I’m Brit Winterknee… I’ll tell ya the story

Not too many people today remember Clementine Rubarb from Corn Tree Bluff, New Hampsher, but residents of Corn Tree Bluff certainly do. They remember the day she played hooky from the one-room school house down on Tricklepee Creek and invented the recumbent hobby horse in a field out behind the old Nickelkettle farm. 100 years latah, that invention would become the backbone of the Apollo Space progrum. I’m Brit Winterknee, and I’ll tell ya the story tonight on New England Chronicles…

Behind me is an old outhouse, pretty similar to any of the outhouses that dot the New Hampsher wilderness like musciphalias robustial—the vibrant and virulently poisonous Weeweecap Toadstool. But this is an outhouse with a difference. For it was at this very outhouse, on a brisk winter’s day in January, 1843, that a young Mary Baker Eddy would pass, and seeing it’s delightful crescent window, become struck with the inspiration that would one day lead to her philosophical religion, Christian Science. She would also shat all over its walls. I’m Brit Winterknee, and I’ll tell ya the story tonight on New England Chronicles…

Andrew Giswald Heddlerock was mayor of Rump, New Hampsher, for almost 78 years, and he always had the most magnificent-looking beards. Of course, I refer not to facial hair, but to his numerous young and beautiful wives. For Heddlerock was one of the Granite State’s most notorious dandies and man-chasers. In between his executorial duties to the town, he would travel the nation by donkey-truck and flat-bed-river-boat, billing himself as “The Grayte Greene Homo-sexualle of the Northe Countrie” and charge a farthing-penny a head for entrance to his extravagant stage-show. I’m Brit Winterknee, and I’ll tell ya the story tonight on New England Chronicles…

People today often forget that the old saying—”ride you out of town on a rail”—used to be quite lit’ral. I learned that the hard way, in 1948, at the ripe old age of 15, when Boots Magovern, the local cordwainer, caught me in a state of ecstasy with his grandmotha. I’m Brit Winterknee, and I’ll tell ya the story tonight on New England Chronicles…

The muzzle-loaded muskets of New Hampsher’s Revolutionary War militia were notoriously fickle weapons that required a ball, a paper, a ramrod, a cotton plug, one-hundredths of a hogshead of goat offal, a jar of fresh-squeezed and fermented potato brandy, a pinch of north-facing moss off the Wimble tree, and two stones worn perfectly smooth by the ceaseless flowing of the Suchaweeboobie River. Even the greatest musketeer could load it but two times in four days. That’s why the residents of Quimblie, New Hampsher, found it much more expedient to burn all 14 membas of the Rumpbritch family to death in their beds when it was discovered that they were nothing but a repellent horde of unrepentant Tories. I’m Brit Winterknee, and I’ll tell ya the story…

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