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This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 119

By: Rich Cromwell
10 min read
Photo by ‪Dima Visozki‬‏ from Pexels

‘You say it’s your birthday? It’s my birthday, too.’

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Rich Cromwell
@rcromwell4
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After a fierce battle involving aliens, Norwegians, sled dogs, and diabeetus, I like to sit back, relax, and celebrate a special birth. Obviously, we’re not talking about a birth of actual import, like C. Thomas Howell or whomever invented aluminum foil. We are, however, talking about one that hits closer to home and involves a guy who hasn’t invented much, but is rather skilled at rambling at length, especially when the normal rules of storytelling are ignored.

It all started on a cold December day in the 1970s. Maybe it was warm, my memory isn’t that good. It was definitely at night, despite the use of the word “day” just a second ago. There were the howls of a wolf and then an alligator that scooped up the child, absconding with him. To be clear, the alligator didn’t howl, but instead recited Tennyson. Also, there was a bear accompanying the alligator. The wolf existed only for dramatic effect. It was just like “The Jungle Book,” except not at all.

Off the trio went, the newborn on the alligator’s back with the bear serving as the muscle. They left behind the Delta and headed all around the United States, planting various seeds depending on the terroir and what they had available at the time. The child once planted a corn dog stick. Legend has it that it grew into a mighty corn dog tree, but if that had actually happened, we’d have some records and mighty corn dog tree descendants across the land. (Just ignore Big Corn Dog’s secret farm and research facilities. They have nothing to do with that purported tree. Nothing!)

After a sufficient number of years spent wandering, at least sufficient enough for the “other activities” section on the application for a mid-level state university, the alligator and the bear returned the child home, where his parents welcomed his return as if nothing had happened and reminded him that the yard needed mowing.

He went on to accomplish some things of note, some that shall remain unmentioned, and some which really highlight the value of civic participation. It helped to share the special day with those who shared his sense of duty.


That’s what the alligator said to the howling wolf, which wasn’t to be confused with Howlin’ Wolf.


Years later, when the man would attempt to explain his origins to his children, their responses would not be what he hoped.


Sometimes they were just plain rude.


It didn’t matter, for the feral child turned father had an all-purpose reply.


And some wisdom gained from his journey to dispense.


He’d also learned to cook pretty well while roaming about the countryside and could pontificate on that.


The trio may or may not have stolen a plane at one point. Or maybe the child just had an active imagination. Yeah, that’s it, imagination. At least until the statute of limitations expired.


There were also moments in which the boy considered giving up a life of planting seeds and instead went for the big bucks.


Not that a life revolving around seeds was without intrigue.


And puns. When traveling with a bear, there will be puns. Also truths.


The trio had to be crafty, especially when it came to hygiene.


They also had to be resolute, especially when it came to the locals they encountered.


Mostly they traversed on foot, though occasionally they’d hitch a ride. It usually didn’t go well.


Nor did the creatures attempts at enjoying some creature comforts.


At least they were usually decisive, except when they weren’t.


Sometimes they were decisive but lacking a sense of urgency.


As to any lingering questions about the flamethrowers, the boy had answers.


Not that many were truly paying attention to their hijinks to begin with.


In any case, it wasn’t important what seeds they did or didn’t plant and what planes they did or didn’t steal. What was important was the lessons they learned along the way.


Especially the lessons learned when scoping out houses for possible dramatic — and liberally creative — reenactments of “The Three Bears.”


After their journey had gone on for some number of years, the boy started to think it was time for a change. Just like he wrote in his essay to a mid-level state university about his experiences, it was a magical time that changed the course of his life irrevocably, as being kidnapped by an alligator is wont to do.


The college administrators were not impressed, even if there was an in-state quota to be filled.


Thus the boy, after returning home and taking up the guitar, became a minstrel and shared tales of his adventures with everyone he could force to listen to him.


No matter what, the passage of time couldn’t take away all he learned during those formative years.


It could, however, enable him to use technology to take his acoustic guitar-backed tales to much larger audience. He just had to figure out how to force them to listen.


Fortunately, though, an early life on the road had given him a particular set of skills.


Sometimes that didn’t work. The boy, now a man, didn’t let that stop him. Absconding with dentures after being absconded with by an alligator left him better, faster, stronger than he had been when he was a newborn. And he was an abnormally strong newborn, which should be obvious given that he left the hospital not in swaddling but on an alligator’s back, even if his kids didn’t believe him.


Whatever, he was just trying to raise them right, like his parents and the alligator and bear before them had raised him.


Thus the boy, still now a man, sat down into one of the chairs in the house he’d settled into after an exciting early life of (alleged) crime and agriculture and again recounted his tales. Sure, most dismissed his them as “ludicrous,” “obviously false,” or “utter hogwash,” but he didn’t let that stop him. It didn’t matter whether they believed him or not, because should the need arise, he could probably produce some Norwegians or sled dogs who had been taken over by alien lifeforms. Not that he wanted to go down that path, but he was stubborn if slightly forgetful.

Failing that, he had the aforementioned resolve he’d learned from the alligator and the bear and their adventures. And when going for a life of rogue farming in pursuit of higher education of middling value, that’s what matters most of all. And no matter how hard people tried to ignore it, given that it happened close to births of more import, it was still his birthday and people were going to acknowledge it, no matter how much he had to yell about it.

Richard Cromwell is a writer and senior contributor at The Federalist. He lives in Northwest Arkansas with his wife, three daughters, and two crazy dogs. Co-host of the podcast Coffee & Cochon, you can find him on Facebook and Twitter, though you should probably avoid using social media.

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