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In the next four days Pooh went to the Somerset mall and had a fine black Jos Banks suit fitted. He selected a matching, black, silk shirt and a bright red silk tie that he thought would be rather festive with it. Piglet insisted he get a matching red pocket scarf. He also bought a new pair of black dress shoes, and a fine black cashmere coat with matching black leather gloves. With the magic suit Pooh knew he would dance well. However, Barry’s cough began to get worse. It got to the point where he could barely have a conservation without a spasm. Even with plates of holiday cookies, and gift baskets coming in from The Swiss Colony and Hickory Farms, Barry’s appetite was diminishing. His muscular and very fit physique began to shrink.
December 13th, was a glistening, beautiful, Saturday, morning. Pooh rolled his ass out of bed around noon. He threw open the curtains and blinds and peered out at the landscape. It had snowed last night, a fresh snow. Instead of the moldy, gray, sludge-snow, a fresh pristine white blanket covered the wood. The sky was the clearest blue ever, not a cloud in sight, not even one wisp. The pines and white birch trees that adorned the wood were blanketed with snow and icicles that hung from the branches like Bavarian crystal ornaments.
“Jiminy,” Pooh gasped. It was prettier than any Christmas card, or smoltzy Hallmark Hall of Fame movie that Pooh had ever seen. Pooh came out of his beef log induced sleep, and was immediately revitalized. The ball was only ten days away, and then Christmas two days later. What an exciting season! Plus he and Barry were planning on doing their Christmas tree tradition today. Ever year Pooh and Barry would go to Lomas Brown’s Christmas tree farm. Lomas Brown was also an ex Detroit Lion. Every year around Christmas he opened up his own Christmas tree farm, and donated all money to charities throughout Detroit. The farm was located deep in the wood, where the most fabulous trees were. Instead of taking a jacked up SUV out there, Barry always rented an honest-to-God wooden Victorian sleigh drawn by eight Clydesdale horses, all wearing jingle bells. To keep warm on the sleigh ride, Barry had a flannel battery operated blanket, and they took a thermos of hot cocoa laced with peppermint schnapps. Last year when they left the wind chill had been below zero. Even with the blanket and cocoa it was still too cold to enjoy it. This year the weather was absolutely perfect. Pooh quickly took his sponge bath, brushed his teeth and hair, and selected a red shirt off the floor.
“Barry!” He called and he opened the door and peeped into Barry’s bedchamber. The drapes were drawn, so the room was as black as night. The figure of star running back Barry Sanders lay under a mound of blankets and pillows. Pooh quietly shut the door. It wasn’t too unusual for Barry to still be asleep at noon on a weekend. On a weekday he was always an early riser. Up and about by seven, but depending on how much alcohol he had had or how good the chickie he took to bed with him was, he slept into the afternoon.
“I know,” Pooh said to himself. “I’ll make some pecan honey waffles, with some of those hickory smoked sausage patties. That will get him out of bed.”
Pooh loved elaborate weekend breakfasts. He got out the waffle iron and whipped up a batter rich in honey, buttermilk, eggs, and fresh pecans that Barry had imported in from Louisiana. Pooh threw three pounds of hickory smoked sausage patties into a pan filled with pig grease that was kept out in the shed. The house smelled heavenly of roasted pecans, honey, ginger, and fresh coffee brewing. Most of all, Pooh loved the smell and the crackling sound of fat frying upon the stove. Pooh set the table with fresh creamed butter from the farmers’ market, steaming coffee in Christmas mugs, pure maple syrup from the north woods, and cranberry-orange preserves. Still with all the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen, no Barry. Pooh was getting hungry, the aroma tantalizing his stomach. Once again he rapped on Barry’s door.
“Barry, you who,” he called as he opened it. “I made a scrumptious breakfast for us today of waffles and sausage!”
Barry answered by a coughing spasm that sounded deep deep within his chest. Pooh ran to the bed.
“Are you okay?” He asked.
