Hooray!
Point of order complete. Did you get tired of all the hinting, Jerry?
Perhaps they are smoldering next to the jacket in question? 
Hey! I’m too new at this forum! I don’t know nuthin’!
Of course, I’m known for being verbose, so if the quantity of posts is the tell-tale, I’ll be movin up the line.
Perhaps there’ll be some new jackets and pompoms by then? Ya think?
This cake, I proudly present to Jerry Freeman, the most outstanding man and whistle tweaker in the world…
There ya go, Jerry! Now you can have your cake and tweek it too!
Hooray!
Well, all right then.
I hereby cancel the insurrection.
Thank you, Cranberry.
Nano, you got here late. This is the most ragtag, disorganized cheering squad I’ve ever seen. If someone from the Structuralist Recorder Online Community Message Board happened to drop in here and see our performance, they would make us the laughing stock of the entire Internet.
Remember, the whole squad stays after the celebration and practices until we get it right.
I dunno, Jerry, I sort of liked doing the ninja thing. The timing of the unexpected, and all that.
As for late (or early, for that matter), I usually reply with, “I’m not late/early; I just came at a different time.”
That’s what happens when you get a bunch of FOLK musicians on the squad. I bet those classically trained recorderists could put on a perfectly coreographed 1000th post celebration that would have everyone talking for weeks.
I, for one, am standing up proudly and loudly announcing my support of the… umm… what was the cause?
I forget. It had something to do with the unfair distribution of smoking jackets and cakes.
I’m just wondering how long Jim will go before he gives in and posts #1001…
Let’s bring some sanity and order to this party. A little decorum please. Shoosh you. I mean YOU! I’m about to make a speech.
Congratulations Jim.
OK, rabble, carry on.
Congratulations JIM,
Contributions mount
from heart
to hand
to keyboard.
Saying things that count.
Thanks to all for the kind words. The Walden cartoon had me in stitches! I had to put off posting #1001 because of all the festivities, as described in the following posts.
A Magical Evening
I made my last post to the message board from my office at the headquarters of Blowhard Industries, and immediately after hitting the enter key and sending the post off, the voice of my executive assistant, Handsome Sam, came over the intercom.
“Mr. Mc,” he said, in his suave baritone, “there are calls for you on lines one, two, three and six.”
“Which one is Mrs. Mc?” I asked.
“Line one.”
“Thank you, Handsome Sam. Ask everyone else to hold, if you will.”
“Certainly, sir.”
I picked up the phone, and my lovely wife asked me if I would meet her immediately in the parking lot. Explaining that I had several other calls holding, I told her I would be there as quickly as I could.
On line two was Dave Migoya, offering his congratulations and on line three, Bill Ochs with similar sentiments. Tom Dowling was on line six, doing his best to be gracious, but obviously near mad with jealousy. As quickly as I politely could, I thanked my callers and gathered my briefcase and hat, and headed out to the parking lot.
To my tremendous surprise, my wife and sons were out in the lot, along with Cranberry, who was dressed in a full chauffeur’s uniform. My older son gave me a carefully wrapped cardboard carton, addressed to me and with a Milan return address. After hugs and kisses from the family, Cranberry escorted me to a limousine that was parked nearby, and we both climbed into the back.
In the back of the limo, also wearing a chauffeur’s uniform, was Bloomfield! “We take turns driving,” explained Bloomfield. The smoked glass partition between the front and back of the car rolled down, and there, behind the wheel, was Tyghress, and in the front passenger seat, Jessie K!
“Unwrap your package! Unwrap your package,” cried Cranberry. So I did. Inside the box was my Frequent Poster’s smoking jacket. FP regulations forbid me from giving you a complete description of the jacket, but let me just say that a finer or better fitting garment I have never worn.
“This is for you, also,” said Jessie, indicating a shopping bag sitting on the front seat next to her. Inside the bag I found a chauffeur’s uniform and cap in my size. “Just in case you ever want to drive one of the C&F limo’s,” Bloomfield said with a wink. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the 3Fish logo was embossed in the leather of the seats and the nickel of the chauffeur’s jacket’s buttons.
Within minutes we arrived at Stewart Airport. The five of us left the car and entered the terminal, where we were quickly escorted past security and brought to a private gate, where we went outside and saw Dale Force One waiting for us. At this point, I was tingling with excitement and wonder. On board Dale Force One, The Undisputed himself was waiting for us, passing the time playing tiddlywinks with Walden, while BrewerPaul browsed a podiatric journal.
