Viking

Thanksgiving as Viking

Tim Buckley

Word Count-1175

©2013

 

 

 

Viking

 

            There were seven kids and only two turkey legs on Thanksgiving Day.  Dad got one drumstick, but who should get the other?  Jeff, the oldest--and an evil teenager--had an idea.  We should rotate year by year. That way, every brat could have the chance to be a coveted “Viking.”  As such, said carnivore would receive special seat (furthest from Dad) honor, and the lustrously, illuminating , licked (by Jeff) beloved drumstick. Being it was Jeff’s brilliant plan (and his ability to beat-up anyone who wouldn‘t agree) he would be first.

            Everything went fine until year three. That was when the biggest and bravest addition to being Viking was added: free throwing the fibula over the shoulder, Viking like, after Dad left the table.  Tossing a bone into the living room in such bold fashion proved one a worthy Viking.  But it had to be done with Macy Parade precision.  If Dad detected a shin pass his chin any time of year,  there would be a spanking.  But on THANKSGIVING?  Behold, the bottomless basting!

            When I was eleven, it was my year, and I decided I wanted to be more than just any naughty Nordic. I was going to be THE Viking--Eric the Red.

            Ah, Eric the Red! Whose son, Leif Erickson, possibly discovered  America;  Eric the Red! Who sailed the seven seas (and a few large lakes); Eric The Red! No butterball, but a he-man who can stop a charging she-bear with his left hand while baiting a fishhook with the other, all while kissing his wife.  Yes, I would be the Great Norse Grump and terror, "Big Red."

            Neither Jeff nor sister Mary dressed the part before, but I had saved my allowance for weeks, and now spent all 75 cents on indecent décor. I put chocolate gold coins in bags around my neck as booty taken from my last plunder, and Mom's fake fox around my shoulder; then, I glued a few steel wool pads in places where hair should be, and of course, horns adorned my head.  (I also wanted a fake beard to wipe grease and gravy on, but I didn't want to push Dad too hard.) Land Ho! I was the dread Red.

            When dinner was called, I made sure to show up last so I could see every  face. Sure enough, the surprise and shock my fellow family displayed was like I had just whisked the wonderful wishbone through the window. Dad wasn't sure what to do. Should he sink my ship by having me change clothes? No. After all, I was Viking for the year. He took a wait and see attitude, while Mom just laughed.

             But anger and jealousy blazed from my six siblings' faces. Why hadn't THEY thought of this? Jeff, the hated and feared teen, boiled most, his face turning yam yellow. Especially when I announced I was the Big Daddy of all Mean Men,  Eric the Red. His eyes conceived a sea monster and he called me “Pud.” Meanwhile, I sat in the honored seat and tried to look mean while smiling.

            I knew that Vikes were from up around Iceland, Greenland and Norway, so at first I tried to speak Scandinavian.  But  since "Ya sure, you betcha" didn't sound Viking enough to me,  instead I spoke "Pirate."  At least until I grumbled "R,R,R,Gimme that drumstick b'fore I lop your ears off, landlubbers."  That’s when Dad made me talk normal. Nonetheless, I still “R’d” loud enough for Jeff to hear, which made the monster in his eyes birth.

            I was done gnawing my grizzlestick.  The time was nearing to throw it over my shoulder.  Dad arose, now is my chance!  I steady the gleaming doggie treat in my hand, and…hold the stuffing! Father came back and sat down.  Whew! What a marrow escape.

            Before I had another shot, Jeff tried to ruin my day.  Knowing I liked to watch wild birds feed in the yard, he lied, "Look, Tim, wild doves."  When I turned, he stole my prize.  What was I, this great Dane, to do?  Bark a complaint to Dad, that's what.  "Dad, Jeff took my Viking bone!"

            I thought Dad might send him to his room or something.  Instead, he picked up a glass of water and dumped it over Jeff's head.  Even I was startled, but happily so.  The evil one ran to his room. (Dad was not in a thankful mood, it seemed.)

            Like a merry puppy I retrieved my prize and again waited anxiously for  Dad to depart.  When he did, I stalled about fifteen seconds to be sure he was gone, then “knick knack paddy whacked” the bone over my shoulder.  I was the MAN!

              The bone hit dad in the head.

           Hitting Dad in the head with a bone, what a bonehead thing to do.  

            To my surprise, he made no bones about it. In a controlled voice he said, "Get the hatchet from the garage and cut yourself a switch to be spanked with.  Make the branch a size you feel will fit the crime."

            No, not the switch!  I hung my head and walked slowly to the garage.  What size switch to pick?  Too little and he won't think I'm sorry; too big, and he'll think I'm trying to make him feel guilty.

            I cut a medium sized branch and headed in. Then, an idea hit me harder than an ax removing body from bird.  I'll stuff my oversized Norse pants with leaves and brush.  That way, when spanked, I won’t feel a thing.  Due to my being cold and Dad being hot, I hurried.

            When I walked humbly into the house, Dad was in the bathroom, so I stood by the fire to heat my hinder.  Unknowingly, my big behind was being licked by flame, but I couldn't feel a thing. When Dad returned, he looked at me quizzically, like I was a stranger to him.  I didn't realize that smoke was rising from my posterior like it was Mom’s fried pie. Then my sister yelled, "Tim! Your buns are burnin' your buns are burnin'!"  Glancing behind me, I watched flame flick forth from my fanny.  I screamed and took off running.

            I had heard in school what to do if you ever catch on fire, but I thought only an idiot would be dumb enough to start himself on fire, so I never listened.  Not sure what to do when I made it outside, I pulled my pants down and started spanking myself (harder than Dad would have).  Next thing I knew, Dad was dumping two pitchers of milk over me--one for the top and one for the bottom.  It was the only thing handy to douse the flames.

            Everyone, but especially myself,  was soured over the course of events, but glad no one was hurt.  And, I didn't get a spanking that day. However, the next day I went and cut a great BIG switch.  To draw Dad's pity?  No, to fit the crime.  Instead of being the Great Norse Grump, I was a great horse rump that Thanksgiving Day.

           

 

Reviews

[Marie]

This is really funny, and everyone ought to read your stuff I say EVERYBODY OUGHT TO READ TIM BUXLEY'S STUFF!!!!!