Barry shook his head and croaked
“I’m not feeling too well today. Bring me a cup of warm cherry brandy, with honey, and a shot of Grand Marnier. Boil it over the stove so that it’s warm.”
“But what about getting the Christmas tree?” Pooh asked. Barry coughed again, this time spitting blood.
“Don’t nag me boy! Just bring me my tottie! Perhaps if I rest I will feel up to getting the tree tomorrow,” Barry fell back into the sea of pillows. Pooh grudgingly made Barry’s hot tottie. However, Barry was not better the next day. He was far worse, coughing up blood every five minutes. He couldn’t eat, and he was starting to look feverish. Since Barry did not want Pooh driving his Jaguar, he had Pooh call an ambulance to take him to Detroit Mercy Hospital.
“It does not look good,” said the doctor solemnly. “He has a fever of 102.5, which is quite high for an adult. You must keep an eye on it.”
“What can I do?” Pooh asked,
“I am giving you three prescriptions for cough syrup and fever reducers. Get them filled. Keep cool cloths dipped in Lavender water on his forehead. If he wakes try and give him some warm broth, to help keep his strength up. If he is chilled make sure he has plenty of blankets,” the doctor replied. “He’s dehydrated as well. Give him lots of fluids, he may need some intravenously.
“Ain’t there some operation thing you people can do to help?” Pooh asked. “He needs to take me to get a Christmas tree, and we have a grand Christmas ball to go to in nine days.”
“Don’t say ain’t,” said the doctor. “Barry isn’t going to be up and about for at least three weeks, and that’s if only he pulls through this. I’m afraid it looks very grim.”
So Pooh and Barry went home. Someone had to be with Barry at all times. Pooh sat most of the time, but he traded with the occasional groupie, or football pal that came along to help. If Barry shook Pooh covered him with the electric blanket, and brought in space heaters. If he was sweating, Pooh put the cool cloth dipped in lavender upon his forehead. If he woke Pooh tried to shove down a pork and beef broth he had made from a giant T-bone and some of the bacon grease from the cellar. He constantly was making him his hot totties. He ran around to CVS and got Barry any medicines he needed. He filled hot water bottles, read him the writings of Sophocles, brought heating pads, gave him cool sponge baths, and turned him so he wouldn’t get bedsores. Thoughts of dancing, glorious sweets, Kristal champagne, silk ties and pocket scarves, danced away as Pooh spent his days caring for Barry. There was no way that Pooh would go to the ball with Barry so sick. Barry needed constant care, plus Pooh didn’t feel like dancing, when Barry was so near death. He called Ford Enterprises to leave him and Barry’s regrets.
Eeyore however, was still planning on going.
“Can’t you go to the ball for a little while?” He asked Pooh over the phone.
“Barry needs constant care,” Pooh explained. “One minute he is hot with fever, the next he is trembling with chills. Plus I don’t feel like dancing.”
“What about the food?” Eeyore asked. Pooh was silent for a long time. Missing the feast and sweets was what bothered him the most about missing the ball. All those maple filled honey cakes, and peppermint white chocolate fudge!
“I can make myself a feast anytime,” Pooh finally replied.
“Well I’ll let you know how it goes,” said Eeyore. “It will probably be lame. The chicks will only be semi-hot, the music will be all stodgy. Let me know if Barry bites the dust. I can get you guys a good deal on caskets and funeral services from the morgue.”
Pooh and Eeyore went with Piglet for an etiquette lesson. The lesson was to be taught by some chick that Piglet knew. The lesson was at Wayne State University, and was private, with just the three pupils.
“Now who knows what some of the dances that you will be having to dance are?” The teacher, Mrs. Bogs asked.
“The hokey pokey?” Pooh answered.
“No,” Mrs. Bogs sighed.
“The humpty-hump,” Eeyore replied sarcastically. When Eeyore got sarcastic his eyes began to glow green, and get beady.
“This is not some sleaze dance at a cheap nightclub,” Mrs. Bogs muttered growing impatient.
“Damn,” Eeyore replied. “I don’t know if I want to go then.” To ease a delicate situation Piglet decided to jump in.
