The Salem Wicca Wicca Witch Trials

I won’t pretend to know what you’re not thinking – the Salem Witch Trials were merely an elaborate front staged by the KGB so that Arthur Miller could get his knickers in a knot and win a Pulitzer Prize. No, that is not what happened. The Salem (Wicca Wicca) Witch Trials were a completely different affair, and Marilyn Monroe was nowhere near this one.

Arthur, trying very hard to get his knickers in a knot.

It all began in 1693 on one, dark night in a small Massachusetts village. The minister, Woolgrease Lather, had been delivering a particularly slick sermon based on his highly successful audio book series “101 Ways to Spot a Witch”, captivating his entire Puritan audience, with the exception of the Sarah Sisters (or the Sisters Sarah, as they were called in the convent), Tuba, the token gangsta punk, and the local wannabe pop star, Mariah Corey.

Mariah Corey convinced the other three to “ditch the joint” and so they went out into the woods and started singing a somewhat unoriginal pop song. The two Sarahs, although rather naughty nuns, were not terribly good pop singers and decided they’d better stick to the convent Choir. Tuba, on the other hand, being the cutthroat gansta that she was, decided to break out her DJ moves, and accompanied Mariah with a few scratchy “wicca! wicca!”s. They also happened to be scantily clad, because that is what pop stars do; but of course, by Puritan standards, they were “butt nekkid.”

Disturbed by the noise and sounds of “wicca” witchcraft (also known as non-traditional church music) the Puritans poured out of the Church with the Reverend Lather’s “101 Ways to Spot a Witch” fresh in mind and had themselves a witch hunt. The next morning, the aforementioned were all put on trial for premeditated witchcraft, indecent exposure, and painfully bad music.

"(wicca, wicca) Can't Touch This!"

Among the judges were the Reverend Woolgrease Lather, a professional shepherd turned minister (and the somewhat smelly son of Cotton Lather, who was known for his fragrant soapy cotton products and for being much better smelling), John McHale, a Brave who had been playing ball with the Indians down south, and the Gov’ner Willy “Black-Eyed” Pips, a former pirate, musician, rhubarb salesman and London cabbie (in that order).

Looking for a scapegoat, the accused blamed their poor state of mind on the lawyers, doctors, and dentists, because of course they earn too much money and are always to blame. The next morning, Rebecca the Nurse, John the Doctor, and Roger the Toothacher (known for his extortionate dentist fees and nasty root canals) were all hung and burned in Bisquick. Running out of scapegoats, Mariah and the others revealed that there were mentions of witchcraft in Bridget Bishop’s diary, and she too was hung and burned in Bisquick. But the judges, still not satisfied, continued to track down any further accomplices.

Sensing rising tensions in the courtroom, George Jacobs Jingleheimer Schmidt attempted to do “the wave” but was met with little success and very grave looks, especially from John McHale, who had never been a big fan of the Yankees. After it was revealed that George Jacobs Jingleheimer Schmidt was German, the evidence for his guilt was overwhelming, and the next morning he was hung and burned in Bisquick crispier than a cremated Frankfurter.

Mr. George Jacobs realizes too late that the wave has not been invented yet.

And so the Witch Trials continued on for some time until, after many months of the blame game, the judges ran out of people to accuse, got fed up, and went home, after releasing Mariah Corey and her band from prison on probation. Mariah went on to a semi-successful music career, the Sarah Sisters started their own cake company, which apparently nobody didn’t like, and Tuba returned to a life of straight-up thuggin. Today, Salem is a number one tourist attraction for witches, wiccans, waccos, and hags who just want a little magic in their lives.

The Great Pompeii Flambé

While you are still savoring the remains of your previous day's Roshanakwanzamas Feast, think about those less fortunate than you, in particular those who, rather than cooking a turkey in the oven, had their proverbial gooses cooked by being inundated in a flood of scorching hot custard. Yes, I am referring to the Great Pompeii Flambé, the natural disaster of 79 A.D. in which the entire city was smothered by a rather nasty eruption of Ambrosia Custard (the food of the gods) from Mount Vesuvius.

Many people now know Pompeii for being a great tourist attraction that sells lots of overpriced bits of rock as souvenirs; originally, however, Pompeii was a tourist attraction of a different sort - it was the Las Vegas of the Roman Empire, known for its excessive binge drinking, gambling, women, and various other nefarious activities that Romans were rather good at it, in addition to conquering other people's hard earned land.

