David Thayer

Wellington Leg: A pending court case may clarify the Unlimbaugh Rules once and for all. Our own Tuffy Tuffington reports from courthouse square: Ms. Amanda Bond of Little Wallop finds herself in the crosshairs of the obscure Rush Limbaugh regulations Wellington Leg began enforcing this past weekend. Ms. Bond, a slender brunette, notes on her MySpace page that “she wants a man who knows what she wants before she does.” She thought she had found that man, home plate umpire, Gus of Goth.

Order in the Court: Judge Hamilcar Frist, who “loves kittens and moonlight strolls” will hear the case of Ms. Bond early next week. A Greek Chorus will take the place of a jury to make the trail more entertaining. Her defense? She cannot possibly look like Rush Limbaugh.

Ms. Bond Meets Gus: She submitted this brief to the court: I’d always wanted to meet a man who knew what I wanted before I did. Recently I was in the box seats at Gastropod Stadium watching an endless inning when Gus strolled over and said, “I’ll bet I know what you want. A pitching change.”

Well, I did want a pitching change. How did he know? How could he have known? I don’t remember fidgeting or looking bored, let alone acting like the boorish buffoon in Row Five who threw a taco or a fajita in the direction of the dugout. It would never occur to me to do such a thing. I wouldn’t order a fajita in the first place because they’re so messy, and contain transfats. I’m not sure what transfats are it sounds like a fat on its way to be something else, something far more sinister than regular fats, kind of premeditated as opposed to incidental, like, oh I’m a fat molecule now but just you wait….it makes me think of the Transit Authority with subway cars full of fat globules and I have to wonder what people are thinking when they order food now that the transfat content has to be published. Anyway, your honor, after leaving the ballpark I was hurrying toward my car when these police officers asked me if I knew what Rush Limbaugh looked like. I forgot about the regulation that requires everyone in Wellington Leg to look like Rush on Sunday night. I even had extra pillows in the back of my car, but I forgot those too. By the way, isn’t he bald?

Respectfully,

Amanda Bond

The full transcript of Ms. Bond’s vigorous defense are available on Wellington Court TV .

Wellington Coconut Works: Problems with the coconut harvest have resulted in a full scale audit by the budget committee, sources at the Historic Rotunda say. The audit team will file a report tomorrow confirming the Towne Council’s worst fears: coconuts do not grow in Wellington Leg. Much of last year’s crop was delivered by parachute by the mysterious BB Cooper. Otherwise, the sum total of coconut production is zero.

When an Exporter is Really an Importer: The Palace has ordered an increase in coconut production this year probably in reaction to skyrocketing prices. A stand of palm trees near the Goth Road Bypass are made of plastic, according to arborist and Grateful Dead scholar Professor Palm. “One expects a low crop of fruit from an artificial tree,” he says. “Hence the need to airlift our coconuts prior to harvest.”

Setting the husks alight: Compounding the problem of low production vandals have been known to set the husks alight for purposes that are difficult to discern. One theory is that by setting the coconuts on fire rival townes create a disgruntled primate population since larger primates enjoy smashing coconuts. “In this case the gorilla in the room is a gorilla,” said Professor Palm. “The Towne Council has been down this road before,” he added. Gorillas frequently attend Towne Council meetings as revealed in a shock piece by Tuffpo. ( See Gorilla Votes With His Feet).

No Middleground? On a recent balmy day in the Leg a Mrs. Norquist of Coconut Grove discovered a flaming husk concealed in an urgent rewrite of her massive tome Gardening Has to Hurt. “My manuscript was on fire,” she said. Luckily for her a sudden squall doused the flames.
Mrs. Norquist took refuge under a Royal Palm.

T. Rex Love-Handles reporting.

Mr. Love-Handles is a contributor to the Tuffington Post and the virtual newspaper The Druidical & Literary. The paper can be delivered to your door through the miracle of the Earl’s Own Telephony and Dial-Up Service. We squeeze it through your phone line: give the paper several minutes to return to its normal font size, then stir.

Wellington Leg: The Druids on the forty third floor report cub reporter Tuffy Tuffington, author of the Tuffington Post, has been located. Regular readers will recall that Tuffy dropped through a donut hole suffered molecular disassociation and signed with a literary agent all before the ink was dry on the afternoon edition of the Literary Leg. Young Tuffy went on to rebalance his tires and read the Fed Minutes but let’s not bury the lede here: he signed with a literary agent.

He’s Trendy and Very Now: While some may sneer and others withhold judgment the news has spread from Wellington Leg to the Roman garrison at Goth. The Roman commander of the Valeria Victrix Legion has promised not to sack and burn New York now that Tuffy is represented. He’s ordered Tuffy’s work translated into Latin to be read aloud during Vespers:
if the troops like what they hear Tuffy will be carried through the Syrian Gate, deposited on a marble slab near the temple of Venus in Blue Jeans and made to enjoy the spectacle of chariot repair on ESPN Augustus Caesar. If they don’t like it he’ll be beheaded after an interlude of jeers and catcalls.
The Manuscript Delivered: Riders and skirmishers delivered a copy of the manuscript to the palatial estate of the 43 Earl mere hours after transcribing Tuffy’s prose into print. 43 answered the door in a paisly bathrobe causing panic and confusion as he signed for the delivery in Olde French.
In honor of the occasion shops in Wellington Leg will close early today. Eddie’s Book Nook will celebrate with a reading from poet laureate Pam Anderson later this evening. Eddie sez: be there or be square.

Wellington Leg: In a late morning news conference the bizarre and grotesque Rabelaisian Pretender Gargantua announced a formal challenge to the Forty Third Earl. Standing fourteen feet tall and weighing eleven hundred pounds Gargantua demolished the all you can eat buffet at Medium Sized Caesar’s before proclaiming his intent to fight for the title of Champion of the Leg, and the right to wear the Order of the Garter Rose and stickpin. As previously reported on the Tuffington Post, Gargantua has retained the services of the Mothra Removal Service, a full service publicity and marketing firm located in a bitter irony steps away from the Historic Rotunda and Statue of Earl On Horseback.

No More Corn Chowder? Gargantua demonstrated his might after sous-chef Leonid Breshnev announced the end of the corn chowder ration for brunch. The French brute battled the kitchen staff including a politburo of food critics before Mall Security and a cohort from the Decima Claudia Legion restored order. Only when flanked by Roman cavalry did Gargantua yield the field to make his dramatic announcement.

Will 43 Defend his Title? This is the burning question on Feudal Entourage this afternoon; rumors of his impending callup to pitch for the New York Yankees notwithstanding some Legians believe that 43 is dodging Gargantua and his miserable oaf of a son Pantagruel. “This is French literature,” said Professor Moriarty. “We demand satisfaction,” he added.

Our own Tuffy Tuffington reports from the prized arugula patch near the earl’s pied a terre on Haunting Puffins Close: “From my vantage point I see a locked front gate, a small bird, maybe a wren, possibly a chickadee…no, it’s a Humboldt Penguin! There is ice and sea lions….”

Tuffy?

Tuffy?

No wonder the mainstream media laughs. They have Glen Beck and Bill and Sean and “green rooms.” If anyone sees our reporter please have him call the office. Thanks. No, there is not a reward.