In an effort to be as factual about our subject as possible, I should correct one common misconception straight off the bat. It has long been rumored that Elvin H. Thwiddlebottom was born from the happy union of a wildebeest and a garden gnome. This is, of course, complete and utter rubbish. There was nothing happy at all about the union. In fact, shortly after Elvin’s birth, the garden gnome ran off to live in a hippie commune just east of Branson, Missouri, while the depressed wildebeest abandoned her child and eventually found work in Las Vegas under the pseudonym “Celine Dion”.

Elvin was left in the care of nuns at St. Orphan’s Orphanage for Orphaned Orphans, but it was not long before he was adopted by Robert and Roberta Thwiddlebottom, who named him after their favorite ball of lint. Unfortunately, the Thwiddlebottoms were a couple so nondescript and completely lacking in character that if you were to put a blank piece of paper in front of any of their friends and tell them it was a family portrait, they would all comment favorably on the amazing likeness. Naturally, this made Elvin’s infamous physical deformity stand out like a physically deformed sore thumb.

You see, Elvin H. Twiddlebottom had a head composed entirely of granite. I do not mean this in any metaphorical sense whatsoever. I mean, quite literally, that his entire cranium was composed of igneous rock.

This abnormality posed little problem during Elvin’s childhood, aside from the stage when he learned to walk. If you can imagine the body of a toddler trying to support the weight of a boulder nearly equal to its size, then you can easily envision the problem inherent in the situation. Fortunately, Elvin was able to shrug off the many trips and falls which typically resulted in nothing more than a minor sliver being chipped from his forehead. A few seconds with his father’s belt sander and he was as good as new.

His real problems began when he entered grade school, but not for the reasons one would expect. While he certainly heard his share of schoolyard taunts such as “Rockhead”, “Rocky McRockhead”, and “Stupid Weird Kid with a Big Rock for a Head”, a quick head butt to the offending party usually prevented any repeat occurrences. Yes, Elvin had a much more worrisome dilemma than the local schoolyard bully. His major problem was erosion.

Just as a small stream of water will gradually erode even the most durable stone, the trickles of saliva constantly flowing through Elvin’s mouth eventually wore down the lower half of his head from the inside, creating a large crater. By the time he began high school, the area below his nose was hollowed out into a large permanent “O”, giving him the appearance of constantly being surprised. His parents tried to console him by focusing on the benefits of his mineral make-up. “At least you don’t have to worry about common teenage problems such as zits or dandruff,” they would tell him. However, as I stated earlier, Elvin’s adoptive parents were remarkably bland and, therefore, easily ignored.

Elvin sank into a deep depression. He confined himself to his room and laid on his bed, staring at his television set for hours on end, occasionally rolling over to ensure that his head would not gather any moss. At one point, he even considered purchasing a jackhammer in order to end it all. But just as he was ready to flip to the Home Shopping Network to see how much such tools cost, the cathode ray screen delivered his savior in the form of a city councilman.

It was an advertisement endorsing Jack Schmidt for re-election to the city council. Elvin watched as the pudgy and not particularly attractive man animatedly spouted one outrageous promise after another while walking through his neighborhood. What impressed Elvin was how everyone he walked by smiled at him. Sure, most of the smiles were expressions of bemused tolerance, but a few showed a genuine enthusiasm. This odd-looking fellow seemed to have some real friends, a point which was further hammered home by the statement at the end of the commercial indicating that it was paid for by Friends of Jack Schmidt.

At that moment, the clouds of depression parted. Elvin H. Thwiddlebottom’s destiny became clear to him and he did what any hard-headed man with a big mouth would do. He became a politician.

Stubby Pumpernickel has been described as "...like Robin Williams, but a lot less serious (1)." Readers of this book who are looking for the origins of his funniest acts, or perhaps an academic investigation of their appeal, will be disappointed: The origins of the acts are lost in Stubby's twisted mind, and explaining their attraction is futile. If you have tried to describe The Duck and the Steamroller to the uninitiated, you will understand. Similarly, there is no valid explanation for the public fascination engendered by the The Big Fat Man with the Big Smashed Nose, nor can enlightenment be forthcoming concerning the overwhelming popularity of Tiny Baby Bunny Blues.

