Grand Panjandrum Award is the highest honor conferred on the winner of the Bulwer-Lytton Contest. The challenge of the contest is to write the worst possible opening sentence to a non-existent novel. The contest is so popular that English speaking writers from all over the world compete in the various categories of the contest. Over the years, I have collected hundreds of panjandrums, and even tried my hand at the art, without notable success. Lads and Lassies, for your reading pleasure are several of the best panjandrums in the English language. I offer my sincere congratulations to the winners who possess that rare talent for penning prose that is so terrible; it is magically transformed into Grand Panjandrum. Winner: Adventure As the hippo's jaws clamped on Henry's body he noted the four huge teeth badly in need of a cleaning, preferably with one of those electric sonic toothbrushes, and he reflected that his name would be immortalized by his unusual death, since hippo killings are not a daily occurrence, at least not in the high street of Chipping Sodbury. Tim Lafferty, Horsell Woking, UK Dishonorable Mentions Miss Cardinal mused over the singularly decadent manner in which Master Hammond consumed the steak and kidney pie and was reminded of the practices of certain cannibalistic tribes with whom she had lived during her travels in Borneo, not New Guinea, although New Guinea is certainly nice this time of year, despite the fact steak and kidney pie is rarely served there, at least not the kind made from sheep or cows. Brad R. Frazer, Boise, ID Winner: Children's Literature Danny, the little Grizzly bear cub, frolicked in the tall grass on this sunny Spring morning, his mother keeping a watchful eye as she chewed on a piece of a hiker they had encountered the day before. Dave McKenzie, Federal Way, WA Dishonorable Mention Dane worked the Spyrograph furiously, first red, then green, then red again, and finally blue; the pattern he sought was in there somewhere, and the correct combination would open the doors to a euphoria only known to dogs getting their stomachs scratched and parakeets viewing themselves in the mirror. Matthew Warnock, Elgin, IL Winner: Detective I'd been tailing this guy for over an hour while he tried every trick in the book to lose me: going down side streets, doubling back, suddenly veering into shop doorways, jumping out again, crossing the street, looking for somewhere to make the drop, and I was going to be there when he did it because his disguise as a postman didn't have me fooled for a minute. Bob Millar, Hässelby, Sweden Dishonorable Mentions She'd been strangled with a rosary, not a run-of-the-mill rosary like you might get at a Catholic bookstore where Hail Marys are two for a quarter and indulgences are included on the back flap of the May issue of "Nuns and Roses" magazine, but a fancy heirloom rosary with pearls, rubies, and a solid gold cross, a rosary with attitude, the kind of rosary that said, "Get your Jehovah's Witness ass off my front porch." Mark Schweizer, Hopkinsville, KY What shocked Juliette as she entered the room was not that there was an escaped convict under her coverlet snuggling with her best teddy bear, but that there was a knife through his back, "And who," she wondered out loud, steadying herself against the faux-taffeta wallpaper, "would stab a teddy bear?" Katie Alender, Studio City, CA Winner: Fashion and Romance LaVerne was undeniably underdressed for this frigid weather; her black, rain-soaked tank top offered no protection and seemed to cling to her torso out of sheer rage, while her tie-dyed boa scarf hung lifeless around her neck like a giant, exhausted, pipe cleaner recently discarded after near-criminal overuse by an obviously sadistic (and rather flamboyant) plumber. Andrew Cavallari, Northfield, IL Dishonorable Mentions Nothing looked good on the two young celebrities, Scarlett Johansson and Kiera Knightly, as they posed on the cover of a fashion magazine, with their lips the color of a Big Ben Hybrid Teas Rose, and flawless complexions, but they could not compare to the one with Jennifer Lopez with her smoky gray diaphanous blouse, high heels, and a black leather belt that would leave a nasty red mark if she were to spank you with it. Wayne Spivey, Huntsville, TX Her hair was the color of old copper, not green with white streaks like you see on roofs and statues where birds have been messing, but the kind you find on dark pennies from back in the nineteen-forties or fifties after God knows how many thumbs have been rubbing Abe Lincoln's beard. Michael A. Cowell, Norwalk, CA With a belly full of haggis and scotch whiskey, the portly Mr. Ian