“We will be dancing the waltz, the pavane, and the gigue,”
“Very good Miss Piglet,” a relieved Mrs. Bogs exclaimed. “Now can any of you tell me what these dances are?”
“A gigue is a bad movie with Jennifer Lopez and Ben Affleck,” Pooh said seriously while scratching his privates.
“You dumb ass,” Eeyore laughed. “That was Gigli, and it wasn’t bad, it was simply dreadful.”
“The gigue,” Piglet said in a superior tone. “Is a fast jig like dance in 6/8 time Anglo in orgin, the pavane is a slow, dignified court dance in 4/4 time with gliding steps and skips. The waltz is in 3/4 time, and can be faster and felt in one, or slower and felt in three. They can range from anything to the Strauss Waltzes of Vienna, to songs such as Moon River and Lara’s Theme.”
“Well aren’t we little miss when I shit, I shit gold,” Eeyore grumbled.
“That’s enough Mr. Eeyore,” Mrs. Bogs scolded. “We will go over the basic dance steps for these dances later. For now let us work on our introductions.”
“Introductions?” Pooh asked. “To who?”
“When you enter the Taurus ballroom you will be introduced to Mr. And Mrs. Ford,” Mrs. Bogs explained. Your name will be announced and if you are a lady you will curtsy, a man will bow. As you sink down you will say softly but sincerely, my lord, my lady. Lets us work on bowing and curtseying.”
Pooh, Eeyore, and Piglet set to the task. Piglet already knew how to curtsey and she just needed a brief refresher. Pooh and Eeyore focused on bows. Out of the corner of his eye Pooh spotted the table set for the etiquette lesson that would be taught over tea. Pooh could smell the fresh golden raisin scones baking in the oven, and he spotted a plate piled high with shortbread.
“Oh bother,” he muttered as his tummy gurgled. “Tis hard to concentrate when I’m so tired and hungry, and I can smell the food,” he thought to himself.
“Pooh you must concentrate better,” Mrs. Bogs instructed as she began to circle him. “When you bow, you mustn’t keep your head up and your buttocks jetted out. You look like a pregnant, bobbing, duck. Not only do you look ridiculous, but you can loose your balance, and easily topple over.”
“It would suck some major ass to fall in a heap at William Clay Ford’s feet,” Eeyore snickered. “Plus when they announce our names they will know we are friends of Barry Sanders, and Barry Sanders walked out on the Lions. They won’t like us, and they will think we are disloyal.”
“Oh dear,” moaned Piglet. “I guess I’m glad I get invited because I’m rich. I would hate for Mr. Ford not to be charmed by me. How awful. Whatever will we do?”
“The Fords will be more impressed with your manners than your name,” said Mrs. Bogs. “Let us go work on our table manners.”
“Yeah I’m starving,” Pooh said hungrily. He plopped down at the table and began to pile his plate with shortbread, and all of the chocolate dipped strawberries.
“Now Pooh,” Mrs. Bogs instructed. “Tis not proper to hog all the food at the table. You are also to wait until everyone is served before you take a bite.”
This was going to be a long day. The day got worse. Pooh spilled tea on Eeyore who claimed he was trying to scorch him on purpose. All he wanted to do was satiate himself by gobbling down his meal, but the whole time Mrs. Bogs was all over him for eating to quickly, or taking too big of bite.
“You must take at least thirty seconds between each bite,” she bellowed.
“Thirty seconds!” Pooh shouted. “I know I’m a bear of petite size of brain, but if I were to wait thirty seconds in between each bite number one it would get cold, and number two second and third helpings would be gone.”
“Tis rude to take second and third helpings,” Mrs. Bogs shook her head. “It wouldn’t do you any harm to break that habit right now.”
“Why is that?” Asked Pooh.
“She’s trying to politely say you’re a fat ass,” Eeyore chirped.
The dance lessons were also a disaster. Pooh couldn’t keep any of the steps in time, he stepped on Piglets toe, he forgot steps. Piglet tried to help them out by whispering them in his ear.
