primitive’s noted for her eccentricities, which include going around to garage sales pulling a child’s little red wagon behind her, wearing six or seven winter coats in the height of summer, shopping for food every day because “it’s what the Europeans do,†and putting ice-cubes inside her
brassiere.
Perhaps the most startling revelation of the pie-and-jam primitive was shortly before the old DU pretty much closed up shop as the new DU came into being, December 2011, was in the cooking and baking forum of the old place, where she alleged her great-great-grandson was helping her make cookies.
It couldn’t have been an error due to lapses of old age, because she wrote it two times, “great-great-grandson.â€
Beginning with grasswire herself, say, circa 67 or 68 years of age, and given that the great-great-grandson appeared to be circa five years old, there must’ve been a lot of 12-year-old brides in that family tree, given that that’s
five generations.
Whoa.
To her credit, the pie-and-jam primitive cares for a handicapped descendant, but no more to be said about that, as the DUmpster watches only primitives, keeping innocent family members out of it. It is however something useful to know, in case one is flailing around to find something decent in her.
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It wasn’t this past year, but it was a couple of years ago, that the pie-and-jam primitive, with much pomp and clamor and ceremony announced she was opening up a pie-and-jam shoppe to subsidize high-school music programs in her area.
An admirable motive, to be sure, but there was a problem; she was going to give free pie to teachers and governmental employees who dropped by, but charge the honest working people for a slice. Sort of giving it away free to the rich, and charging the poor extra to make up for it.
This inspired a scene in
a primitive Christmas Carol, in which the hippywife primitive Mrs. Alfred Packer (a good friend of the pie-and-jam primitive’s) is escorted around by franksolich as the ghost of Christmas Present (and Past, and Yet To Come):
…..then hippywife and franksolich flew north, up to Oregon, where they stopped in front of a pie-and-jam shoppe owned and operated by the grasswire primitive.
At the same time, the Die alte Sau, the Proud2BLibKansan primitive, pulled up in front, at the wheel of a 2013 Mercedes-Benz. Behind her came Pamela, the demtenjeep primitive, in a 2013 Jaguar.
They walked inside the shoppe together, and were greeted by grasswire, “Free pie for the rich, for teachers and other government employees, two-fifty a slice for the hoi polloi, the laboring masses.â€
After they got their free pie and sat down, there came into the store the little ragged match-girl, her pale and emaciated little brother in hand. It’d been a cold, blustery day on the street, and there hadn’t been many takers for matches at a penny apiece. She was barefoot and blue, but her little brother was much more far gone.
“A piece of pie, ma’am, please, for my little brother,†the wretched match-girl begged; “he hasn’t eaten in four days.
“Please, ma’am.â€
The pie-and-jam primitive glared at the little match-girl; she preferred a higher class clientele.
“It’s two-fifty a slice,†she said; “you got two-fifty?â€
The wan little match-girl searched among the rags she was wearing, finding a penny here-and-there.
After all was said-and-done, she’d piled $2.43 on the counter.
“I need seven more cents,†grasswire pointed out. “You got seven more cents?â€
The little match-girl looked at her, pleading. “No, I don’t ma’am, that’s all I have.
“It’s for my little brother; we both haven’t eaten in four days, but he’s littler, and weaker than I am. He’s starving, ma’am. Please, ma’am.â€
“Get out of here,†the pie-and-jam barked; “I’m not in this business for my health.â€
Nothing came of the pie-and-jam primitive’s dream; it demanded too much work, and at her age, she wasn‘t up to it.
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The pie-and-jam primitive spent much of this year detectivizing the mysterious case of who killed the late red round one, and attempting to connect the neighborhood-protecting George Zimmerman with
Opus Dei.
In her investigation, she read
every single word franksolich had
ever written on freerepublic (and perhaps here too), a monumental task if there ever was one; compared with that,
War and Peace is simply a two-page abstract.
But she did, becoming the number one expert on franksolich; no one now knows more about myself than the grasswire primitive.
However, she never did resolve either case.
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Besides cooking and baking, genealogy, and criminal investigating, the pie-and-jam primitive’s into going to garage sales, rummage sales, yard sales, in pursuit of elusive treasures, which she hopes someday to sell on eBay.
However, she’s not quite as smart as her pal the vindictive primitive, the “Vinca†primitive, another elderly woman who constantly preaches, “You’ve got to be sharp; you’ve got to cheat the other guy before he cheats you,†and buys Louis XIV goods at Dollar General prices and sells Dollar General goods at
louis quatorze prices.
Most of the pie-and-jam primitive’s “treasures†end up in a rented large storage unit near where she lives, and lately she’s been mumbling about having to get another, large unit as this one’s filled to the rafters.
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And finally, franksolich’s personal message to grasswire; everybody else can quit reading this award now, and go on to reading something else.
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You know, dear grasswire, the years are hastening on, in which all mortal men--including franksolich and yourself--nightly pitch our tent one day’s march nearer the mausoleum.
Time and chance has a great deal to do with each of our going, the younger sometimes taken before the older. But it’s usually reasonable to speculate that the older one is, the closer one is to the end of life’s journey.
As one wends those last few miles through life, it’s good to take stock of what one has been.
Your “treasures†are junk, nothing more. They’re going to be a burden to those you leave behind, who will be compelled either to rent one of those very large construction-site dumpsters so as to get all of it out to the landfill, or if they have the time, to dispense of them via some sort of “distress†sale or auction, getting perhaps ten cents on the dollar, for what you paid for them.
You’ve been a very vain, silly woman, grasswire.
However, as the sun sets, there’s still time to do something useful with your life.
Summon the garbageman to haul away your junk, and that burden lifted from your shoulders, sit back, relax, and get mellow in a rocking chair, your handicapped descendant providing awesome and wonderful companionship as you thumb through the Scriptures for comfort and solace.
It would make your last few years in this time and place much more enriching than the many decades you’ve lived preceding it, dear grasswire.