It is understood that Stubby is responsible for a 12% nationwide increase in torn rib cartilage, a 17% increase in split guts, and an astounding 23% rise in cases of Coca Cola inhalation pneumonia over the past two years (2).

No one really understands why.

Certainly, no one in the traditional comedy community saw it coming. Comedy is infamous for turning on a dime--the rise of Bill Cosby, Steve Martin with the arrow through his head (3), the Killer Bees of Saturday Night Live, Whoopie Goldberg, Chris Rock--the history of humor is rife with these little ripples of surprise that wash fans toward new beaches.

Stubby Pumpernickel was a tidal wave. Early in his career, his surprising success was often attributed to his on-stage appearance, but if a formal tuxedo with a red clown wig and a John Waters pencil mustache was sufficient to sell 100 million DVDs, everyone would have done that (4).

Stubby's props, of course, are unique. Chainsaw juggling is quite common these days, but Stubby was the first to juggle two chainsaws and two porcupines--live porcupines (5). He is musically talented, as his playing of a live goose demonstrates, and he is, of course, a world-class mute rap artist.

Stubby's characters are also quite novel: Governor Samuel Sanctimonious, Molly the Mage, Tinkerbell's evil twin sister, Honkahorne, Kermit the Dog, and of course Tiger W00TZ, "L337 Caddy to the Stars." But all of these characters came later in his career. His first album, The Scarlet Pumpernickel, was straight narrative, and emulated Cosby even to the extent of re-working two of his bits, Little Tiny Hairs (6) and Chicken Heart (7).

Stubby's singular combination of dead-pan delivery and broad physical comedy developed later, and only slowly evolved into its current form: a quirky cross between actor, comedian, circus performer, horror author, and marriage counselor (8). This style reached its zenith in the recently-released Baloney on Pumpernickel, soon to be made into a minor motion picture.

Although the public is justifiably interested in Stubby's performing career, two other aspects of his life are equally deserving of exploration, and are the primary topic of Part II of this biography. Chapters 10 through 12 describe Stubby's career in the Air Force. Colonel Pumpernickel did jobs no one else would undertake. For example, this book for the first time reveals Stubby's assignment as Chief Petty Officer, Minuteman III Nozzle Cleaning Division. Stubby also served as Damage Control Officer for the Military Power Division of Enron (9).

Finally, this biography reveals for the first time Stubby Pumpernickel's third career, as a Professor of Metaphysics at Eastern Subnormal State Teacher's College. He is the author of several books, including this biography (10).

The next chapter recounts Stubby's childhood, including his storied career as a stunt double.

-----------
Notes

1. Sullivan, E., and Begley, Jr., E. (Eds.) Fifty Years of American Comedy, 1956 -2006.
2. Physician's Professional Conference on Comedy-Induced Injuries, Tahiti, 2005.
3. Actually, the arrow is broken in half, and each half is affixed to a headband so that it merely appears to go through his head.
4. Indeed, statistics from the General Association of Comedy Klubs (GACK) indicate that approximately 343 comedians tried. All of them died on stage (figuratively speaking, mostly).
5. Early objections to this act by PETA became muted after Pumpernickel needled protestors with both his wit and his porcupines.
6. (Albeit focused on a different anatomical area.)
7. This bit was renamed Bunny Heart, and, as will be seen in Chapter 5, it evolved into the Tiny Baby Bunny series (including Tiny Baby Bunny Breadsticks, Tiny Baby Bunnies Breeding, and Tiny Baby Bunny...BLAM!).
8. It should be noted that this characterization is controversial. Horn and Hardart argue that Pumpernickel is more fairly described as combining Prussian oral history, juggling, and Gilbert and Sullivan, whereas Woodward and Lothrup assert that his style mixes Irish step dancing, Shorei Ryu, and mysticism. These positions are dismissed in detail in Chapters 8 and 9.
9. The fact that Enron's Military Power Division has been unheard of before now is testament to Colonel Pumpernickel's skills.
10. Stubby Pumpernickel, personal communication (10).