Fagenglass was enjoying another round of toasts at the Annual Rabbie Burns Night (held for the ninth consecutive year at the Pig and Whistle Pub), and leaning across the banquet table for the bottle, Ian felt a cool draught sweep across his backside and heard a dull rumble of anger from the next table, causing Ian to curse himself, yet again, for taking fashion advice from crazy Aunt Bessie and wearing a micro-mini kilt which did little to conceal his bare backside as he leaned, a bit unsteadily, to pour the lads another round of liquid gold. Saucy Jack Diplinger, Calgary, Alberta, Canada She clung to the memory of their love like those tiny bits of used tissues he always left in his pockets, which mostly ended up in the dryer lint basket although enough of them welded themselves to her favorite navy blue, polar fleece pullover, rendering it as permanently flawed and unappealing as his name tattooed on her butt. Pamela Patchet Hamilton, Beaconsfield, Quebec, Canada Allison sipped her tea as she thought about the Isabella Rosselini types--tiny, fragile, etiolated, willowy creatures of ethereal beauty whose delicate spaghetti-strapped sundresses seemed to hover about a quarter of an inch above their skin, while Alison's sundress cut into her flesh at the straps and bound at the waist or it ballooned out like the muumuu it really was. Katy Brezger, Dowagiac MI Winner: Science Fiction What a pity Dave was too young to have seen "2001: A Space Odyssey," for he might have been able to predict what would happen next, when the ape standing next to the big black slab picked up the tapir bone. Ann Medlock, Lenah Valley, TAS, Australia Winner: Western The easy and comforting roll of the saddle was second nature to Luke, and as he gazed off into the distant setting sun, he wondered whether he had enough change for one more ride at the supermarket before he had to return to the home. Glenn Lawrie, Chungnam, South Korea Dishonorable Mention Slim pulled the branding iron away from the yearling's seared flank and looked up to see Taffy Edwards, the boss's daughter, trotting towards him on her sorrel mare, Brandi, wearing absolutely nothing but tight blue jeans and a green tank top---her gi-normous, heaving, unrestrained hooters resembling nothing so much as a pair of fat Charolais heifers trying to beat each other through a loading chute. Tyler Womack, Eustace, Texas Winner: Fantasy Fiction Lady Guinevere heard it distinctly, a sharp slap, as if a gauntlet had been thrown, and yet it was hardly plausible that she, perched delicately on the back of her cantering steed, should be challenged to ride faster, since protocol determined that Arthur should ride in front, then she, then Lancelot, for that was the order prescribed by Merlin, ever since he invented the carousel. Celine Shinbutsu, Hino City, Tokyo, Japan Dishonorable Mention At Elvenheim there was great joy, in that the legendary Ring of the Nordlings had been retrieved from the evil Sudlings by the hero Bill Baggydrawers, who it must be said looked nothing like a hero, at least none I've ever seen, and the Ring had once again been placed on the middle finger of the left hand of the Elvenking, who did rather resemble a king, even if his buck teeth made him look for all the world like a great rabbit. Wayne McCoy, Gainesville Fl
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Sometimes the best hunting and fishing opportunities arise when least expected. It was late fall when I was hiking the Colorado high country together with my wife and a few friends taking photos of aspen foliage when we happened upon a large field of kinnikinnick bordering the edge of a high plateau. The low growing plant is common and barely worth mentioning except for the fact that this field contained a large patch of variegated kinnikinnick, a most uncommon variety to find in Colorado. It was also thick with orange berries instead of the usual red bear berries. As any serious hunter knows, this plant variety is catnip to the Rocky Mountain Kriscat. For those unfamiliar with the beast, a Kriscat has short stubby legs, a thick fur coat like a chinchilla and is roughly the size of a small Mongolian mule. The male, or King Kriscat, has a shaggy mane covering their eyes and ram-like horns that extend straight up before curling downward. King Kriscats are tough to find and even tougher to bring down. A King Kriscat has been on my bucket list for some time now. While the rest of my party took photos of the mountain scenery, I stalked the kinnikinnick field searching for signs of Kriscat. I was soon rewarded by finding lines of dry twigs that the Kriscat uses to mark its territory. A few yards outside the