The whole incident involving Mount Vesuvius rather unfortunately occurred when Pontius Pomp, CEO of the original Caesar's Palace made a rash executive decision - he outbid his fellow competitors on an on-line ePompeii auction for Neptune's Trident. After receiving the sacred artifact by rush delivery, he promptly placed the exquisite piece on display in his casino without the permission of Neptune.

The original Caesar's Palace.

Learning of this, Neptune was pretty pissed. Deciding to avoid any legal entanglements, he did what any self-respecting Roman deity would do, and decided to wreak ridiculously and unjustifiably over-the-top mass destruction upon everyone within a five-mile radius of Pompeii. Thinking of something suitably original, he decided to make the formally dormant volcano, Mount Vesuvius, erupt with Ambrosia Custard, determining that after he had boiled the city alive with piping hot confectionary, he would add some chocolate sprinkles and make a meal of it.

And this is precisely what he did. Many Romans panicked in the streets and ran for their lives, but most of them were already crispier than burnt okra before they even had time to get off the lavatory. After second and third eruptions (of caramel and chocolate, respectively) Pontius Pomp, in particular, became a very dark, creamy truffle.

Ambrosia Custard - creamy, golden, and deadly in excessive quanities.

It has only been in recent years that the former glories of Pompeii have been re-exposed, although admittedly Neptune's leftovers have lost a bit of their original flavor.

The Culinary Exploits of Captain Cook

Having talked my proverbial knickers off for far too long, I have finally decided to publish my first historical snippet, this time on Captain James T. Cook.

Many have heard of the good Captain, but few know of his true story. He was the younger brother of the lesser-known Captain Kook, who was the first man to circumnavigate the Isle of Wight in an overturned umbrella and still make it back in time for tea. Maritime tendencies clearly ran in the family, as Captain James T. Cook had, by the age of 29, boldly gone where not many Englishmen had gone before - beyond the smoking parlour.

Captain Cook, having also graduated from Oxenfridge (with a B.S. in Fine Cuisine), had entered Old Navy with dreams of being the personal galley hand to the Lord High Admiral but, after proving his worth in the Seven Year's Collywobble, he was given captaincy of the ship H.M.S. Pinafore and sent on a voyage to charter the unknown realms of the world.

Captain James T. Cook's vessel, the H.M.S. "Pimpin'" Pinafore, cruising in the Pacific.

On his voyages, Cook did many great things for his native England. After establishing his own fast food franchise, Cook-in-the-Box (known for its tasty citrus burgers), he stopped in Samoa to view a stirring performance of South Pacific, before almost-but-not-quite-discovering Antarctica. Next, Cook sailed through New Zealand, witnessing a pre-screening of a new film one of the locals had been working on, then worked his way up through Australia, established a new franchise of "Planet Bollywood" in India, broke down briefly in New Guinea before being fixed up by the Pirates of Pennzoil, and made it to the Sandwich Islands just in time for High Tea.

The Voyage(s) of Captain James T. Cook.

It was on his way back to homeport, that disaster struck. While visiting Hawaii, Captain Cook gave the locals a taste-tester of his brand new rum line. After getting them all quite smashed, he asked them if they had "a little captain in them" and did a funny pose by placing his left food on a conveniently located raised object. Not only was this a shocking gesture in the local culture, but due to an unforeseen mistranslation, the natives thought that the Captain was asking them to eat him. After a somewhat hectic, savage bar fight this is unfortunately what they did.

The proverbial "cooking" of Cook's goose.

While Captain Cook died in action, his legacy of fine culinary achievement lives on (except for Planet Bollywood, which was a dismal failure) and he is remembered worldwide for his characteristic genius in both the kitchen and on the poop deck.

The Humble Origins of Sir Hubert, Part IV

I remember my university years fondly, but they passed slowly in Oxenfridge, and they were hard times. Every morning, the boys would awake to the sounds of the Headmaster beating the school bell with the limbs of dismembered students who had failed The Gauntlet. Chores involved cleaning the bell tower floors with hydrochloric acid, feeding the school hamsters (including our mascot, Simon the Psychotic, who had single-handedly gnawed off the foot of a first year during husbandry classes), and polishing The Gauntlet's revolving blades for next year's inductees. Breakfast was ghastly, especially when the cook was having an off day, and manners had to be impeccable. One boy was strung up by his nose hairs for five hours after eating his porridge with a salad fork.