Perhaps the greatest achievement in the life of Brian St. James has been the uniting of all people of the world: all nations, all races, and all creeds. For when we see the amazing footage on television, or the incredible photos in National Geographic, everyone is compelled to ask, “What the heck? Is that guy nuts?” And in our common stupefaction, we are brought just a little closer together.

But, Brian St. James was not always the Wildebeest Man of the Serengeti. Long before his days of migrating across the plains of Africa, he experienced several less successful attempts at herbivore assimilation.

*** Chapter 1 - Dances with Ungulates ***

At the tender age of 24, Brian left his home in Indiana and headed west to the Great Plains. There, among the mighty cattle herds, he finally discovered the happiness that had eluded him throughout his childhood. The cows provided something for Brian that humans never had: friendship.

They played games and frolicked in the verdant pastures, whiling the hours away with cud chewing contests and tail swishalongs. Brian was truly in his element. Though he preferred grain, he quickly became accustomed to grass. And the salt lick was a special treat. Unfortunately, a series of incidents compelled him to abandon the great herds and seek the companionship of other ruminants.

In his innocence, he had expected life among the cattle to be the sweetness and light he had seen on television. By dwelling in their midst, he directly experienced the less attractive facets. Between branding irons, lariat burns, and one particularly chilling incident with an automatic milking machine, Brian began to fear for his safety. Furthermore, the hazards were not purely physical. The bigoted and misguided beliefs of ranchers and cowboys broke his young heart, and left him with a dire bitterness toward his own species.

It was at this juncture that Brian forswore domestic breeds. Reasoning that his unhappiness was directly related to his proximity to humans, he decided to try his luck with the wild herds. Inspired by a nickel he found by the roadside, Brian sought the noble buffalo. But he couldn’t find them, so he fell in with an elk herd in Colorado.

Happily, he roamed the mountains through that spring and summer. As the autumn rut started, though, Brian began to feel strange. He found himself looking at the females in a new light. And his dreams grew a bit creepy. Providentially, before he could act on his impulses, Brian was challenged by a yearling bull. The clash of their antlers would have been heard for miles around, had Brian possessed antlers. As it was, his screams, as sharp points pierced sensitive places, were audible at quite a distance.

Life as a lone elk was no more appealing with winter approaching. It is common knowledge that Brian St. James is an exceedingly hairy man, but even that shaggy pelt was not enough to protect him from the cruelty of a harsh Rocky Mountain winter. So, with a downcast heart and frostbitten appendages, Brian left the mountains.

Today I turned 97 years old.

The witch doctor in Congo had said I would live “past 110 moons” - but since I had just nursed him through a nasty bout of malaria, a few of those years may have been tacked on out of gratitude.

Faced with my mortality, I’ve decided that it’s time to share some of my adventures. I know that my family will be shocked by what I’m about to write. What you are about to read is not what you’d expect from an old, eccentric grandmother.

I guess I should start at the beginning. The world knows me as Elizabeth Ann Smithers Wallace, born to wealthy parents residing in New York City. It’s the name that’s on my passport, and most likely on the cover of this book.

The original Elizabeth Ann Smithers Wallace died in 1696, an unfortunate victim of smallpox.

But I have worn her name well, and I am forever in her debt for loaning it to me. Her solid, steady English name has saved my life more than once. In exchange, it will continue to live on in my grandchildren and their children.

Long before I was Elizabeth, I was Mary Margaret Maloney. My parents lived in New York – but in Hell’s Kitchen, not on Park Avenue. The closest I ever got to Park Avenue was when I helped my mom collect their dirty laundry. Every day I would see those stately mansions, bustling with servants and activity. On cold days we would often be invited into the kitchen to wait. From there, I would get glimpses of grand dining rooms with tables longer than our apartment, lit by glittering chandeliers. On occasion, I would even see the lady of the house, clothed in satin and silk, gliding across the marble floor. She would gracefully pause to adjust a flower arrangement or enter the kitchen and speak softly to the cook, conferring about the next meal.

