Woe-be-gone at Lake Vowel-Halla

I suppose my readers get the hint already; I can’t be too generous with day-to-day details. And I daresn’t even tell you why not. So I attempt to possibly compensate y’all by positing and then posting positively fictional worlds, both larger- and smaller-than-life. Here’s a glimpse at my latest job:


    Wonder what Martin-the-Elder would say about a Yid as Maintanence-man here at the Lutheran Rest Home? Oh well, I get to work, the ‘inmates’ get the rest. Got a call today about, turns out, the Lake. An artificial road-side attraction. Real birds though, for now.
     But the voice on the phone was almost frantic; “It’s draining.” she wailed.
“What’s draining?” I asked courteously. Usually that’s a good sign, in the bath at least.
“This place is my whole life,” I heard a choked-up voice,“…and I can’t see it just slip away like this.”
Oops, they call me for counseling, huh? ‘Yeah, life is draining, then you die, and just when you’d gotten used to it.’ was probably not what the Book says to offer… so I didn’t. I heard the Canada geese in the background; the noise they make when they poop in the air, and then it hit me! Ahh. Lake Valhalla. The lake’s draining. Yeah, I had noticed a strange wet spot in the field next to it lately. (Thought I was the only guy who went there at night)
“I’ll get right on it, lady.” I told her. “And cheer up, would you.”
Ok, I paged through my contacts: Lake: Luke’s Waterworks™. Oh no, not that guy again.

‘The lake has a Leak, and I’m, Like, trying to Locate Luke
. I said to myself. Why does that sound like a facetious mantra? Never mind.
Luke’s a disaster on wheels.Last time he showed up he was Laced on who knows what, Lost the List of stuff
he’d Loused up on the previous call, and did the Least work I’ve ever seen from a grown man in 8 hours. Maybe de-Liced a half dozen geese, (not even sure of that). and I can’t even rat on him, Lest the management say it’s because he’s ‘not one of your people’. Damn Luther.
   Anyway, Luke pulled in the macadam lane, hung out the window and asked for key to the pump-house.
You’re out of Luck, Luke, I Lack the key to the Lock.” I told him.

“Ok, Looks like we’re Licked then, for now.”
Luke said, looking relieved. The guy was just trying to get out of work, obviously. I searched for a workaround.
“So, what you got in the truck?” I asked. I figured we could always break in, do the repair, then fix the gate later, if it’d save the whales, you know,
Luke rifled through the guns, junk and bottles on the front seat:
“Lacquers, Liquors,” he checked the floor and found an envelope,“Season passes to the Lakers, if you got the Lucre, Bud.”
    I just batted away the question, but Luke took it as a sign he could leave. He was halfway to the first speed-bump before I realized, being lost in my search for another L-kers word.
“How’d you know my name was ‘Bud’?” was all I could yell as he turned out of sight onto 95 Theses Blvd.
Guess I’ll be carrying water in buckets for a couple days till we find a new repair-guy. And the birds’ll be fine meanwhile on a diet of worms

And that’s the news from Lake Vowelhalla, where all the dipthongs are good-looking and most of the consonants are above average. Tune in next week…  ‘course I’ll probably have a new job.
 

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20 thoughts on “Woe-be-gone at Lake Vowel-Halla

  1. Lovegrove

    Your posts always give me a headache, or is that a headjob, which is always a good sign that you probably made sense, or is that cents.Wot I wanted to say though, was that being descended from blond gentleman sailors who rowed across the North sea to borrow whatever they found in the way of maiden’s honour, precious metals and sundry other baubles, I take umbrage, or is that take a bridge, at your less that respectful references to Valhalla, where I hope one day to join my ancestors to battle all day and drink all night. I am thinking seriously of converting to Islam so I can protest on the street and set light to cars. That’ll show ya.

    Reply
  2. jsolberg

    @ItsWhatEyeKnow – Well, by middle-school I’d learned to ‘just can it, Johnny’, you know, to win the paper-thin hearts of cheerleaders. Grade school, however, was spent mostly out of the class-room, being studied by investigators of the bizarre.

    Reply
  3. jsolberg

    @miss_order – Wow thanks, Eva. And this from a guy who more and more considers English as his second language… but still first choice hands down as a verbal plaything. You’re no slouch yourself, I might hasten to point out:)

    Reply
  4. Lovegrove

    @jsolberg – Val’s alley is full of master race blond beasts, or is that Rasta mace bland boasts in their heathen days of yore before ABBA, and before conversion to a certain heretical Hebraic sect forced all the fun out of the fiords, made girlies out of the north men and Eric Bloodaxe became Erica backcomb. Those were the days, when roasting boars were accompanied by boasting roars and the boars could be accompanied by bores if their sagas sagged.

    Reply
  5. jsolberg

    @ItsWhatEyeKnow – *blushes* Frankly, m’dear, I’m not sure I ever understood it myself. I *am* manifestly ‘different’, in ways which both help and hurt me, and ‘excess IQ’, my theory since childhood, has to address the many public cases of equally-endowed folks who non-the-less aren’t much fun to meet or talk to, ha. / I’m glad you asked, Lena, and I’ll give it some more serious thought, after I catch enough worms for supper.

    Reply

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