Ringing in the Root Beer

Twisted gas needles! It's time! 'Tis the season when a Nedmiller's happier than a hamster cut up by a coat hanger! Next Yesteryear done come and came, and Ned had hisself the biggest Next Yesteryear ever, as can be vouched by the fresh gypsies of Good King Wencelas, no less.

All was well-fittin' with the tradition of Next Yesteryear as invented by Nedley's great grandfather and greater granddappa in the year seven days before 18 hundred and 66, the same year Wencelas choked himself to death on a camel toe. As in every year, Ned scaled the great tent pole in the backyard and planted the head of a dead fish to ward off the Next Yesteryear goblin and his self-dropping breeches. "Whew!" said Ned. No sense taking chances of free-danglin' goblin willies scaring off Ned's guests at this Yesteryear party, no sir!

Course if there is any guarantee to be had of a Yesteryear party for the ages, it comes from collecting all of your person's dead skin flakes and mixing them into a fine, grainy paste. No joking! A true Nedmiller would do nothing less for the best Next Yesteryear ever, and Ned did it up good. Big old books will tell you suntanning by the mighty oak tree in the backyard makes them skins nice an flaked, and Ned will be bit on the ass by a woodpecker if that's a printed falsehood. Also, you just know climbing inside the over helps a heap for making skin flakes crunchy and ready to be flaked!

Before three possums can say Yahtzee, them party is begun. Fresh off the trolley comes Ned's fat meaty cat, and Ned cooks 'em brilliant. None for you? More for Ned!

More treats for the guests is laid out by the handfuls. Cinnamon gravy richer than the king of Siam, bottle caps with moth eggs laid nice in, and a dead guy roasting on the lawn. And them's just for appeteasers! Such a time brings back mammaries of Ned's first Next Yesteryear back on the plantation, yessir. Brings a genuine wet tear to Ned's old eye. And pinkeye to Ned's nose, it should be noted.

But them foods and decorations is just the beginning to the Next Yesteryear celebration! No Yesteryear has come to town until the clock strikes home and it's for real the Hour of the Misbegotten. Masked dogs take Ned's guests hostages and Neddy Furtado hisself has to hide in the wall outlets, crawling about like ol' 'lectricity in all its glory, dispatching one canine after another until all them guests are back to safeness. Then you know them guests take one big-sized bath together while Nedmiller the New cavorts about in a Saran Wrap diaper as Baby Clamdipper. Only when Nedder's own shadow catches him and pops him back in a bottle of that Kentucky Bourbon is this Next Yesteryear officially kaputs.

Then them post-party depressionations set in, indeedy-Steve. Ned cries hisself into the fourth dimension and back one more time, saying Nedmiller backwards eleventy times to banish away them nasty spirits if needed. Should that falter, Ned either sacrifices a virgin or deflowers a town crier, or both at one moment in stereo, whichever them situation calls. Usually one of them and a yellow pie puts Ned back into high kippers for the brand new year, ready to plan out again the next Next Yesteryear shindig proper.

Ah, tradition.

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