The Decadent Stump

Top of the muffin to you!!! That's what we say in Muffinton, the stumps being less than the tops. Muffinton is littered with muffin stumps, not even the bums will eat the stumps, not even the cockaroaches. I've eaten of stump before, I'm weird like that. But, it's just stump, still muffin, but stump. That's what I tell myself, and others, but they just shake their heads and walk away.

There is a group of Stump Eaters in Muffinton and we have secret meetings in the basement of the Pinehole Hole Pub. It is run similar to Alcoholics Anonymous, except no one there wants to quit eating the stump. There is pressure from the rest of the town which superficially makes us want to quit, but we all really love it. Mary Fattinhole says she wants to quit binge stumping, and she cries and shakes every meeting. I can't help but roll my eyes. "It's like all things in life, Mary," I tell her, "eat a stump. Eat two. But don't inject them into your veins." Often she cries all the harder at my words of wisdom. Our stump munching meetings usually end in fist fights. Just yesterday my face was pounded into a pulpy mess. My cheek was ripped open and now I inadvertently smile at people. The first rule of Muffin Stump Munch Yum Yum Club: Do not talk about Muffin Stump Munch Yum Yum Club.

There is an amputee who started coming to our meetings. She says she's from Blamdenflurfen, but no one believes her. "Where are your Blimpers, then?" We ask her. She says she lost them, along with the greater portion of her left arm in a dog sledding accident. We try questioning her further, but she either remains silent or changes the subject. Each of us all has accused her of lying, sometimes all at once, sometimes in hushed tones at the bar. If our meetings don't end with fist fights, they end with shouting slander in her direction. She calls herself Rubbin McTissueloss. That's a fake name if I ever heard one. Why would a stump arm want to come to Muffintown? I've walked from the post office with her to the laundromat one time, and not once did any citizen wish her "top of the muffin." NOT ONCE! If I didn't get to know her, and if I didn't have lustings for muffin stumps, I might have done the same. It's like she's giving us the finger with her stump there hanging from her shoulder. I saw her wave with it once. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't aroused. It takes a list of positive attributes, and a few awesome negative ones, to move into a town with a blatant disrespect for all things stump with a stump on your person. She wields the inedible stump of courage, as opposed to the edible stump of courage which was buried a number of years ago (said to give courage).

I have come to associate muffin stumps with Rubbin. Although eating stump has always satisfied a large part of me that I had been hiding, I knew the satisfaction was not 100%. After entertaining some fantasies with her in the forest by the river, I decided to try and realize them.

At our meetings she always gave eyes to me. They were sugary and tasted like blueberries. She gave eyes also to Flurff Bandylegs, but he had a girlfriend already. Not that that would stop him.

Everyone loved Rubbin's stump, there was even talk of replacing her with Old Murflin -- the clubs Queen. Chormel, a sculptor, talked about casting Rubbin's stump and mounting it on the wall. Rubbin intuited our side discussions, and so gave us eyes.

Since I was the craziest, both in my fighting and in my judgement of edible stumpery, I decided to be the first man of our club to try her out. My stump meter said 10 and I was hungry. Not being one for tact, and noticing the fire in her eyes (they were all slightly burnt, some more than others) I asked her kindly, and with much eyebrow wiggling and lid winking, if she would please meet me down by the river in the forest. I would bring my guitar, two bottles of hooch, and some horribly disfigured muffin stumps found preferably in the gutter. She eyed me peculiar, and said things she thought a respectable lady might say, and I replied with something a gentleman might say, but with intonations concerning our effects. She spoke still in the vein of a respectable lady, so I used my second approach: Lying. This was a language she could understand. By telling her that particular place down by the river in the forest in conjunction with certain actions might heal her of her stumpness, she conceded.

It was a misty, hazy day, our meeting day. I set the time at dusk. It was purple out. The river is lower down than the town. A number of animal trails lead down through the forest to the river. I took the one I knew best. I had forgotten how big the forest was. It was immense, the town being a refuge from it's dark depths. I should have been more specific with Rubbin and our meeting place. I wrote in my notebook: "Real life is different than mind life." But quickly crossed it out. Now was not the time for disillusionment.

By shouting her name in 45 second intervals while staggering in the mud by the river bank we were united. She was pleased enough to see me. I had brought what I said I would and after laying down a blanket proceeded to serenade her with my guitar. I sang the popular Italian hit "Bellissimo". She told me to stop after a few seconds and to sit down. I brought out the hooch and was looking forward to enlivening our temperaments for conducive of romp, but before I could even have a little she touched my arm with her good one and asked me if I had ever milked a cow.

This always happens to me. I try for good times and end up with cow milking tales. She said she missed being able to milk cows and hold two bundles of wood, and she started crying a bit. I turned the oven of my loins down to simmer and imagined myself walking around with one arm. No more two handed high-fives. No more two handed OMG faces. No more pointing to two things at the same time. A horrible impediment indeed. I sympathized with her for a bit, all while she spoke of arm related mutilations, childhood experiences, and random facts.

Despite my efforts, it was evident the control of my loin oven temperature was a phantasm. The full moon was out. The river gushed luxuriously beside us. The tears ran down Rubbin's face and were funneled via cleavage between the vertical hills that were her breasts. There were thoughtful glistenings. Having no intention of speaking, except for primitive, stream of consciousness releases during moments of intense passion, my original plans were being squished by the unrelenting monsters of Feeling and the Desire to Communicate Feelings With Words.

"Rubbin. We've had enough talk. It's time to make our bodies speak under the influence of elixir and soggy, dirty muffin stump." I pulled out the hooch and muffin stump and said: "Take this and eat it." Our communion was with the Kings and Queens of stumpdom of yore. There was a cool breeze, enough to feign cool and give us an excuse for goosebumps. The sky had gone from purple to black. We were animals. All that talk, apparently, was fuel; fuel for make moan.

We awoke in the grey dawn, in each others arm(s). We were a good distance away from the blanket I had set down the in the night. There was a hunter and his son staring at us and chewing on a tall piece of grass. The dad said he almost shot us by mistake. I wouldn't have blamed him. I told them to leave or feel the fury. They probably knew the fury, and judged it to be less than harmful, but left anyway out of decency, but not before them both staring good and hard at Rubbin's gaping stump.

"Stump gawkers," I said to myself. Rubbin woke up peacefully enough. We made a few awkward comments about the situation in general and laughed nervously. I myself suffer from nervous anxiety in the mornings and thought at any moment I would lose it. Rubbin discussed her plans for the day, complete with random facts and what she thought about people I have never met. I decided to jump in the river and swim to the lodgings of my cousin who lived down river, an event I usually save for the vernal equinox, but decided now was just as good a time as then. We said our goodbyes and wished each other well saying we'd see each other at the Muffin Munch Stump Yum Yum Club.

Rubbin was the muffin stump personified. The dark part of me that took delight in eating the muffin leavings were multiplied with her. Pleasure has seen new landscapes and is making a boat to navigate the waters. Muffin stump humping was a confused, literal activity which I now look back on as though a master in stumpery.