“Point your toe, glide here, sink down.” Still Pooh was all bobbles and errors. Mrs. Bogs spent almost the whole lesson yelling at Pooh, plus dancing right after eating gave him stomach cramps. You were supposed to sleep after a meal.
“Oh bother,” Pooh muttered as they got into Piglet’s black Lexus SUV after the lesson. “That was a disaster. I’m going to make a fool of myself.”
“No you won’t Pooh,” Piglet replied. “This was only your first lesson. You’ll have it by the ball. Your suit will look fabulous. You’ll get loose on a little champagne punch. You will move ever so gracefully with the music, you’ll twirl and glide and bow down to the Fords and they will be very charmed. And the food will be phenomenal.”
Pooh began to feel better. When Piglet spoke of the ball it made Pooh feel like a prince, and he knew everything would be okay.
Pooh couldn’t help but worry about what Tigger said. There was no way he could enjoy shopping for suits, listening to waltz music, and going to etiquette class with Tigger’s words burning inside his skull. He decided to confront Barry about it one day while they were baking some Scottish jelly biscuits to send to the Ford family in gratitude for the invitations. Scottish Jelly Biscuits were an old Sanders Christmas cookie recipe that had been passed on for generations. They were crisp, buttery biscuits, so filled with butter they actually oozed butter after you bit into it. They were small sandwich cookies, cut into different shapes, and filled with raspberry jam. Barry had been battling a pretty croupy cough as well.
“Pooh stop eating all that raw cookie dough,” Barry snapped as he rolled out some dough with the rolling pin.
“Why?” Tis rumbly in my tumbly,” Pooh replied. He had dough and flour all over his paws, face, and shirt.
“Because when you ate that whole tube of slice-and- bake cookie dough I came home to you passed out on the floor, clutching your gut, and pissing yourself. Don’t want to clean it up.” Barry replied, he covered his mouth to cough. Pooh took one last bite of the chilled, buttery, dough. It slithered down his steamy esophagus where it was intercepted by the pillowy cushion of lard that lined his belly.
“Barry,” he said. “Is it wrong to go to this Christmas ball?”
“Wrong?” Barry exclaimed. “Mercy no. Tis an honor to be invited and a disrespect not to show up.”
“Tigger says that William Clay Ford has ruined the Detroit Lions by taking fan money and throwing lavish parties, instead of getting better players and coaches. Should I be mad at him?”
Barry stared at Pooh for a long time. Part of him was very surprised that Pooh could talk so intelligently about a social matter, but then again Tigger had told him this. Tigger intelligent? Then again Tigger had a point.
“Tis true,” said Barry. “That is why I left the Lions during my contract. It is one thing to play for a lousy team. Tis another to play for a lousy team that never gets better. It wasn’t the players. Every new season we were all filled with hope for a playoff year at least. But when there is someone over you, making poor decisions for the team, it gets frustrating because there is nothing you can do to control it. A poor coach the players can rebel against, but the owner can do whatever he wants with the team. He can dress us up in pink ballet tutus if he wished. I got sick of Ford’s decisions. Even though we have only won one play off game, and often finished last or next to last in our division, the fans kept filling the seats, merchandise sold. Detroit never had to do any black outs on home games. The team made plenty of money, but the team never got better. Ford was doing something with it. So I got sick of it all and left. Ford still invited me to his parties because I’m a Detroit pillar, and very powerful in this city.”
“Well maybe we shouldn’t go,” Pooh said. “Especially if he isn’t fair.”
“I once contemplated not attending,” Barry admitted. “However, Christmas tide is a time of happiness and hope. Peace on Earth and goodwill towards men. It’s not a time to hold grudges or bad blood. William Clay Ford put aside sour feelings for me to invite me, so I figure that once a year I can set aside any poor feelings I have, and focus on unity and good tidings. Now which cookie cutter do you want to use first?”
Pooh felt immediately better. Barry was right. Christmas was a time for hope and happiness, and good will. Not a time to hold grudges. He could eat his food, and drink his punch, and dance with his women for one night.
