From Uncle Vellenoff’s Journal 

 Judge Not That Ye Be Not Judged 

     In some places in the United States thespians were looked upon as sort of second-class citizens, sort of like we used to think of gypsies back in Russia. Our troupe would spend from one to three or four weeks in a town, or city, usually depending on the size of the town, or city, and then move on. 
    In the smaller towns anything that went missing, or if somebody’s dog died, while we were there, it was easy to blame the traveling troupe of entertainers, whose morals were already in question, just because we were not afraid to get up and presume to be entertaining. This meant that the local law enforcement people kept a closer eye on us than if we were a convention of, say, dentists or something equally boring. 
    The following incident happened to us when we were playing in West Oilfield, Oklahoma, which was a medium sized town, striving to be a city. 
     One of the routines in our show had to do with a courtroom scene where a judge ended up accepting a bribe. It was very comical and the audience loved it. 
    On our third night in West Oilfield, we had a gentlemen in the front row accompanied by what we were to find out later were his wife and two daughters. 
    During the bribed judge routine, the wife and daughters laughed so hard they nearly fell out of their seats. Many of us noticed this and were commenting on it after the show. That is, until this gentleman came stalking backstage and asked to see the people in that routine. 
    The six of us came forward and mistakenly thought we were going to get complimented on our performance. Not so. Once we were together with this man, he commenced, after puffing out his chest and grasping a jacket lapel in each hand, with “Do you know who I am?” 
    We looked at each other and finally I said, “No, Sir.” 
    The man looked astounded while his wife patted his arm and cautioned, “Henry, be careful what you say.” The daughters were snickering behind their hands. 
   The man said, “I’m Henry P. Peabody, local judge of the City Court, and I want to tell you that I didn’t appreciate you’re making fun of me and the office of Judge.” 
   It was our turn to be astounded. The others looked at me. I finally stammered, “Well, Judge, we weren’t making fun of you. In fact we’ve been doing this routine for over a year, and up until now we had not even heard of you.” 
    This was obviously the wrong thing to say, at least about not having heard of him. The snickering from his wife and daughters didn’t seem to be helping. 
    After giving them a stern glance, he rounded on us and demanded, “I don’t want that routine in the show from this date on.” He said this in about the same tone I imagined Moses used when parting the Red Sea. 
    Knowing this decision was way more than I should be handling, I called for the producer and director to please come over and join our group. They did, and after hearing the demand, they asked the Judge, “Sir, can we have a moment?” 
    The Judge, feeling confident he had this bunch of itinerant bumpkins on the run, so to speak, said, “Sure, take your time?” 
    The producer and director spent about five seconds discussing the issue, and then while trying to suppress their laughter, turned and said, “We see no reason to remove that routine from the show, so we’re not going to be able to comply with your demand.” 
    The Judge swelled up some more, his face got red, and when his wife patted his arm and started to warn him about his high blood pressure, he shrugged off both her hand and comment and bellowed, “You will stop doing that routine or I’ll have the whole bunch of you charged with contempt of court.” And with that he gathered up his family and stomped out of the theater. 
    The producer had an attorney in Chicago who he used for stuff like this, but he was too far away to help. Hardly believing that the Judge was serious, and after another short conference, we decided to continue doing the routine; which we did the following evening. Again, the audience loved it. 
    After the show, as we were getting ready to leave the theater, the judge along with ten policemen came storming backstage and placed everyone performing in the skit, plus the producer and director under arrest. We were booked, and then put in cells, where we spent the night. 
    The next morning, after a hardy breakfast---I’ll explain that in a minute---we were hauled into Judge Peabody’s courtroom. 
    The breakfast: Word had gotten around the community that several of us had been arrested for doing the ‘bribed judge’ routine in the show. The community, who had enjoyed the routine and who knew Judge Peabody, felt sorry for us and had made sure that we had an outstanding breakfast. 
    On the way to the court building the producer and the director conferred and finally told me that because we had no legal representation, and since I was the best ‘BS artist’ in the group, I was going to be our spokesperson. It took me a while to get over the ‘BS artist’ comment, but because they were dead serious and in no way trying to be unkind, I finally let it go and agreed to do the talking. 
    In the courtroom the bailiff sat us in the front row where the defendants usually sat, or so I learned, and with Judge Peabody sitting behind his big desk thing (I later learned this is called a bench) we got underway. There was a prosecutor there also. Judge Peabody started by saying to the prosecutor, “Bill, you can just sit there, I’ll take care of prosecuting these people.” 
    The prosecutor jumped up and said, “Judge, that’s highly irregular.” 
    The Judge said, “So noted, now sit down.” The Judge had the clerk read off our names, and the bailiff made us swear to tell the truth. 
    Then the Judge started. “How do you plead?” 
    I stood and asked, “Plead to what, Your Honor?” 
    The Judge said, “You know, slandering me with that routine you were doing last night at the theater.” 
    “So, we’re being charged with ‘slander’? Your Honor. 
    “Yes, and some other things.” 
    “Your Honor, would it be possible for the clerk to just read out all the charges against us?” 
    The Judge fidgeted in his chair, while the clerk said, “Judge, I don’t have any listed charges for these defendants.” 
    The Judge finally said, “Well, Helen, that’s because I’ve not decided what they all are yet.” 
    I stood and said, “Your Honor, we’ve the right to hear all the charges before this charade goes any further. Unless you list those charges, we’ll consider ourselves free to leave.” 
    The Judge was getting red in the face, and shouted, “You’re not going anyplace,” and then to the bailiff, “George, lock the doors and see that these miscreants don’t leave or even try to leave.” 
