Sunday, January 8, 2012

It's About Time

If I haven't been here for awhile, it's because Bill Yards landed his time machine in my backyard the afternoon before New Year's Eve. When my father heard it, he thought Mrs. Fluffledorp down the street had accidentally set off her fireworks early again. But my mother told him, no, it was just the muffler falling off Mr. Henbottom's Packard.

Barf knew what it was though and trotted, tail wagging, to the backyard. She hasn't seen Bill for awhile (not, in fact, since we were stranded in Loch Ness about 37 years before my parents were born). But I guess she remembered that she once found scone crumbs in the butter Bill uses to grease the chronograph in the time machine.  (If you've read my biography, FLAT LIKE FRED, you may remember that the scone belonged to the Queen of England.)

It was the first time Bill's visited here from England, and he wanted to see the Mummer's Parade in Philadelphia on New Year's Day, and then transport back here in time to be part of the finale of the Wampler New Year's Eve fireworks display. Unfortunately the time machine's hour-snag register got stuck on years. We ended up at the 1957 Rose Bowl Parade on a float featuring the Arkanadopolis High School Angels flame-twirling team, and Barf got her tail singed.

We did get safely back to Wampler about half an hour ago, but on the way the minutometer button must have broken. We knew something was wrong as soon as we landed, mostly because the sun was shining. And also because we were sitting on Mrs. Smocksputter's roof. Thank goodness we didn't make a hole in it since she'd just gotten it repaired from my little mishap last week. Or yesterday. Or last year. Or whenever it was.

Bill's behind the garage now tinkering with the time-defunct-factor wheel. I hope he gets it fixed before school starts on January third. I really need to be there. Mr. Binklebang said that if I come up with one more cockamamie excuse for missing a geography test, my grade's going to be in the Arctic range (his idea of a geographical joke for sub-zero), and somehow I think the Arkanadopolis Angels may be about as cockamamie as it can get.

Well, that's all for this post. I'm off to see if I can help Bill. I'll be back again yesterday.

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