“You’ll have to forgive me,” Dr. Busman explained, “but with whistling and whistle making and my new bride, I have very little time to dedicate to medicine. I thought I’d bone up a bit during the plane ride.” Though I found the mirror on a strap around Paul’s head a bit off-putting, I am very sympathetic to the career/whistle conflict and nodded my approval to the good doctor. I made a mental note to have him look at my hangnail later on.
As the plane taxied to the runway, Dale explained the plan for the evening to all of us. “Unfortunately, we can’t go directly to the secret location tonight,” Dale began. “Martin and Wombat had some difficulty with the gorillas and were detained. We’ll be making a stop in Alabama to pick them up first.”
“I’ve never seen a gorilla,” Cranberry whispered excitedly to me, “I wonder if they’re as cuddly as mice.”
“We won’t be stopping to see the gorillas, Cranberry,” said Dale, “There isn’t time. But just so you know, they are quite cuddly. Cuddlier than mice, but not quite as cuddly as koalas, as Wombat will attest when he joins us.”
“Gorillas are equally as cuddly as chinchillas,” added Bloomfield, “But they are hell on plastic whistles.”
When the plane landed, Wombat and Martin Milner joined us on board. Though they still wore zookeeper’s coveralls and reeked of gorilla, and Martin had some banana mashed into one of his ears, they were warmly greeted and immediately given libation by our miniskirted flight attendant, who I only then realized was Avanutria!
“Beth!” I admonished, “I would have fetched my own coffee if I had realized that was you.”
“Don’t worry,” said Bloomfield, “Some of these people just love to play dress-up. Go have a look in the cockpit. Tony is pretending he’s the co-pilot. Sure enough, there was Tony in the co-pilot’s seat, wearing a uniform as well. In the pilot’s seat was Blackhawk, wearing jungle camouflage and boots.
“I would have thought you were a helicopter pilot, Blackhawk.”
“I am, Jim. This thing is on autopilot. I’m just more comfortable in the driver’s seat.”
“Blackhawk a pilot! Next you’ll tell me you think Walden and Dale are really generals,” teased Bloomie, when I returned to the passenger compartment. I hadn’t really noticed, but now that he mentioned it I saw that Dale and Walden were dressed as Dwight Eisenhower and George Patton, respectively. Walden even wore ivory handled sidearms, and the only flaw in Dale’s costume was that he had added a tiara.
When the Lear landed at an undisclosed location, Dale led us all onto a sleek black coach bus. “As many of you know,” Dale began, “I do not have sufficient posts to have achieved Frequent Poster status.”
“However, I am, after all, founder, director, supreme commander, major domo, grand high exalted mystic ruler, co-moderator and spiritual leader of the Chiffboard, along with being the Undisputed King of Internet Tin Whistle Journalism. Therefore, I have proclaimed myself to be eligible regardless of the status of my eligibility.”
“Besides,” Dale continued, “If I can’t go in, you can’t use my plane.”
“Oh,” said Walden.
“Anyhoo,” Dale continued, “I’d like to welcome Jim_Mc to the club, etcetera, etcetera, and blah blah blah, yadda yadda and all that. Thank you.”
As Dale’s speech winded down, I saw that the road we were on seemed to end abruptly at a sheer rock wall near the foot of a high, lonely mountain. Our bus driver, who I now saw was Nanohedron, showed no sign of slowing down as we neared the rock. I felt a momentary panic, but noticed that no one else seemed alarmed. At the last possible moment, the rock wall suddenly dropped from sight, and we entered a tunnel going toward the center of the mountain.
“We’re almost there,” said Tyghress excitedly, “This is as good as Deep River, Jim.” The bus stopped near a huge, ornately carved wooden door, where a pair of Swiss Guards (who turned out to be Chuck Clark and Chas) stood watch.
To describe the Frequent Posters’ lounge would be a violation of Frequent Posters’ policy, but I think it would be alright to say that it is not so much a lounge as a complex, with a main lounge and several smaller rooms attached. Tony Higgins volunteered to show me around.
In the first of the smaller rooms, we found Jerry Freeman, Loren and Zubivka lounging in a Jacuzzi. Jim Stone sat in a deck chair nearby, a leather-bound edition of Kant open in his lap. Telegram Sam and Anna Martinez sat together in a corner, whispering together. “You two planning a protest?” I asked, jokingly.