“The star,” Pooh replied. “I want to use the Christmas star first.”
It didn’t take long for Christmas Ball fever to hit Winnie the Pooh. At home it was all that him and Barry discussed. Pooh set a date to go to the swanky Somerset Mall in the swishy suburb of Troy with Eeyore, to buy fashionable designer suits. Pooh would lay awake at night in bed clutching his inflatable Denise Richards doll, just imagining all the mounds of food, and sweets that would await him. Perhaps there would be a fountain spitting out only the finest champagne. Or a table piled with giant pink marshmallows dipped in chocolate. Pooh would begin to salivate just thinking about it. What a lovely Christmas this would be! However, Pooh’s dreams begin to get slightly diminished.
Pooh, Eeyore, and Tigger had agreed to meet for a meal of booze and buffalo wings at Buffalo Wild Wings. Pooh was feeling merrier than ever thinking about the ball, and the plate of 45 greasy chicken wings slathered in honey blazing sauce that awaited him.
“So,” Tigger said after a swig of his beer. “I hear you and Eeyore were invited to some hoity-toity Christmas dance at the Ford Mansion.”
“It’s not a dance,” Pooh corrected. “It’s a ball.”
“Right,” Tigger nodded. “At a dance you get laid. At a ball you don’t.”
“Oh Tigger it will be fun,” Pooh defended. “Everyone will be dressed to the nines. And the food is supposed to be unimaginable. Like on the cruise ships!”
“Well I haven’t been on no cruise ship,” Tigger said sullenly. “I’m not some pretty boy born with a piece of cake in my mouth. You go hobnob with your rich la dee da friends.”
“Tigger,” Pooh exclaimed. “You are still one of my best friends! Just because I am going to a party with a bunch of different people doesn’t mean I’ll forget you.”
“Yes you will,” Tigger gulped the rest of his beer and barked for the bar maid to bring him another one. He slammed his fist on the table, causing Pooh and Eeyore’s beers to shake, and almost sent the order of nachos that Eeyore was devouring flying.
“Watch it will you!” Eeyore exclaimed with annoyance. “Jesus! These damn cunt nachos are seven bucks!”
“Right,” Tigger spat. “You are Mr. Play Boy richie too, so you can afford seven bucks for an appetizer.”
“Fuck you,” Eeyore grunted through a mouth of chips, cheese, guacamole, and black beans. “I have spent most of my miserable life living in a shit hole dump, working a dead end job, and being neglected and ignored by everyone in society. No birthday cards, no birthday parties at Hooters with lovely buxom strippers. No cake, no Christmas presents. I’ve been addicted from everything from smokes, to Risperdol, to Viccadin. I have been in and out of rehab and psychiatric care, and to top it all off I haven’t been laid in over six years. I deserve more than anyone to go to this ball.”
“Don’t worry Tigger,” Pooh said cheerfully, trying to override Eeyore’s darkness. “Eeyore and I will take pictures, so you can pretend you actually came with us.”
Tigger cracked an empty beer stein over Pooh’s head.
“How can you two dill weeds possibly go to the Ford Mansion? How can you swish around dancing with his people and drinking his wine as if you are the best of friends?” He shrieked. Now everyone in the bar and restaurant had turned to stare at the scene.
“I’m not mad at William Clay Ford,” Pooh replied hotly. Tigger took another long gulp of his beer.
“Well you sure as hell should be,” He snapped. “He’s fucked up our football team, and he fucked up the city of Detroit.”
“I think Detroit is a nice city,” Pooh replied.
“He’s fucked it up,” Tigger growled. “His poor business decisions have ruined Ford Motor Company. Ford Motors is the heart of Detroit. We’re loosing jobs! People!”
“I thought the Japanese making far more superior cars than the Americans is what killed Ford Motors,” Eeyore said.
“Well he did fuck up the Lions,” Tigger went on. “Hiring inadequate coaches, not spending a dime on the team because the idiot shit heads fans still buy tickets even though the team sucks!”