twig circle I found abundant and fresh Kriscat tracks and scat. There was no mistaking that I was standing in the middle of prime Kriscat hunting country. Yes, it was a hunter’s dream come true. With a shooter’s eye, I planned my hunt. A long range shot is the only way to bag the super elusive Kriscat. I settled on a rock outcrop some two hundred yards from the kinnikinnick patch, and logged in the GPS coordinates. As we departed the plateau, I carefully marked the path, so that I could retrace my steps to the outcrop. As soon as I arrived home, I began preparing for the hunt. I am an Old School hunter and decided on using my authentic, double trigger Hawkens muzzleloader equipped with a ghost ring iron sights and modern nylon sling. My Hawkens rifle is barreled 50 caliber and has an oversize beavertail stock for stability. I also carry a homemade triple leg shooting stick of my own design. This rig had proven to be a deadly accurate at the rifle range, even at extreme distance. I was both hopeful and confidence as I packed the gear into my Jeep. I was so excited about the hunt that I hardly slept that night; nevertheless, I awoke before the 3 AM alarm and quietly departed without disturbing my wife. By 4 AM I was at the trailhead taking my first GPS readings and making final adjustments on my gear. It was a moonless, pitch dark, crisp autumn night. I donned my lucky charm; a worn, orange flannel flat cap, and switched on the red filtered flashlight. I was right on schedule as I began marching up the mountain to the Kriscat hunting grounds. After thirty minutes of hard going, I reached my first GPS waypoint and discovered that the GPS battery was dead. I carried eighteen spare batteries, but none that fit the GPS. I decided to march on with my Boy Scout compass and rely on my trail markers. I estimated an hour hike, but it took more than twice as long. My long shooting sticks got tangled in every low branch and required constant adjusting and re-adjusted. My fifty pound back pack and fifteen pound Hawkens felt like giant boat anchors as I clambered over the rocks. It was exhausting work, and I ran out of drinking water before reaching the plateau. Quite frankly, I was not properly packed for a mountain hunt. The early rays of sunlight were lancing through the night sky when I collapsed in a heap atop the rock outcrop that I had scouted the day before. I loaded my Hawkens with a 50 cal sabot/45 cal 220 grain bullet, set up my shooting sticks, readied my binoculars and range finder then satisfied all was set, I stretched out on a blanket and closed my eyes for a few minutes rest. Instead I fell fast asleep. I awoke with a start, and was shocked to see it was full daylight. I glanced at my watch and realized I had slept over two hours. A wave of disappointment hit me as I readied my binoculars. Had I missed the hunting window? I peered over the rocks and glassed the kinnikinnick patch. My situation is summed up best as a good news, bad news story. The good: a full brace of shaggy mane Kriscats were feeding in the kinnikinnick patch. All three were trophy males. Many a hunter had paid several thousand dollars per shot at a swanky hunting lodge to get an opportunity to shoot one Kriscat. I was looking at an once-in-a-lifetime hunt: three Kriscats. Now the bad: I had ended up on the wrong outcrop and was a mere ten yards away from the kinnikinnick patch instead of the planned two hundred yards. I was clearly over gunned with the Hawkens zeroed at two hundred yards. I would have to improvise a new plan. To make matters more complex, an enormous Mexican Hare was harassing the Kriscats causing them to be in constant motion. The Hare was charging the kinnikinnick patch and stamping his paddle sized back feet on the ground. A Kriscat, carrying a twig in his sharp teeth, met the charge and laid a twig before the Hare. The Hare would not pass over the twigs markers, but kept looking for an unprotected opening to raid the kinnikinnick patch. As I mulled over a new plan, I heard more commotion on my left side. I spotted a Russian Boar a mere twenty yards away. The brute clawed his large, menacing tusks against a Ponderosa Pine. It was a clear signal that the nasty beast was getting ready to charge me. I discovered later that the boar and Mexican Hare were escapees from a local, exotic hunting ranch. Only the Kriscats were native Colorado. I decided to re-target the Hawkens at the boar. I needed the knockdown power and really had no other choice for giving the big boar some hot lead training. I scoped the boar with my range finder/elevation compensator and estimated that aiming at the boar’s front left hoof would place a fatal