Jean Shepherd Monologues

Only one thing in the world could've dragged me away from the soft glow of electric sex gleaming in the window.

Only I didn't say "Fudge." I said THE word, the big one, the queen-mother of dirty words, the "F-dash-dash-dash" word!

It was all over - I was dead. What would it be? The guillotine? Hanging? The chair? The rack? The Chinese water torture? Hmmph. Mere child's play compared to what surely awaited me.

Next to me in the blackness lay my oiled blue steel beauty. The greatest Christmas gift I had ever received, or would ever receive. Gradually, I drifted off to sleep, pranging ducks on the wing and getting off spectacular hip shots.

Some men are Baptists, others Catholics; my father was an Oldsmobile man.

In the heat of battle my father wove a tapestry of obscenities that as far as we know is still hanging in space over Lake Michigan.

Now, I had heard that word at least ten times a day from my old man. He worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium; a master. But, I chickened out and said the first name that came to mind.

Over the years I got to be quite a connoisseur of soap. My personal preference was for Lux, but I found Palmolive had a nice, piquant after-dinner flavor - heady, but with just a touch of mellow smoothness. Lifebuoy, on the other hand...

NOW it was serious. A double-dog-dare. What else was there but a "triple dare you"? And then, the coup de grace of all dares, the sinister triple-dog-dare.

Schwartz created a slight breach of etiquette by skipping the triple dare and going right for the throat!

The old man stood there, quivering with fury, stammering as he tried to come up with a real crusher. All he got out was…

Aunt Clara had for years labored under the delusion that I was not only perpetually 4 years old, but also a girl.

Meanwhile, I struggled for exactly the right BB gun hint. It had to be firm, but subtle.

Christmas had come officially. We plunged into the cornucopia quivering with desire and the ecstasy of unbridled avarice.

Scut Farkus! What a rotten name! We were trapped. There he stood, between us and the alley. Scut Farkus staring out at us with his yellow eyes. He had yellow eyes! So help me, God! Yellow eyes!

Oh, life is like that. Sometimes, at the height of our revelries, when our joy is at its zenith, when all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us.

With as much dignity as he could muster, the Old Man gathered up the sad remains of his shattered Major Award. Later that night, alone in the backyard, he buried it next to the garage. Now I could never be sure, but I thought that I heard the sound of "Taps" being played, gently.

I have since heard of people under extreme duress speaking in strange tongues. I became conscious that a steady torrent of obscenities and swearing of all kinds was pouring out of me as I screamed.

My father worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium, a master.

Actually the Old Man loved it. He had always pictured himself in the pits of the Indianapolis Speedway in the 500. My old man's spare tires were actually only tires in the academic sense. They were round, they had once been made of rubber.

The line waiting to see Santa Claus stretched all the way back to Terre Haute. And I was at the end of it.

Strange. Even something as momentous as "The Scut Farkus affair." Which it came to be known, was pushed out of my mind as I struggled to come up with a way out of the impenetrable BB gun web, in which my mother had me trapped.

Of course. Santa. The big man. The head honcho. The connection. Ha, my mother had slipped up this time.

My mother was about to make another brilliant maneuver in the legendary battle of the lamp. The epic struggle which follows lives in the folklore of Cleveland Street to this very day.

There has never been a kid who didn't believe vaguely but incessantly that he would be stricken blind before he reached 21, and then they'd be sorry.

Mothers know nothing about creeping marauders burrowing through the snow toward the kitchen where only you and you alone stand between your tiny, huddled family and insensate evil.

Every family has a kid that won't eat. My little brother had not eaten voluntarily in over three years

Preparing to go to school was like getting ready for extended deep-sea diving.

Grover Dill! Farkus's crummy little toadie. Mean! Rotten! His lips curled over his green teeth. Randy lay there like a slug! It was his only defense!

The heavenly aroma still hung in the house. But it was gone, all gone! No turkey! No turkey sandwiches! No turkey salad! No turkey gravy! Turkey Hash! Turkey a la King! Or gallons of turkey soup! Gone, ALL GONE!

Was there no end to the conspiracy of irrational prejudice against Red Ryder and his peacemaker?

Ho, ho, but no matter. Christmas was on its way. Lovely, glorious, beautiful Christmas, upon which the entire kid year revolved.

Oh, no! It was a classic, mother BB-gun block. "You'll shoot your eye out!" That deadly phrase honored many times by hundreds of mothers was not surmountable by any means known to Kiddom, but such as my mania, my desire for a Red Ryder carbine, that I immediately began to rebuild the dike.

Adults loved to say things like that but kids knew better. We knew darn well it was always better not to get caught.

My father's spare tires were only tires on the academic sense. They were round,and had once been made of rubber.

I slowly began to realize I was not about to be destroyed! From then on, things were different between me and my mother.

Ah, there it is. My house, and good old Cleveland Street. How could I ever forget it? And there I am, with that dumb round face and that stupid stocking cap. Oh, but no matter. Christmas was on its way. Lovely, glorious, beautiful Christmas, around which the entire kid year revolved.

It was gone! All gone! No turkey, no turkey sandwiches, no turkey salad, no turkey gravy!

Three blocks away, Schwartz was getting his. There has never been a kid, who believed, vaguely but insistently, that he would be stricken blind before he reached 21 and then they'd be sorry.