“Well that’s true,” Eeyore replied as he daintily dipped a chip in some sour cream.
“He hoards money from the fans all to himself,” Tigger went on. Tigger loved going on political rants and what not, it was just hard for him to find a subjective audience. Now he had one at Buffalo Wild Wings. “Instead of getting better coaches and players for the team by expanding the salary cap he pisses away good motor blooded Detroit fan money on fancy new football fields, fancy cars, private jets, and elaborate parties that you candy ass shit-lizzies attend!” Tigger got up from the table and threw on his dirty, worn, brown parka, and navy blue knit cap. “Go to your fancy ball in your 3000 dollar suits, with some plastic breast bimbo on your arm! Drink his wine, and eat his meal like you are the best of friends. I guarantee that you won’t even see him! He don’t give a damn about you. None of you! You are only invited to keep Barry Sanders from getting pissed off and releasing Ford’s dirty secrets in some tell all tabloid book! He don’t give one twittle fuck about you!”
“Well nobody gives a twittle fuck about me anyway,” Eeyore shrugged and went back to his nachos.
“Oh bother,” Pooh sighed as Tigger stomped out. The waitress brought over the chicken wings. “Oh bother,” Pooh muttered. “Tigger is right. Perhaps it is wrong for us to attend the ball.”
“William Clay Ford doesn’t care if we are alive or dead,” Eeyore said after a swig of beer. He belched lightly. “Scuse me. Who cares why we were invited. We can go and enjoy the free food, the music, the girls.”
“That’s true,” Pooh nodded. “Right now I am going to enjoy some of this food. Since Tigger left I guess we get double.”
Pooh had no time to react for another knock came from the door.
“I wonder if it’s the president of the United States,” Barry chuckled as he went to answer it. But it was Piglet, dressed in a pale pink down parka, trimmed with white mink fur, furry white boots, and a white mink headband. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold air outside. She was clutching an invitation just like Pooh’s.
“I see you already got yours,” she cried. “I knew you’d be getting one this year. Isn’t it exciting?”
“Bother,” Pooh muttered as he sunk down onto the settee. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. What is a silly old ball anyway?”
Piglet’s jaw dropped to the floor.
“Pooh, a ball is a grand event. This one is at the Ford Mansion. You are invited inside as a guest!”
“William Clay Ford throws a grand Christmas ball for Detroit’s most influential every year at his mansion,” Barry explained. “Myself and Piglet are invited every year.”
“They hire a real orchestra to play waltzes by Strauss,” Piglet went on. “Everyone ballroom dances. Men wear fine tuxedos, while the ladies come dressed in the most lavish, fanciful, gowns that money can buy, all made from fine silks and taffetas.”
“Well if we have to dance,” said Pooh. “Will they at least feed us?”
“Mercy yes!” Barry exclaimed. “The food taste and presentation is a show itself. More food than they have on a cruise ship!”
Pooh had gone on a cruise once with Barry and had enjoyed it more than anything he had ever encountered in the world, even more than going to T.G.I. Fridays. Pooh had gained seventeen pounds on the six-day cruise, but they were happy pounds. From that time on, Pooh said that heaven was one giant cruise ship.
“They have tables and tables of all kinds of different entrees,” said Piglet. “They also have a huge oyster and cheese bar with cheeses from France, Rome, and Switzerland. The sweets tables go on and on for miles and look like something from The Nutcracker. Last year they even had a chocolate fountain with all kinds of fruit and cakes to dip in it.”
“Whoa,” Pooh sighed. “I guess it would be worth going.”
“Of course it would be you idiot,” Barry snapped. “Tis a pride and honor to be invited to this ball. William Clay and I are on better terms then we were when I first breached my contract and left the Detroit Lions. He is letting me invite a friend, so I chose you. He also said you could invite a friend as well. I told him to invite Eeyore, since Piglet, Rabbit, and Owl all get invitations anyway, Christopher-Robin is too young, and Tigger is a menace to society that doesn’t belong in the VFW hall let alone the Ford Mansion. I’m sure you and Eeyore will enjoy the ball, but you must act like gentlemen. I suggest getting some dance lessons, and working with an etiquette coach.”