shot into his brisket. I was forced to deploy one of my backup firearms to shoot a Kriscat. I selected a light caliber, semi-auto Whisper Slide pistol of the Italian make and design. It is a tactical model with a weaver rail and reflex optics. The suppressed pistol shoots so quietly that a hunter can miss the first shot without startling his prey; thereby, getting a second, or if lucky, a third shot before the wild animal flees the area. I thought Lady Luck was on my side as a murder of crows landed on a few fallen trees near the kinnikinnick patch. The (mostly useless) Colorado Crow is noted for his loud, harsh, constant noise, and provided cover for me to move my shooting sticks, cock the set trigger on the Hawkens, cap it and then load the Whisper Slide pistol with subsonic ammo. I struggled to control my breathing as I took shooting position. I intended to fire the Whisper Slide pistol, with my right hand, at a Kriscat aiming for a neck shot. If I missed the difficult neck shot, I would fire one or maybe two more shots at the Kriscat before cracking down on the boar with a one armed shot from the Hawkens. I swiveled my head from one target to the other, concentrating on trigger control. Both being tricky shots, I took my time to sight in. I panned the pistol at my Kriscat targets and selected the best, clean shot. I adjusted my pistol sights; red dot, switch to green dot, no back to dim red, no too dim, switch to crosshairs, no back to dot, switch to dim crosshairs and so forth. I wasted way too much time. Meanwhile a posse of wild turkeys wandered into the kinnikinnick field and scattered the crows. Just as I was gently squeezing the trigger on the pistol, a big crow landed on my head. I instantly felt intense pain as the crow’s sharp claws ripped into my scalp. I screamed and flinched and the Hawkens discharged prematurely nearly knocking me off my feet. The kinnikinnick patch was a blur of wild animals charging this way and that. I fired into the melee and emptied my pistol magazine like some fool cowboy in a TV western. I missed the Kriscats and they disappeared over the rim of the plateau. The evil crow was still on my head. In a fit of white hot anger I swiped violently at the crow with the empty Whisper Slide, and pistol-whipped myself in the process. I was knocked out. I awoke with a lump on my head and a seriously bruised ego. I packed my gear. To add insult to injury, the crow had swiped my flat cap. I forced myself to patrol the hunting field to check for blood stains. I trudged listlessly about, and was astonished to find a gobbler lying dead in the kinnikinnick patch, shot through the head with his long red beard wrapped around his neck from the bullet impact. After I got home and dressed out the wild turkey, I phoned Lawrence, my old hunting buddy in Wyoming. His wife Nancy answered the phone. Lawrence was out, but Nancy being a full-blooded Shoshone Indian and a born huntress was keen to hear about my latest hunting adventure. I told her the whole awful story. After a long pause, Nancy explained that a crow landing on your head is Bad Medicine, capital B. Just ask Johnny Depp about his career tanking after wearing a ridiculous crow headdress in his dismal movie, The Lone Ranger. She gave me clear instructions, as only a true Indian can, on how to break the Crow curse. I followed her advice to the letter and can safely say that the curse is broken. In proof of my good fortune, I was to discover later that my turkey was a blue-ribbon gobbler, and the biggest one taken with a pistol shot in state history. I got my picture in the local paper, and news of the first gobbler taken with a Whisper Slide pistol caused a minor sensation in Italian hunting circles. To my great surprise, I was invited to speak at a Mountain Hunting Round Table in Milan, Italy, with a full expense paid trip for two. My first inclination was to decline the trip to allow a more deserving, more skilled American sportsman to share his hunting wisdom with the Italians. My wife talked some sense into my head, “We always wanted to go to Italy, and we are going! Just talk about the turkey, and keep quiet about the Kriscats and crows.” I accepted the invite and got the airline tickets. I prepared my presentation for the meeting, and followed my wife’s advice by leaving out the bad parts and focusing on the good events of the hunt. I even embellished my story a bit to come off as somewhat heroic; because after all, that is the Old School way to tell a good hunting story. The end |
AuthorWritten and edited by Ben Clark. Copyright 2016-2022. All rights reserved Archives
October 2021
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