Then the laundry would be handed to us and we were rushed out the door. I would go home and scrub the stains out of the satin and silk, fantasizing about what it would be like when I lived on Park Avenue. Wine stain? I imagined a fabulous party, filled with Rockefellers and Astors. A smudge of chocolate? The tell-tale sign of a luscious box of candy given to me by my adoring husband. Life would be wonderful and perfect when I moved Uptown.

But by 14, I realized that girls from Hell’s Kitchen didn’t move to Park Avenue. I looked at my mother and saw an intelligent, caring woman who was little more than a breeding machine. Every year another brother or sister joined the family and my mother took on a little more work. My father worked his 9 hour day and then went to the local pub. But my mom took care of the kids and the apartment, doing laundry and sewing late into the night to make ends meet.

I wanted more.

One night, after the little ones were asleep, I sat down next to my mother. She could see that I was upset, but she stayed quiet, waiting for me to speak.

“Mom, I love you,” I said.

“I love you too, Mary Margaret.” I watched as her hands continued to mend the velvet dress, repairing the seam with tiny, even stitches.

“I need to leave. I want to do more, be more.”

“I know,” she said. Picking up her sewing scissors, she knotted the thread then clipped it off close to the fabric. She carefully smoothed out the dress, then folded it neatly next to her.

“Come with me,” she said.

I followed her into my parents’ bedroom. Opening the battered dresser, she rummaged under some old dresses, then turned to me.

“Your father won’t approve, but I know you need to go.” She held out her hand and I saw some battered dollar bills.

“Here’s $15 that I’ve saved,” she said.

I hesitated, torn between my desires and my concern for her.

“What will you tell Dad?” I asked. He had a temper and had hit her more than once.

She hesitated, then straightened her careworn shoulders.

“I’m afraid that you suffered a terrible accident today and fell into the river. Your body may never be recovered.”

She took me in her arms and held me close.

“Go with God, Mary Margaret.”

That night I killed Mary Margaret Maloney.

I used the $15 to buy boy’s clothes and Paddy O’Hare was born. He shipped out the next day on a steamer bound for Morocco.

That’s when my life really began.

My story begins at the temple of Re-Herakhty and Ramesses II at Abu Simbel. I was conceived under a new moon at the foot of the first colossal statue. As my father’s sperm fertilized the egg in my mother’s fallopian tube, the spirit of Ramesses entered the newly formed me and imbued my being with the greatness that I would soon use to conquer the world. I have no memories of the nine months I spent in the belly of dear Mother, but I know that the Hathors were by her side, easing her aches and infusing my spirit with divinity. And when I was born, kicking and shouting my holiness to the world, the whole of the pantheon fell to their knees before me. My entrance into the world made the very earth tremble with giddy anticipation. The birds sang for me; the squirrels chirped their soothing lullabies. The neighbor’s dogs yipped in fear of me and yowled in ecstasy to be so near to me.

I heard the whispers of my family; I saw how they looked at me in awe when I blinked my perfect, hazel eye at them. Every glimpse at my tiny, pink tongues blinded them with tears of joy. They gasped as my nimble fingers grasped theirs with unparalelled strength. Hearts overflowed with bliss at the sight of my wiggly, untiring legs unfettered by the clunkiness of feet. I was perfection. I was The One.

Soon after my birth, my parents recognized that I would need to be protected from the cruel and hateful people who sought to destroy my every accomplishment. Mother and Father built for me a palace deep in the woods at the foot of a mountain which would soon huddle in awe at my terrible might and wondrous mercy. It was there that I became the splendor that is I.

I was hidden from the world – or was it the world that was hidden from me? I had no nannies, no tutors, and no playmates. My dear Mother and Father cared for me themselves. Later, they would claim that they did not trust anyone else to make me happy, but I know the truth – my parents refused to stifle me by thrusting my inferiors upon me; thus they encouraged my better nature and helped me find my place in a horrid world.

My parents were not of noble birth, but I do not hold that against them. Their good nature was my inspiration. They spoke of the world not as a pretty plaything, but rather as a broken and battered soul infected with humanity. I knew better, of course, being who I was. The human race was not a virus. It was a damaged soul in need of a savior. It needed me. I would purify the wounded Earth and enlighten the human race, because the blood of the gods flows through my veins.

I cannot walk, but I can fly.