“Oh bother,” Pooh spat. “What’s an etiquette coach?”
“An etiquette coach will show you how to walk, talk, and eat properly with grace,” Piglet answered. Pooh began to laugh.
“I already know how to eat. Come let’s make up a batch of blackberry pancakes, and honey cinnamon russets!”
Warning this Story Contains Naughty Words, but a nice Richard Paul Evans-like Christmas message.
“Hey Pooh Bear Dude! Wake up, rise and shine!” Retired NFL running back Barry Sanders burst into Pooh’s bedroom. It was a quarter after two, on a sparkling early December Thursday. Barry threw open the shutters and hoisted up the blinds. A flood of sunlight that had been dancing over the glistening, white, blanket of snow, streamed in.
“Oh bother,” Pooh muttered. He rolled onto his stomach and shoved his head deep under the pillow. “I have no need to get up right now. Leave me alone.”
“Well it would be nice if you ever did find a job, so you had a reason to get up besides stuffing your face,” Barry snorted. “But today you have a special visitor. He’s waiting in the parlor. Make haste! Brush your hair. Give yourself a quick sponge bath. It’s an important guest and he mustn’t be kept waiting.”
This all was not registering with Pooh. Pooh had friends stop by Mr. Sanders’s town home all the time wanting to play a delightful game of Pooh Sticks or get burgers at Ruby Tuesday, but Barry let none of them wait in the parlor. The parlor was reserved for Barry’s business guests, ex football stars, and the plethora of gorgeous ladies Barry often invited over.
“A guest for me? In the parlor?” Pooh yawned as he stuffed his paw deep into his boxer shorts to adjust his morning wood. Barry had begun to pull out a clean, red, shirt for Pooh to wear.
“Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly. “Tis a very important guest. Now get your fat calorie laden ass out of bed! I wouldn’t be surprised if Bill Parcells himself turned up at the door next.”
“Who that?” Pooh asked as he rolled onto his back.
“Just get a move on!” Barry crowed and swatted Pooh with a pillow.
In as much haste as an overweight bear of minute brain can manage, Pooh rolled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. He was outrageously hung over. Pooh wasn’t one to go drinking much. For someone like Tigger, a hangover wasn’t a hangover, it was just morning. But for Pooh, a hangover was an immense tragedy that killed a day, and left him puking until all he had left to puke was a bubbly, acidic, bile- mucus, and a splitting headache. He heaved into the toilet. Pooh hadn’t meant to get trashed last night, Piglet was obsessed with the TV show Lost. Every Wednesday night she would have her closest friends over to watch the show and enjoy good drink, merriment, and canapés. Last night was no exception except for Tigger bringing over the ingredients to make honey cake shots. Pooh isn’t one to resist honey anyway, so when he saw Tigger bring an array of shot glasses all looking like jewels, it was hard to say no. The shot was also fun to drink as well. It was a great ordeal. Tigger took lemons and doused them in sugar, Pooh was to suck the sugar off the lemon and then drink a wonderful concoction of butterscotch schnapps. Bailey’s Irish cream, nutmeg, and Godiva white chocolate liquor. It tasted just like a warm, freshly baked, honey cake, and Pooh had enjoyed the concoction immensely. Now he was paying the price. He gazed with glassy eyes at the bloodshot bear that stared back at him in the mirror. Today of all days he had to have an important visitor! But who could it be?
Pooh slowly made his way to the parlor. He was taken aback by what he saw.
“Jiminy!” He exclaimed. There standing in the parlor were three men. One had a long page-boy haircut, with a light blue beret perched upon his head. He wore pristine white tights. He was holding a rolled official looking document in one hand, and the glass of spiced cranberry sherry that Barry had served in the other. The other two men adorned fine white powdered wigs with all kinds of curls. Their tights were just as pristine and their waistcoats had fine golden buttons and fine braided trim. One held a machine gun, the other, a trumpet. He trumpeted a fanfare as Pooh stepped into the room.
