This just in from our correspondent on the scene. St. Holiday, sometimes referred to as the Dalai Lion of Show Low, has turned up missing. Nationally-known for his absolute obscurity, the quirky, aging hippie was last seen just before neighbors heard his wife scream, "Holiday, did you eat my chocolate?!" According to investigators, the so-called Lovely One discovered incriminating wrappers in the wastebasket of St. Holiday's Throne Room. These wrappers were for Hershey's Nuggets, the special dark chocolate with almonds. Since it is well-known that St. Holiday prefers the milk chocolate variety, police are wondering if perhaps someone else may have deposited those wrappers in the trash. However, the Lovely One has repeatedly employed wild and emphatic gesticulations to assure investigators that no one else would think to enter the Throne Room, unless he was either dressed in full bio-hazard apparel, completely insane, or under the influence of mind-altering drugs. The door is kept safely shut, she stated, and no one, except the Past Master himself, is permitted entrance into his "sanctuary," as he calls it. The family is rattled by this latest development. Some are already tacking missing posters to telephone poles and yellow ribbons to neighborhood trees. Authorities are combing the area with cadaver dogs. There is early suspicion that the Lovely One may have something to do with his disappearance, and it is expected that she will be hauled in for more thorough questioning later this evening. There was mention made by one confidential source of a life insurance policy, but details are sketchy at this time.
Recently, there has been mounting speculation over St. Holiday's health. It was revealed only a few days ago that he is losing his battle with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and that he had suffered a relapse into a weekend of shallow thought. The pre-Apocalyptic visionary and Pop of Kings has managed to elude commercial success with his recently-released, shocking expose of the widespread popular discontent with material insecurity, and it is thought that this new failure may have been the proverbial straw that led to present events. Or, he may just be hiding from his enraged wife, who is quite protective of her chocolates. Sweet talk, personal charm, clean jokes and reverent wit may only go so far with the Lovely One.
St. Holiday has never been known for merely flirting with disaster. No, he has a way of embracing it like a lover, kissing it full on the lips, taking it home and feeding it like a poor stray. He is the most self-unmade man to be found among anatomically-correct specimens of mankind. Over the past few months, his agent has been engaged in serious discussions with the Acquisitions Department of the Museum of Natural History concerning the eventual donation of St. Holiday's brain for scientific research and public display. Negotiations have reached an impasse over the color of the jar in which it is to be preserved. The donor has insisted upon a tinted jar, preferably in rose or chromium blue, to mask the depressing gray of his whorly organ. If St. Holiday has finally met his fate, as many hope and some few fear, this issue of tissue may be resolved rather soon.
Recently, there has been mounting speculation over St. Holiday's health. It was revealed only a few days ago that he is losing his battle with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and that he had suffered a relapse into a weekend of shallow thought. The pre-Apocalyptic visionary and Pop of Kings has managed to elude commercial success with his recently-released, shocking expose of the widespread popular discontent with material insecurity, and it is thought that this new failure may have been the proverbial straw that led to present events. Or, he may just be hiding from his enraged wife, who is quite protective of her chocolates. Sweet talk, personal charm, clean jokes and reverent wit may only go so far with the Lovely One.
St. Holiday has never been known for merely flirting with disaster. No, he has a way of embracing it like a lover, kissing it full on the lips, taking it home and feeding it like a poor stray. He is the most self-unmade man to be found among anatomically-correct specimens of mankind. Over the past few months, his agent has been engaged in serious discussions with the Acquisitions Department of the Museum of Natural History concerning the eventual donation of St. Holiday's brain for scientific research and public display. Negotiations have reached an impasse over the color of the jar in which it is to be preserved. The donor has insisted upon a tinted jar, preferably in rose or chromium blue, to mask the depressing gray of his whorly organ. If St. Holiday has finally met his fate, as many hope and some few fear, this issue of tissue may be resolved rather soon.