.......................Callie Cocat......................
................Chapter 1: Callie's Early Years............

Few people know the real story behind Callie Cocat’s influence on the world of wig-making using cat hair. Those who are familiar with the process know how difficult it is to shave a cat, and the delicate construction techniques needed to fuse the tiny hairs together to create the length desired by most men and women who opt to wear hairpieces. But in order to understand the process, and how Ms. Cocat revolutionized it, you must first understand Ms. Cocat herself.

Ms. Cocat was born in a ramshackle cabin sometime in the mid sixties. Her exact date of birth is unknown, because Ms. Cocat was the first child born to Ellie Mae Cocat, also known as “The Cat Lady of the Ozarks.” The late Ellie Mae had long since retreated from society after she had been evicted from the then small town of Branson for having too many cats in her home. When Ellie Mae moved into the hills, she took with her no fewer than seventy-six cats, although some have estimated the number to be closer to eighty-five. Another mystery about Callie Cocat’s birth is the identity of her father. Some local hill people have alluded that Ellie Mae “took up with the mail man”, as one neighbor so kindly put it. Another neighbor, who wishes to remain anonymous, stated that, “Ellie Mae ‘twernt lonely ‘atall. She had s’many gentlemen callers that nobody could keep ‘em straight.”

What is certain is that at the age of ten, Callie was fed up with living with so many cats, primarily because it was her job to clean up their hairballs. She decided the best solution would be to remove the hair from as many of the mostly feral animals as possible. Her first attempts at waxing cats was a disaster, and for days it took a full ten minutes to walk from one end of the cabin to the other because the floor was so sticky. Local emergency records indicate that at one point, Ellie Mae became stuck to the outhouse seat for no fewer than three days, with Callie making the difficult trip back and forth with water and sustenance for her obviously irate mother. To make things more difficult, the entire endeavor left Callie with several disfiguring scratches on her arms, which she attempted to suture on her own with duct tape. The combination of wax and duct tape severely limited Callie’s mobility for several days.

Once Callie gave up on the waxing plan, she decided to try plucking. This time Callie wisely decided that she should make some sort of restraint for the cats’ paws first, to avoid their angry claws. This was when Callie created her first, and perhaps most useful invention, an item I’m sure most cat owners are now familiar with, because of its usefulness in everything from administering pills to cutting claws. I’m talking, of course, of the CatClamp1000 (the more ergonomic CatClamp2000 was developed a few years later).

While the execution of the CatClamp1000 is simple, its development was not*. This invention took Callie months of hard work and several prototypes can be found in the Callie Cocat section of the Smithsonian. With inventive brilliance to rival Edison’s, Callie created several working models that she discarded because she felt they were “cruel”, “inhumane”, or more often, “ugly”, according to her interview with Cosmopolitan Magazine titled “Ways to make your man Purr, thanks to Callie Cocat”. (Some circles have found that the models of the CatClamp2000 developed for large animals have more, ahem, recreational use. Callie wisely declined to comment on these uses in her interview with Cosmo.)

Once the CatClamp1000 was perfected, Callie selected her first subject for plucking. This did not go well, as is evidenced by the stuffed tomcat in the Smithsonian exhibit. The poor animal expired rather quickly from the stress of having individual hairs pulled out one at a time, and Callie had his poor body taxidermied to remind herself that with her next plucking attempt, she would have to move faster and in a more consistent pattern, so that should she not be able to complete the task in one sitting, the cat would not have random bald patches.

............................1............................

*More on the development on the CatClamp series can be found in Chapter 7

____________________
I tried to set this up so that it looks like a page from a book, but I can't get my headers and footers to center, thus the use of the periods.

Some people tell me I was dropped on my head as a baby and some say it was down a flight of stairs with my head hitting each step on the way down. The nicer people say it was just a problem with my birth. This one kid used to say I just got it from my father, because he is a dumbass too. And then that kid would say "That's why your mom left you, because you and your dad were so damn stupid." I hated that kid.

Whatever the case, most people agreed on one thing; I was really stupid. Not just a little stupid, mind you, but frustratingly stupid. I’m still not sure what “frustratingly” means, but that’s what my dad always says when he’s talking about how dumb I am.