Classes were also dreadfully dismal, but I am thankful for them now. I would not be anywhere near my present intellectual standards had it not been for the rigorous, demanding, and psychologically detrimental coursework at Oxenfridge. I keenly recall my coursework on ancient history, medieval history, world history, Oriental history, European history, modern history, rather obscure but highly interesting history, good dinner-time conversation history, the history of pick-up lines, the historical migration patterns of wombats, and a brief history of the British social strata as defined by upper, middle, and lower class dustbins. My minor in floral arrangements remained equally scintillating, especially my second semester on buttonholes.

But all this was too good to be true. Mere months before my graduation, disaster struck: I failed to turn in my library book on time. At Oxenfridge, the penalty for this felony was far from inconsequential: I was forced to translate the complete works of Vergil into Swahili within a week, while simultaneously being suspended upside down from inside the school dungeon and forced to hear the headmaster reading his personal poetry collection. No one before myself had ever survived.

I, however, broke the established trend. Not only did I translate the complete works of Vergil into Swahili, but I even did a bit of Ovid and Cicero as well. For my exemplary efforts, I was given a pet hamster from the school hamstery (whom I have since named Vergil, in honor of my translation) and was let off with only a minor flagellation.

I graduated highest honors with a B.S. in Historical Ramblings and, after a joyous ceremony, was drugged, beaten, and deposited outside of my lower class dustbin near Buckingham Palace. With substantial funds stashed away from my days in the Jaffa Cake industry, I endeavored to make a name for myself and work towards my dreams of a posh dustbin with its own indoor plumbing. I shall reconvene with this sentiment upon my next entry but, for now, cheerio, chaps!

The Humble Origins of Sir Hubert, Part III

To be or not to be. That is a question someone ought to actually answer sometime. But the question I am going to answer now, is this: how did I, Sir Hubert H. Humphries, receive my degree in higher rambling? Well, it certainly wasn't easy.

I received my letter of acceptance to Oxenfridge only days after my resignation from CEO, although I have remained on the Board of Directors for the British Jaffa Cake Corporation ever since. Now, many chaps have asked me as to the actual locality of this famed University and I, being one for honest answers, have responded that I am not quite sure. The University has, for centuries, been extremely hard to get into, and not solely on account of burdensome, academic standards, but rather because no one actually has a clue where the Dickens it is. I imagine this has lent greatly to the University's aura for the mysterious, although admittedly it makes admissions a somewhat complicated process.

I, in fact, had never actually applied to the University, and received my letter of acceptance not so much as an invitation, but rather as an impressment notice. Upon my opening of the letter, I went through a brief period of shock, closely followed by elation, constipation, further shock, disbelief, flatulence, and finally another shock, knocking me out cold. I assume this shock came in the form of the Oxenfridge Recruitment Officers, known for walking softly and carrying big, pointy sticks capable of rather nasty concussions. The next thing I knew, I had awoken in the inner chambers of Oxenfridge with a rather large bump on my tender scalp and a terribly sore posterior. The next morning, I ran the Grim Gauntlet (which had a survival ratio of one in seven) with record time, and was ceremonially inducted into the class of '07 after determining to major in Historical Ramblings with a minor in Floral Arrangment.

My following years in Oxenfridge were, albeit a painful process, marked with success and I will continue with my revelations upon a later date. Cheerio, chaps!

The Humble Origins of Sir Hubert, Part II

I have always had a great affinity for facial hair. But this has absolutely nothing to do with what I'm about to talk about.

Upon the death of my father, I was determined to succeed in life. His demise, coupled with my dissatisfaction with lower-class dustbins, urged me to seek a quality of existence that my father and his generation had not quite been able to grasp. I merely needed a divine spark, to ignite the proverbial fire of my inner passion and, in doing so, hopefully not cause conflagration in my proverbial knickers.

This spark came in the form of the Jaffa Cake industry, which at the time was suffering heavily from foreign competition, executive corruption, and worker fatalities. The Jaffa Cake industry was, quite literally, crumbling before my eyes, and I decided then and there that it needed a savior. The final straw came with the death of my mother who, having lived past the estimated life expectancy of 34, was looking like she might just have made it to retirement, had it not been for the Great Bundt Massacre of '02, in which our German competition staged a hostile corporate takeover, involving the fatalities of over 40 workers. My mother actually withstood the initial assault and held her ground quite well until the Germans (who were certainly known for their biological warfare), released B.S.E. (Bundt Spongiform Encephalopathy) into the cake mixture, decimating the desserts and killing all the remaining workers.

