 “THE WIPPITY-DOO VILLAGE FOLKS”© Copyright 10-24-2005 By Dana Shino, The Purple Phoenix, LLC www.thepurplephoenix.com In the clunkety-clunk and the whir-spin-whir of your daily life, they become unnoticeably slink-mixed. The zinky-ploppum-grottle sounds drown your ability to truly see them. Codge-mottledom numbs your tuners towards them. But they are there. They are there in the do-hicky cracks of our modern day Wippity-Doo Villages, like the groove in the hinky and the bump in the fiddlement. They grease the wheel and fluff the mortar between the bricks. They’re like a bloomin’ daisy in a mule’s straw hat as it huff-duff plows a field (the mule, not the daisy). They don’t seem importantly woof-wiffed like spiffily-glad-goon-bah VIP’s. And no one really ever notices their pea pods. But still, I wonder, who are they? Who are they really? Who is the miniature Hagrid riding the bickle-splixed mountain bike: seat swung beneath his knees as they binkle-bee out while he pedals? How does he remain upright, slolomandering precariously, the hair from his great hairy head and his bear of a beard flying wind-willy-who behind him? Is he the village’s ambassador to the trolls, who minkle-mix-merry the underground drainage system? Does he negotiate, blender-ben bopping troll after troll with the finer points of contractual foofdom for the Wippity-Doo Village? Who is he really? Then there’s the woman who lives down the street lane avenue. She always leaves the tinkle-blink holiday merries on year round, in her overgrown, Fibber-McGee, yard of a ramshackle house. Yes, she’s the one who walks the plinkle-dink river by day, offering God’s great hallelujah’s to the fisherman and hand wickle-twigged Jesus crosses to the imple-crossed innocent bystanders. She means well, with a heart of glod-gobbing-stop gold. And she seems fairly ipicackle in the Wippity-Doo Village, until she corners the unknowing in Fop’s Hardware and splindle-bins tale after tale of UFO’s. The blind-sided always escape with eyes nozzle-donging, having purchased willi-palooza blots instead of dingle-dock derry doos. She can be very confusing to stand next too— I will grant you that. But what if she really knows the zizzle-down on UFO crankdom? What if she can perry-pass the UFO book and zinkle-boot fact after fact after fact? The Wippito-Doo Village would be in her debt infinitum to e-spry UFO’s and link the inker-gate. It would be a grand hoo-hah of a success! And all because of this woman. Who is she? Who is this woman, really? Wait a moment... we cannot forget the moggle-blum grave, wampilly man who blottle-dots notes to his journal in coffee shop after coffee shop after coffee shop. When he thinks no one is looking, he shlimps US postage stamps next to each entry and then mumble-grob bogs to himself until someone fwooshes by. He carries an oompalong bag, shlingled to the gills with pompilliness. But no one really knows what flag-rag is shtoomped in that bag. What if it’s the very maginky of grid-poomphed dream works? What if he is the Wippity-Do Village’s Dream Matrix Manager? What if the very nature of his work really IS hinkle-secret and highly pom-ploosive? Imagine what might zinkle-fizz if he didn’t hodge-podge the dream matrix nightly? Sally’s winkle-spur evening visions might get splinxed with Max’s rom-zlooted dreams... and that, my friends, would be blooper-moofed! Tragic indeed! No wonder he drinks so much coffee. I’ve seen others, you know. A man called Coyote who zoople-soots purple satin, gold metallic stars, a matching wizard hat and always walkle-bombs barefoot (even in winter) with a staff. And a bottle-popped bespectacled woman who shloops her days rinkle-bottoming under couch pillows for dimes and popcorn kernels at the local university student union. But I’ll let you inkle-bix all this for yourself.  Your contributions help support The Purple Phoenix Press.
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