Once upon a time my birth father,
and crusty crabby grand father
pulled a nasty trick on me,
that innocent fifth grader,
who played along with Halloween gag
when a lad who attended
Henry Kline Boyer Elementary School
(long since repurposed into
a Play and Learn Center
for nursery and kindergarten age kids),
where back in time
when I attended there taught an ancient
bewitched fossilized old hag
haggard flying her then
state of the art broomstick
inevitably bristling with jetlag
evincing behavior as if soused
by drinking vintage liquor from a keg.
I now quote verbatim listing the top-notch sweeping broomsticks yielded (in chronicle order newest to oldest) after googling state of the art 2026 brooksticks invented courtesy J.D. Rowling that hark the herald angels sang, and on a wing and a prayer employed to immense popularity earlier in the twenty first century.
For professional Quidditch players and enthusiasts of Harry Potter lore, the top tier of high-performance racing brooms includes:
Firebolt Supreme: The premier choice for international tournament play, famously utilized by the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team and stars like Viktor Krum. It features goblin-made ironwork and an unbreakable braking charm.
Thunderbolt VII: Built in 2014 as a direct, aggressive competitor to the Firebolt. Engineered for immense acceleration and high-pressure play, got called into use sought heavily by the Nigerian National Team.
Varápidos: A highly coveted, elite international racing broom manufactured and favored predominantly by the Brazilian National Team.
Yajirushi: A top-tier, precision-crafted racing broom preferred by the Japanese National Quidditch Team.
Nimbus 2001: While slightly older, the Nimbus Racing Broom Company\'s flagship model remains a global benchmark for sleek aerodynamics, exceptional handling, and team coordination.
Four decades and seven years ago
when a bambino
among those disposed
like so much flotsam and jetsam,
countless observers wondered
where did the van
with a magic busload
carrying trick and treating kids
innocent children donning
waxed lips, mustaches,
fake buck teeth, and horse teeth
molded from the same
paraWax mustaches,
molded from the same paraffin wax
camouflaged, disguised masked
and souped up government getup
self propelled driving vehicle made a heave ho,
scaling the heights of tall buildings,
and in a poof vanished into a time warp
shortly thereafter to be
sucjed into the closest known
black hole to Earth
identified as Gaia BH1,
located approximately 1,560
light-years away
in the constellation Ophiuchus.
nary a trace out of thin air excitement
vocalized at the top of their little lungs
never heard from any mo,\'
where frightened screaming kids
heard wailing echoes across the universe.
Though runt of the litter,
nevertheless, I got bestowed with brilliant powers
to thwart what appeared as doomed fate
and grabbed hold of the steering wheel
zipping fast as greased lightning
property of Perkiomen Valley district
back before the party started.
As a Halloween costume,
aforementioned year during early grade school,
my father got the brilliant idea
with one of a kind getup
for his sole son to be dressed as white trash
don\'t discount the above as so much rubbish
or thee doubting thomas might find yourself
richly endowed turned into newt trill nouveau
creepy people forever
to haunt like a dark shadow
inching (like the incy wincy spider)
along the edge of night
within the outer limits of the twilight zone.
Missus Shaner
(the talon clawed, shriveled
relic of a dinosaur,
who taught fifth grade,
whose lovely bones stored
in the Smithsonian Museum)
gave me first prize,
and subsequently felt so convinced
about authenticity of this kid
being “privileged white trash,\"
she notified another kid
dressed as a janitor
to dispense with me
in the school dumpster.
The sanitation disposal company
drove me (and subsequently
dumped yours truly
among the real rubbish
to nearest landfill
loaded with all kinds of junk
such as food scraps, recyclables,
and soiled diapers.
Over a short span of time,
the detritus commingled
into one noxious brew
of a despicable fly haven,
whereby jiggling lifelike maggots,
jump/kick started, lunched, and nursed putrescence
re: reeking and teeming vibrantly
with yum zuck for a swamp thing,
I seemed to be metamorphosed
into sewer rat as if by some cruel hoax.
Nothing compared, neither sickened
nor violated senses
of smell, sight, taste, and touch
to the maximum factor
intolerant of odoriferous odious stench.
Each pestilential assault
issued an appalling refrain
courtesy Fiona Apple\'s:
The Idler Wheel Is Wiser
than the Driver of the Screw
and Whipping Cords Will Serve You
More than Ropes Will Ever Do.
Before mine myopic bespectacled eyes
(smarting from constant comet drubbing irritants
(which glasses – rather bifocals –
caked with smudge good as naught),
stayed wide shut from inundation
of said corrosive gaseous shaped
oxbow lake comprising wreath
like willow o the wisps.
Liberty vis a vis in sight
envisioned visibly threatened offshoots
of tendril spikes; snaking sneakily,
sordidly slithering silently,
yet straightaway as a scene
from some spooky sideshow
or “haunted house.\"
This ugly slop
splashed upon mine formerly
pristine academic uniform
appeared near identical
to the grub hub (the lunch lady served)
splattered sundry speckles
sans sundry detritus,
which found me writhing with nausea.
Thee nasty muck and mire
found this formerly introverted boy
transformed into a sponge bobbing
squarely panting creature
from the black lagoon,
whose skinny sea legs
sought semi-solid surface
to stand upright position amidst
variegated flotsam and jetsam.
Dishabille appearance acquired
a fresh splattered coat of rancid slimy
green eggs and ham with bacon
covered gangly arms
(among other bits and pieces of moldy clothes,
food and iconic library oddments)
found me booking upon handle
of fast approaching humongous
military size rig, whrereat unthinking move
found slippery fingers of mine
left hand latched upon makeshift handhold
while with right hand locked onto steering wheel
despite how pseudo Sherman tank
ricocheted unpredictably as an outsize trash truck
violently shook up and down
all night long en route
on this highway to hell
found me thunderstruck
(before being buried alive in Moyer’s Dump),
which toxic brew would be declared
a Super Fund Site
and shuttered in the near future.
Once Robert Hall wardrobe
affixed with a capitalone fancyfeast
of grateful dead road kill,
kickstarter from some automotive contraption,
and plenti of fish heads
(with thine square pants
trimmed with lovely bones),
I felt indistinguishable
from regular riffraff riding shotgun.
When random trucker parked and stopped,
the awful bin laden made ready
to empty contents within the mountain
of olfactory noxious material.
A thought occurred,
that now might be the golden
(or rather gook steeped) opportunity
to extricate myself and classmates
from morass of mish mashed,
spud nicked linkedin kindled juggernaut,
icky first class bric a brac.