“Greetings from William Clay Ford,” the man with the pageboy hair announced. “President of Ford Motor Company, owner of the Detroit Lions, and Detroit’s favorite philanthropist. Am I currently addressing Winfred Pooh the III?”
“That’s me,” Pooh replied. On top of the commode there sat a crystal jar filled with cashews. Pooh helped himself to a hearty handful, hoping it would settle his nerves.
“This is for you. It is from Mr. William Clay Ford himself.” The man handed Pooh the document. All three gentlemen bowed to Pooh whose mouth was filled with cashews. Pooh wasn’t sure what to do, so he raised his paw as if to give a blessing like in church. The trumpeter played another fanfare, and then the men trooped out to the ornate carriage that was drawn with a team of six snow white horses. Pooh watched from the window as the carriage pulled away.
“So what did they want?” Barry asked. “What did William Clay Ford’s counsel want?”
“They gave me this,” Pooh replied. “Can you fry me up some hash browns?” Pooh gave the document to Barry. He was more concerned with his upset tummy.
The document was on pristine lily white paper with gold edges, and tied with a deep Hawaiian blue silken ribbon. Barry removed the ribbon and began to read it.
“Oh Pooh,” he breathed. “This is so very exciting! Listen here.”
William Clay Ford and his family request the presence of Winfred Pooh III at a grand ball to be thrown at the Ford Mansion December 23 at 9 o’clock in the Taurus Ballroom. R.S.V.P. black tie required.
Winnie the Pooh- A huggable lovable bear of little brain. His main concern in life is eating enough honey and getting his money's worth at Old Country Buffet. He rooms with ex Detroit Lions running back Barry Sanders, and has a never-ending stash of money.
Piglet- In this world, Piglet is a girl. She is independently wealthy and one of the richest citizens in the Wood. She lives lavishly in a grand estate fasionably decorated. She drives a black Lexus SUV and plays the harp with the Hundred Acre Wood Symphony. Piglet is easily scared and likes to wear Prada, Gucci, Chanel and owns over 1700 pairs of shoes.
Tigger- Likes his babes horny, his beer flowing, and his sex raunchy. He lives in an apartment over Kanga's garage, and has worked a string of jobs, everywhere from Subway, running Carnival rides, and delivering pizzas. He frquents the Wood's strip joint T and A Cinnabuns.
Eeyore- Lives in a single wide trailer, drives an old 86 Cutlass, and works at the morgue. He is clinically depressed but does not believe in taking hippie-dippie drugs such as Prozac. He hasn't had sex in 6 years. His only highlight in life was a part in Rob Zombie's "Living Dead Girl" Video.
Rabbit- The gay guy. He lives with his lover Ramuegen who is a drag queen and male model. Rabbit has a green thumb and beautiful gardens. He aspires to have his own garden show on the home and garden channel. He and his lover also raise show dogs papillons, that place at the Westminster Dog Show.
Kanga- a hippie-dippie feel goody mom into pilates. soy milk, yoga, and breast feeding. She takes nutrtion classes and is always watching her brick shit house figure. She also has found Jesus and changes religions frequently. She has been everything from Hindu, Catholic, and Pentacostal. She is the loving mother of Roo.
Roo- A spoiled brat who never does what he is told. A waste of space. Constantly whining. Once brought a mail order bride to the wood.
Lumpy- Roo's foul mouthed heffalump friend with a heart of gold, and his mind in the gutter.
Christoper-Robin- An all american apple pie teenage boy coming to terms with raging hormones, Green Day, and masterbation. Loves working on his new silver pick up truck with jacked up tires.
Owl- A respected American History professor at Wayne State University. Likes good port, cigars, golf, and politics. Likes to date younger women.
Barry- Retired NFL running back Barry Sanders. He retired to the wood for a life of peace and quiet from nosy reporters such as Mitch Albom. Lives in a stunning townhome. Pooh is his roommate, hence the sign Mr. Sanders over the door.
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