Vowing to avenge the fate of my mother and to redeem the dying industry, I entered into the same factory at the tender age of 17 and quickly worked my way up the ranks so that, by the time of my 18th birthday, I was CEO of the British Jaffa Cake Corporation. For the first time since the great Jaffa Boom of the Crimean War, corporate profits soared. I did away with the company's outsourcing, improved the marketing campaign to reach the younger generation, eliminated foreign competition, introduced new lines of products (such as Jaffa Jacks, Jaffy Paffies, Jaff Snax, and my critically acclaimed turnip flavor), and won back the hearts and stomachs of the British people.

I was shortly after awarded the Nobel Prize for "Outstanding Culinary Achievement and Edible Contributions Towards Mankind" and was even featured for an interview on "The Jolly Good Show!" It was then that I received notification of my rather unexpected acceptance to Oxenfridge, but I will save that yarn for another day. Cheerio, chaps!

The Humble Origins of Sir Hubert, Part I

I was very young when I was born. I remember distinctly (vividly even) the complete absence of anything. I was born into a lowly dustbin, I have since been told by my parents, who are now both, regrettably, dead. My mother was a Jaffa Cake manufacturer at the local factory - I recall the horrors of the assembly line, or so she related back to me: once, an unsuspecting old lady was inundated in a deluge of sugary death when one of the pumps malfunctioned. It was several hours before they were able to dig her out from the horrific collation, but they found nothing left, save a gelatinous mass of spongy orange paste and chocolate refuse. It was on account of these stories that I set out to bring back good flavor in the Jaffa Cake industry upon leaving home.

My father, sadly, was never able to hold down a permanent career. He had a spell as a Cricketer in one of the local leagues, but after becoming the first man to hold a negative winning streak, he decided it was time to move on. After failure as an assistant bouncer, sock shiner, door-to-door knickers salesman, Queen Victoria's Secret fashion model, and human bottle-cap opener, he resorted to a life of drunken stupor and bad breath. He was still a young man when he died, and my mother lived not much longer. If there is one pearl of wisdom I can recollect from the greatest man in my life, it was this (his dying words actually): "Whether you're born into a lower-class dustbin, a middle-class dustbin, or even a rather posh dustbin with its own indoor plumbing, never, ever, let that prevent you from pursuing your wildest dreams."

I have endeavored ever since to follow my father's advice, and thus begins the story of my present and continuing journey towards fame, fortune, and a posh dustbin. I will pick up with this climactic sentiment upon my next entry, but at the moment I must attend to my radio show, which is in dire need of some TLC. Cheerio, chaps!

An Introduction from Sir Hubert

It gives me immeasurable pleasure to finally have an opportunity for mentioning my utmost satisfaction with this sentence. It took many fine seconds of diligent composition, but in the end my artful diction finally won out.

Welcome, I say, to my blog. I must confess, I had imposing doubts as to the quality of my internet service provider, seeing as the chap they sent round had rather a hard time determining how to configure a dustbin for a wireless connection. Obviously I was rather indignant, as the obstinate fellow seemed to hint, rather blatantly, that I was living in "rubbish." I informed him very matter-of-factly that this was a middle-class dustbin and was certainly, by no means, a substandard form of living.

But I veer unpleasantly far away from the subject of my present educated ramblings, so I will now attempt to realign my sentiments with the correct route, before I proverbially run over a small, woodland creature: the purpose of this blog is to inform the world - or at least, that is, everyone outside of Trafalgar Square, possibly greater London, or maybe even the Jolly Old Island herself - of my serialized radio lectures on the subjects of history, for which my B.S. degree from Oxenfridge has proved immensely profitable.

In an attempt to "get hip", I have finally decided to publish my scholarly tomes on the World Wide Webster, which even I must admit is a far more accessible form of knowledge than Mr. Webster's original pen and paper medium. I request that you, my fine and accomplished readers, keep your eyes peeled for my first installment, which I am industriously endeavoring to create as we speak or, rather, as I type and you sit there and read. Once it is completed, I will be sure to inform you of its whereabouts on the World Wide Webster.

I'm afraid I must leave you now, as I fear I can smell my crumpets burning and poor Vergil probably needs to have a loo-break. In the meantime, enjoy your stay and please hurry back soon. Cheerio, chaps!

Yours Truly, Sir Hubert