“In fact, we are,” replied Anna.
“Yes,” added T-Sam, “Jerry and Loren are naked in there, can you believe it!”
“Zoob might be, too,” added Anna, “he was in there before we got here.”
The two of them burst out laughing. “We’re just kidding you, Jim. Of course they’re naked, but we don’t care,” said T-Sam, “we’re just trying to figure out how to join them without pulling a Kathy Bates.”
“Come on, Jim, let me show you the Flute Room,” said Tony Higgins. In the Flute Room, which really isn’t much more than a broom closet, James Peeples and Chris Laughlin sat trading tunes.
James honked out a mighty hornpipe on his Hamilton, and Laughlin responded with a jaunty polka.
“I’d show you to the Whistlesmith’s Room,” said Tony Higgins, “but it’s just Serpent and Paul arguing metal versus wood, and Jerry Freeman at the door complaining that tweakers should be allowed in.”
Off topic conversation swirled around the main lounge, where Red Breast, Guinness, fine wines, gourmet coffee and home-brewed beers flowed like water. Jim Stone and the boys from the Jacuzzi appeared in waiters’ jackets, carrying trays of hors d’ourves, which they daintily offered to the rest of us. Anna danced about in a chef’s hat, but I don’t think she really did the cooking.
Just after midnight, Redwolf suggested that we all take the elevator to the surface and have a look at Mars. Once up on top of the mountain, in the thin air and with no overlying clouds, the view of the night sky was spectacular. Bloomfield let each of us take a turn looking at Mars through his glasses, and with their aid I was able to see clearly that planet’s mountains and polar ice caps.
“Jim, we’ll all play whatever tune you’d like, just name it,” said Dale.
“Just make sure it’s not something someone has sheet music for,” joked Peter Laban.
“And nothing political,” shouted Weekenders.
We all laughed. Each poster took out a whistle, and they formed into a rough circle. I led them in playing a set of jigs, and then we went around the circle, each leading a tune in turn. As the last notes echoed off into the night, we took the elevator back downstairs, and those of us who would be traveling home on Dale Force One boarded the bus.
“Good night everyone! Good night,” I shouted, as I quickly hugged as many of my fellow frequent posters as I could while boarding the bus, “and thank you all! It’s been a wonderful evening!”
As I sank into the luxurious seat of the bus, a feeling of utter contentment washed over me.
“Jim, Jim,” I heard Tyghress calling, “should we take you to your house, or back to the Blowhard Industries offices?”
I realized that I had fallen asleep somewhere along the way, and that my face was stuck to the limo’s upholstery with drool. How I had moved from bus to plane to limo was anyone’s guess.
“Better go to Blowhard,” I replied, “I want to make sure that Handsome Sam isn’t waiting up for me.”
“I called ahead and told him not to,” said Bloomfield.
“Gosh, you think of everything, don’t you,” said Cranberry.
“My child, when you are Bloomfield, you are Bloomfield,” replied Bloomfield, “Jessie, go straight to the Mc estate, if you will.”
“I’m not deaf, Bloomie,” said Jessie.
“My hangnail!” I remembered, “I never had Paul look at it!”
“He fixed it while you were asleep on the plane,” said Cranberry, and they all laughed.
“But I never even told…” I began, and then Bloomfield stopped me with a knowing raise of his eyebrow.
We pulled up to the gates of my estate, and I popped my head out from the car’s sunroof so that The Lovely Tecora, our night security person, would see that it was I. The gates were already rolling open.
“I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Mc,” Tecora said quietly, “Mrs. Mc told me to watch for a limousine with a vanity plate that said ‘CHIFFY’.”
As we all said good night, I though how lucky I was to have such friends, both those who are Frequent Posters and those who are occasional posters. Cranberry and Bloomfield both waved out of the open sunroof as the car pulled away, Jessie accelerating slowly so as not to rouse the dogs. I headed for my bed, knowing that I would sleep well and dream chiffy dreams, and look forward to another day on the Chiffboard.
Oh my god…I haven’t laughed so hard in…a very long time. That was spectuacular! 
Hilarious, Jim.
(And PROFESSIONAL tweakers certainly should be allowed in the whistlesmith’s den. I’ve been meaning to say something to Dale about that.)
Best wishes,
Jerry