The Tillyville Times - July 18, 2004

The Tillyville Times

July 18, 2004
Vol 1 No 7
http://tillyville.com



T-SQUARE AWOL; BUILDER: 'OH, THE HUMANITY!'
by Humbert Johns

Traffic in all directions was stopped and honking at the corner of Pink Street
and Avalanche Avenue. On the ground, a weeping man beat his fists and
steel-toed boots in the dirt.

"There, there, honey," said a red-faced Ruth Elbow, wife of the man at the
center of the disturbance, contractor Darth Elbow.

The incident arose when someone failed to return the T-square to the City Hall
desk at the close of the previous workday. T-squares are used by architects
and builders to draw straight lines and crisp corners on blueprints and
building plans. Before the T-square went missing, construction was proceeding
rapidly toward building a new home for every Tillyville subscriber. Elbow
Construction Corp. had unveiled its newest creation for residents to choose,
the two-story Gingerbread House with working rooftop telescope. Visitors are
encouraged to visit the third floor of City Hall to view all model homes (use
the elevator on the west side of the lobby).

Meanwhile, contractor Elbow bawled and bawled. "He doesn't cope well with
angled streets and the like," Ruth Elbow commented in a whisper. "The last
time this happened was during that tower construction in Pisa, Italy, and you
know how that one turned out."

Tillyville residents are advised to beware of tilted sidewalks until the
T-square is recovered. Or until the City Council can hire Frank Gehry, who
doesn't use a T-square at all.



WHAT'S all the racket on the beach ...

Tug-of-War
by John Mohler Jr.

Her eyes sparkled blue as the ocean out there beyond the breakers, where the
white birds circled and turned tail and darted out of sight, because of the
commotion onshore.

"Arrrgh!"

Lemon Boy pulled the rope, his cheeks puffed in exertion. With one hand he
waved at Brandy Wine, who was reclining on her beach towel. His friend Mr.
Stripy watched in silence.

"Ha-ha!"

Lemon Boy flexed the muscles of both arms, while he hopped on one foot and
grasped the rope with the other. Behind his sunglasses, his eyebrows danced up
and down for the starlet. Mr. Stripy observed, his head cocked at an angle.

"Ha, all right, here we go, one, two--"

Lemon Boy retreated several steps, grabbed the slack in the rope, grinned at
Brandy Wine, and charged:

"Oof!"

The rope snapped taut, and he fell flat on his face. Mr. Stripy scratched his
head.

"Rrrrr-rowllll!"

Clutching the rope in both hands, Lemon Boy leaned and began running in place.
A swirl of sand and dust billowed into the air. Mr. Stripy, Brandy Wine and
the gathered onlookers coughed while the cloud settled.

When they had wiped their eyes, the rope lay on the sand, with no Lemon Boy in
sight.

"Lemon Boy?" Mr. Stripy called up and down the beach. Then he heard a perking
sound, like a coffee machine. It came from the sand before him: a spray of it
bubbled into the air, and then another, higher, and another still.

Out of the sands emerged Lemon Boy, still holding the rope. He staggered to
his feet and shook himself off.

"Pssst." He motioned Mr. Stripy closer with his chin. He said, under his
breath, "Wipe my shades here, would you?" He flashed his teeth at Brandy Wine,
over Mr. Stripy's shoulder.

"These things are dark as midnight," Mr. Stripy said, holding the sunglasses up
to the sun, then rubbing them on his shirttail. "How do you see out of them?"

"Thanks," Lemon Boy said. "How am I doing? I've got him right where I want
him, right?"

"Um . . ."

"One more tug and--" Lemon Boy slung the rope over his shoulder and roared,
sending Mr. Stripy scurrying for cover.

When Mr. Stripy was a safe distance away, he resumed his observations.

"He certainly is trying, I must say."

"That's for sure, Beefsteak." Mr. Stripy's eyes popped wide and white. "But
Beefsteak, you're supposed to be at the other end of the rope!"

"It's tied to a palm tree back there," Beefsteak said. "He hasn't even looked,
has he?"

"Has no idea, I'm afraid," Mr. Stripy said. "But he certainly is trying."

"That's for sure. Got to give him that."

They watched Lemon Boy pounce and sink his teeth into the rope, writhing in the
sand as if wrestling a snake. Growling rumbled from within the dust clouds:
"Ow-ow-ouch!"

Brandy Wine tossed her hair and coughed a little chirp of a cough, then folded
her beach towel and pranced away down the beach.

"Do you want to go for a corndog?" Beefsteak said.

"That sounds great," Mr. Stripy said.

"My treat."

"Thanks."



LETTER TO THE EDITOR

To Whom It May Concern:

See here! I speak for a sizable portion of the ripening tomato community when
I say I find the above story wholly objectionable. Typical of Tillyville's Hot
Tomatoes stories, the author falls back on cheap stereotypes. His Lemon Boy
tomato is portrayed as vain and stupid, whereas in reality everyone knows that
this proud variety is not only good-looking and excels at the art of
tug-of-war, but that they are also less acidic than their red cousins. So,
na-na to you!

Sincerely,
Anonymous




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