The Tale of the Burping German Ned Nedmiller, King of Beers
Monday, Nov. 26, 2001
Like that faithful old pisser of a national monument out there in them park,
one could always set their watch to the Great Burping German of Pistro Falls,
Pennsylvania. When Ned was a boy he would often go to see that German down at
the bookstore or the dog track to ask him questions or just to stand there and
stare in wonderments. People came from far and near and places too near to be
far or too far to be near just to see that eighth belching wonder of the
world, as he sat with a little schnauzer dog named Blueten on his lap and
burped the merry day away.
Some said that one could peek into the future by listening careful to them
reverberant conflagrations of air and sausage fumes, like lookin’ close at
tea leaves or the part in Teddy Wetzembaum’s hair. Others waxed and waned
poetic ‘bout them ringers like they was the music of the night, a waltz of
the human iced with the frosting of the divine. Still others called him a
big fat pig of a slob and wished he’d eat his dinner in some other restaurant.
But nobody not here nor there denied that he belched, nor argued that it
weren’t frequent.
Once a scientist-type tried to catch one of the Burping German’s belches in a
great big balloon, like the kind them kiddies tie to their half-formed fists
with a band of rubber and then proceed to punch at the thing until one of them
is the loser. Needless to say, once he had that balloon he didn’t have to wait
long for the German to belch, and when he did, that scientist was lifted up in
the air like a hot air balloon pilot. And we didn’t see none of him for eight
more months until one day he floated on back into town dressed up like a geisha
girl and with two black eyes. Nobody never did ask him what happened on his
trip when he was riding that magical belch but nobody argued that he hadn’t
caught a burp in a balloon nor that he didn’t fly away like a squirrel taped
to a blimp.
Some folks, like the owner of the opera house who’d never once put on an opera
that wasn’t punctuated by rafter-rattling burps, or the dental assistant who’d
had her fillings shook out when she got too close to one of the Burping
German’s grade-A rumblers, and possibly the German’s upstairs neighbors also,
thought that we should run that German out of town by torchlight for
disturbing the public peace.
But the rest of us remembered all that the Burping German had done for us,
ever since the day many a year ago when he arrived in town mysteriously,
being burped up out of the belly of a beached whale and all down by the shore.
And unlike the Sneezing Chinaman of Cinder Nook or the Flatulent Finn of
North Tonken, the Burping German never stopped giving back to them peoples,
teaching little know-nothing children how to burp whenever they asked, and
delivering a special belch sermon in church on Sundays.
So them next time you hear a sound not quite like a goat and more roundish
than a foghorn, one that gives your earlobes a tickle and makes your hair
feel electrimafied, before you go to your cabinet for that elephant gun
remember that it may just be the Great Burping German of Pistro Falls,
stopping by to see if you have any baking soda to spare.
Milestones
the commune's scratch 'n sniff look at last year's office potluck
Opportunities
Pants a Capitalist
Free Virus Baggies
Take a Kitten, Please
the commune book selections
the commune's Bear in Rearview
the commune's Big Book of Duke
Faces of the commune
the commune 100: Leaders and Revolutionaries
the commune 100: Traitors and Noodledicks
FAQ Shwartz |
Site Map's Somewhere in the Glovebox |
Search In Vain |
Contract Ick
Privacy Police |
Terms of Gary Busey |
Reprints & Persimmons |
Press Eject Now
Raindrops Keep Falling on Ned’s Head
Ned could skin a rattlesnake in a minute, paint two states in an hour, and make minute rice in 13 seconds. “Hot Damn!” is what they once said about Ned.
Migglio the Monkey
Them Gypsies done built a little wooden cage for Ned, just big enough for him to crouch inside, with designs and little dancin’ bears painted all up it and down it.
Lookin’ a Gassed Horse in the Mouse
It is a dream that one day a giant mouse will come to town driving a fire truck, and everyone will give that mouse money, but Nedmiller will be out of money.
Lost My Way on the Slow Gray Train
Ned and the Titanic were like peas in a pod, and he entertained the guests and crew day and night with his inflatable pacemaker and a metal box that he claimed to contain Spain.
Check His Nipples, He May Be the King
But in truth, when one truly studies the unpublished crumbs and discarded scraps of History, an entirely different story comes into focus. It is the story of Ned Nedmiller and the Laughing Machine.
Please Hamlet Don’t Hurt ’Em
It’s a day that will live in infancy forever and never, that damnable day the Kaiser gunned down ol’ JFK.
Rubber Ain’t My Brother
Time to set the record straight, Pop’n Fresh. Who's in the kitchen with Dinah? Neddikins Nedmiller, them's the cat! Surprise!