It was just after my eighteenth birthday that my father decided I needed to get a job. I started looking around, but no one would hire me, not even the fast food joints. I tried to explain this to my dad, but he was not happy to hear it. He reached for the phone and started dialing.

“I know,” He said to me with a mean smile, “I’ll call Uncle Jim. He still manages the theme park and he’ll give you a job.”

“No!” I screamed, “I don’t want to work at Ducky Park!”

“Okay,” My dad said, setting the phone back down on its cradle. “I’ll tell you what, Ricky. You give me one good reason why I shouldn’t call Uncle Jim and have you work there and you’re off the hook.”

He was playing with me. I knew it and he knew it. I always hated it when he did that to me. I stood there staring at him blankly trying my best to think of a good reason. I was thinking really hard, but could come up with nothing.

I knew I had to say something though, and the look on his face told me it had better be good.

I took a deep breath and blurted out the first thing that came to mind; “But I don’t want to work at Ducky Park!!”

His smile got bigger. “I said a good reason, Ricky.” He reached for the phone and started dialing. The muscles in my neck got real weak and my head stared down at my feet. I was going to work at Ducky Park whether I liked it or not…

My name is Ricky Montoya, and this is the story of my summer job at a theme park run by my uncle Jim. It is a story of happiness and sadness, of bravery and cowardlyness (I’m not sure if that is a word), of love and hate.

This is the story of Ducky Park.

This is a book about my daddy and also about dinosaurs. But mostly about daddy. He is married to my mom. They got married and then had me. My daddy is a secret agent and flies airplanes and is never at the house. Mommy says he's a dog when he gets home late at night. Maybe he is undercover as a dog, which is probably something the bad guys wouldn't expect. His last mission was down to the country of Green Bay. He brought me back a hat in the shape of cheese. It was too big and looked funny when mommy put it on her head. She said it looked stupid. She is always not nice to daddy. She is stupid.

I am six and a half and I like to draw dinosaurs for my daddy. He takes them with him on his missions all over the world. He says that his missions are too dangerous to take me, but my pictures are like taking me everywhere. That is dumb. I wish he would take me. I am in training to be a secret agent... and a pet doctor... and a police officer... one who digs up dinosaur bones. I do that in my back yard. Mom gets mad when I get covered in dirt. She just doesn't understand what it means to be a dinosaur digger.

He is up in Florida now and he said it was really hot there on the phone. I can't believe it. It is cold outside our house, NOT hot. He said he has a surprise he is going to bring me. My daddy is great! He likes TV and chocolate and shaving his face and taking me for ice cream and buying me stuff. He likes dinosaurs the most though, which is why I like him the best. That is why I write this book about them both.

Every morning I woke up to the same Mickey Mouse alarm clock screaming, "Wake up sleepy head!", and I was 35 years old! I'm glad I had my fluffy puppy slippers to keep me company on those dreary mornings. I think I was going mad.

I'd just lost my job, as a Stamp printer and had been left by my wife for a golf ball maker - they always get the girls! I guess I was trying to find some happiness through kid’s eyes.

One particular day, after I’d just finished a bowl of coco pops and watched bugs bunny for 5 hours straight, I came to my senses. Just what was I doing? I was a 35 year old man, sitting at home, on a Friday night in Buzz light year pajamas, with my teddy bear, snuffles! I decided it had to stop.

I had to start taking responsibility for my life again. I was trying to be like Peter Pan - the boy who never grew up! Except, I was old and hairy and couldn't fly - not to mention I didn't have my own band of, " wild boys " to keep me company, I was a sad old loner of a man.

I guess it all started when I was 5, it was the happiest time of my life, Santa had just been and I got my first ever Wendy House. God, I loved that house! Me and my imaginary friend, Barry, would sit in there and have tea parties, with little umbrellas and Cindy’s - Mum wouldn't let me have any action men, she said they were too "violent", god, I hated my mother. Life was going great and I ran around with the innocence that all five years olds have. Blind to the truth of life and all the realities it holds.

I was trying to capture that feeling again, at 35! This biography will contain my journey through this difficult time and all the crazy situations I came to be involved in.