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07-13-01, for Denny
ROASTING Denny -or- Silence of the Flambes
Denny W, Curmudgeon, Editor, Son of Martha, and inveterate punster will be enjoying a birthday on July 13th (one day before Bastille Day). I would like to extend an invitation to all to ROAST him here, in this thread, from now until then. Consider it a challenge: The Twelve Days of Crispness.
The only rule is that your post in this thread must be in the general nature of a ROAST. Denny should of course be the main target. Well done is the order of the day, so please don't post hastily. As with any Roast, victims are encouraged not to take comments personally, but in the spirit of good-natured ribbing. The only flames should be those under the guest of honor, who is enjoined not to respond until the 13th, when he may respond to all in a single post as the last poster boy.
Gary steps behind the podium, waits a few moments for the babble to quiet. Seeing no sign that it will, he raps a fork against a water glass repeatedly, to get the attention of the assembled ASSDers. When that fails, he places his lips next to the microphone and asks, “Is this thing on?” The resulting squeal of feedback silences the room.
“Thank you. Since I'm the fool who proposed this roast, I guess that means I have to go first. That way, all my cheap sho - er - pithy comments can receive appropriate attention from the vict - er, ah, targ - um, recipients.”
Gary takes a drink from the water glass (which contains something other than water, to his surprise, as evidenced by his gasp, sweat breaking out, and bulging eyes). He clears his throat and continues, “You all know our guest of honor,” gesturing to the individual seated to the right of the podium who does not look like H.L. Menken, “the extinguished gentleman from the great state of Washington, Denny 'Editor and Curmudgeon' Wheeler.” Gary waits patiently for the applause to die down. Eventually, both stop clapping.
“When I was a Newbie here,” Gary ignores the shouts of 'yer still a clueless newbie' and 'who the hell are you' and repeats louder, “when I was a Newbie here, and just a reader who liked the group dynamic, it was Denny who encouraged me and inspired me to write.” Having ignored the comments about his newbie status, Gary successfully ignores the baleful stares leveled at Denny and the muttered blame-laying to say, “Perhaps he recognized in me some spark of talent...” Gary pauses to allow for good-natured ribbing, instead he sees only puzzled expressions, “...or maybe he's just promiscuous, fertilizing any hopper in reach.” That brought knowing smiles.
“Even his detractors will admit that Denny is full of fertilizer,” Gary continues, to more hoots and nods. “I must admit, that despite the BHC thread, and all discussion of hopperettes, I had no mental image of exactly what Denny was , um, 'having congress with', until I watched the movie _A Bug's Life_. Now I can't make the image go away.” Gary shudders, and inadvertantly takes another sip of “water”, which his eyes do. Water, that is.
“But I would not damp him with faint braise...” Gary looks more closely at his cue cards on the podium. That isn't what he remembers writing, but everything is a little blurry. “Our Denny is a Son of, uh,” what's that next word, Gary squints as the assemblage fills in blank speaking time with their own suggestions. “Mothra? That can't be right.”
“Martha!” supplies Rui.
“Stuart correct, sir,” Gary thanks him formally, and returns to the cards. They slither from his fingers. He shuffles them back together. They are no longer in order - a problem to be dealt with.
Gary clears his throat, and makes the mistake of glancing at Denny, who is stifling a laugh. From the cards he reads, “When I was a Nubian...” That can't be right. Toss that card. “Even his protractors...” Toss that one, too.
“Sum people,” ah, a totally new card, “have subjested that thish kinda threat - er, tread... thread (there - got it out) belong is the Callahams noosegroup.
At this point, gary has fallen behind. The podium, that is. A translucent muse places her hands under his arms and begins to drag him away. A sockpuppet lends a hand. The podium is now free for the next roaster.
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