Five Song Friday: A Tale of Elf-Preservation
Episode #138: Toilet Humor, Slap Happy Saps and Unstoppable Rock
My name is Mr. Jingles and this is my story.
I am not sure how I came to this place. I spent my life asleep in a box, until one day it opened, and there I was.
My first memory is being held aloft, followed by happy squeals and the applause of tiny hands.
Two big humans. Three little ones. One canine.
It felt like… home.
One of the little ones shouted, “He’s here! He’s here!”
The children were delighted to see me. They stared with wonder in their eyes. I could feel the love in their hearts.
But then came the rules of the game. They grew fearful as the adults told them never to touch me.
No hugging. No snuggling. Not even a playful poke.
They explained that any touch from a child would rob me of my magical ability to fly back and forth to the North Pole every night.
When the smallest girl asked if a cuddle would kill me, the adult male said no, but without magic, “He may as well be dead.”
I did not like the sound of that.
After the children were sent to bed, the adult female served me a cup of herbal tea.
Drink this, she said.
It tasted sour. Made me feel fuzzy. Last thing I remember was adults giggling and making shush noises.
That was the start of my nightmare.
I woke up in a pantry, stuffed between cereal boxes. It was dark and hard to breathe. I could not feel my legs.
Hours later the lights went on and one boy said, “I found him!”
Since I lack the ability to speak, I tried to send the boy a message with my eyes.
Help me. Help me please.
No good. Even though inside I was pleading for rescue, my wide blue eyes and permanent plastic smile made it seem like everything was okay.
But I was pretty fudging far from okay.
Night after night played out the same way.
The children go to bed and the adults render me unconscious. They stow my limp and lifeless body in some awkward spot until I am discovered the next morning.
I am not sure why they felt the need to sedate me. Maybe that made it easier for them to do what they did.
It wasn’t always drowsy tea. Sometimes it was pills. Once they gave me an injection.
And then there was the night the adults drank wine and the man strangled me with his thumb and forefinger until everything went black.
They thought that was hilarious.
Morning after morning I woke up inside kitchen pots, dish cabinets and houseplants. They hid me under the sink with the poisons and left me overnight in the freezer with the popsicles and baby peas.
They posed me in compromising positions with stuffed animals and assorted vegetables. Gave me tiny sunglasses and took photos of me with groups of unclothed plastic women.
They bound my hands with twine. Sealed my mouth with a sliver of duct tape. Slipped on a black hood. Secured tiny clamps to my non-existent nipples.
The adults seemed to take pleasure from my nightly humiliation and torture.
But as awful as it was, their cruelty became my only source of human contact. Because after only two weeks, the children stopped looking for me.
I sometimes languished for days in the same spot. My only companions were spiders, dust and despair. Madness was looming.
According to the adults, the children were bored with the game. The kids had moved on. And the grown-ups weren’t far behind.
By week three, the male grew exasperated and gave up on clever hiding places.
I got balled up and jammed into couch cushions. I slept in trash cans. I spent one bitterly cold night splayed out in the back of a pickup truck.
When he invited the dog to chew on my legs, the female intervened.
She said, “We still have to keep it up until Christmas.”
Looking back on that night, I wish I had mustered the strength to hurl myself into the fireplace.
My stuffing would have ignited in a snap and with a whoosh, the flames would have consumed all of my pain.
But I just sat there on the couch like an idiot. I didn’t fight. I did nothing.
And when the male came at me with the baby sock soaked in chloroform?
I just surrendered and took a deep breath in.
Which is how I ended up here. On Christmas Eve. In a bathtub with Elmo. Both of our legs padlocked and chained to a water pipe.
I see the hacksaws at my feet and I know that they are watching us. I know what they want me to do.
I can earn my freedom by hacking off my own foot.
Or I can murder Elmo to get the key.
My only two choices are self-mutilation or murder. Either way, those sickos get a show.
I can hear them now, the laughter echoing in their cold, black hearts. These ghouls are giddy for the gory finale of my twenty-four days of hell.
It’s too bad I have to deny them the pleasure.
You see, in my most desperate hour, I actually have a third choice.
A choice that lets me keep my foot, spare the Muppet’s life and end this madness once and for all.
Because as horrible as these two human beings are, they have good kids. Kids that listen. Kids that don’t touch what they’re told not to touch.
Which means that I’m still magic.
So all I need to do is wish myself away to the North Pole and I am GONE.
No more suffering. No more shelf. You can’t hurt me anymore.
Merry Christmas to me.
Game over, motherfuckers!
Five Song Friday #138
“Riot in Thunder Alley” - Eddie Beram
This song is from the 1967 movie Thunder Alley, starring Fabian and Annette Funicello. Coincidentally, this is also my catchphrase after a long stretch in the bathroom. “Give it a few minutes, babe. There was a real riot in Thunder Alley.”
“Fight” - No-Fi Soul Rebellion
“I wish I was a lover, but you know I have to fight.” I don’t know man, therapy might be good for you. Talking is good. Sharing is caring. And you need to know that people don’t like to be slapped, unless they are into that kind of thing. But generally, in the day-to-day? Slapping is not cool.
“I’m Glad That We Broke Up” - Du Blonde, Ezra Furman
It’s been great because I’ve been able to spend time by myself and figure out who I am, you know? Like, we were good together, don’t get me wrong. But by the end it was clear that both of us had stopped trying. It’s like me with writing about these songs. I started off really eager to share more about the artist and their inspiration and the backstory. But now? I’m just filling space and killing time. Which is what you said to me at dinner that night when you told me that you had slept with Gordon.
“Tweet Tweet Tweet” - Sleaford Mods
Are they even called tweets anymore? Does anyone care? Are we on Threads or Bluesky? Can my houseplants understand me? Does my dog understand the news? And all joking aside, do these pants make my ass look fat?
“Stop the Rock” - Apollo 440
You can’t stop the rock and I wouldn’t bother trying.
“You can spread jelly on the peanut butter but you can't spread peanut butter on the jelly.” - Dick Van Dyke (Born December 13, 1925)
You should watch this Spike Jonze-directed Coldplay video starring the now 99-year-old Dick Van Dyke because it’s heartwarming and sweet and we could all use the feels.
Thanks for reading!
Have fun. Stay safe. Don’t be a jerk.
Sincerely,
DJ CrankyPete