    The bailiff stared at the Judge and finally said, “Judge, you know we don’t have any locks on these doors.” 
    The Judge was spluttering, “Okay, these are the charges: slandering a sitting judge, performing without a permit, and indecent exposure.” 
    The Prosecutor jumped to his feet, “Your Honor, I’ll need some time to prepare a case against these folks.” 
    The Judge pointed a finger at the prosecutor and said in a menacing voice, Bill, I told you once I’d take care of prosecuting these people.” 
    I asked, “Your Honor, is the ‘sitting judge’ that is part of these charges, you?”
    “Well, yes it is.” 
    “Then, Your Honor,” I said, “I must ask you to recuse yourself as you are an integral part of this case and therefore in no position to hear this case.” 
    The Judge jumped to his feet and yelled at me. “I’ll do no such thing. And furthermore, any more comments out of you and I’ll cite you for contempt.” 
    The prosecutor was on his feet again, “Your Honor, Mr. Spady is exactly right, you cannot sit on the bench and hear a case where you are involved.” 
    The Judge looked at me and asked with a sneer, “What, are you an attorney?” 
    “No, Your Honor.” 
    “Then you’ve no say in this courtroom.”
    “With all due respect, Your Honor, but of course I do. In Bonhoffer vs the State of Maryland, in 1875, it was established that a defendant has the right to defend himself, and that that person needn’t be an attorney.” 
    I was afraid to look at the prosecutor, but was told later that he was staring at me open mouth. He started to say something then clamped his mouth shut and got a little smile on his face, and just looked at the Judge nodding his head. 
    During all this, the gallery had filled with interested community people including, I noticed, the Judge’s wife and daughters. 
    I was still standing, so decided to press on. “Furthermore, Your Honor, if this case does move forward, I’ll ask for a trial by jury. And part of our defense will be to do the very routine that seems to have someone’s knickers in a twist.” 
    “Are you accusing me of having my ‘knickers in a twist?’” 
    “No, Your Honor, I said ‘someone’s knickers’; I’ve no idea what your knickers are doing, and I’d rather not find out.” 
    I realized immediately that I had probably gone too far with that last comment. 
    Hoping to take his mind off knickers, I pressed on, “And our counsel in Chicago is right now preparing a ‘false arrest’ suit against the person who signed the arrest warrants used to arrest us.” 
    The Judge was on his feet again, “YOU CAN’T DO THAT”! he shouted, while banging his gavel on his desk, missing his wood block each time. 
    I was back on my feet and said, “With all due respect, of course I can.” In Jackson vs . . . .” 
    The Judge shouted, “Okay, okay, I don’t want to hear it!” Then turning to his bailiff said, “Would you see if Judge Mills is available, and if so, ask him to step in here.” 
    Judge Mills came in. Judge Peabody explained the whole thing to him, and then Judge Mills asked the prosecutor, “Are you ready to present this case?” 
    The prosecutor explained that he hadn’t heard about this case until this morning, and “No,” he wasn’t ready and didn’t think from what he had heard that there was a case to prosecute. 
    At this Judge Peabody shouted at him, “Bill, you’re fired.” 
    Judge Mills, knowing full well that Judge Peabody could not fire the prosecutor, looked at Judge Peabody like he had grown an extra nose. He was about to say something when I interrupted. “Your Honors, I’ve got a plan that might solve this whole problem.” 
    Judge Mills asked me to continue. I said, “Would you permit this group of defendants to perform the routine in question and then you, Judge Mills, and you, Mr. Prosecutor, can determine if there is a case or not.” 
    It took Judge Mills about two seconds to okay this plan. Judge Peabody was against it, but by this time had no say in what happened.
    When Judge Mills agreed to my suggestion, the people in the gallery broke into applause. Judge Mills, who was now behind the big desk, banged his gavel, and told them to settle down if they wanted to stay. 
    We performed out routine. Judge Mills, the bailiff, the clerk, and several police officers in the courtroom were laughing fit to kill. 
    Finally, drying his eyes, Judge Mills said, “Henry,” meaning Judge Peabody, “this skit doesn’t mention you, is clearly not about you, and I’m guessing is one that they’ve,” pointing at us, “have been doing for a long time before they ever met you. In fact, I bet they never even knew you existed, until you raised a fuss about what they were doing. Is this right?” looking to us for confirmation. I assured him that he was correct on all accounts. 
    Judge Mills looked at the prosecutor, got a nod, then said, “This case, which never was a case to begin with, is dismissed, and the court apologizes to these good folks for the inconvenience this court has put them through.” 
    Judge Peabody jumped out of his chair and shouted, “You can’t do that! How about the other charg . . .?” Judge Mills cut in with, “Shut up Henry, before you get yourself into more trouble.” 
    Then looking at the prosecutor he said, “I never heard about any other charges beside the slander thing.” 
    The prosecutor answered, “That would be indecent exposure and failure to have a license. The last is a non-issue because they don’t need a license as the theater has the license.” 
    Judge Mills looked at me and asked with raised eyebrows, “Indecent exposure? Man or woman? 
    I laughed and said, “During the routine, as you saw, one of the men has his shirt torn off.” 
    “oh, that,” said the Judge, sounding disappointed. “Well, I’ll come and see the show anyway.” Then he picked up his briefcase and walked out. 
    As we were getting ready to leave, the prosecutor came over to me and shook my hand. “You sure you’re not an attorney?” 
    I assured him I wasn’t. 
    “And,” he said, “those court cases you were rattling off. Should I spend my time looking those up?” 
    “Not unless you have absolutely nothing, and I mean nothing, else to do.” 
    He laughed, picked up his satchel and said, “I thought as much,” and walked out. 
    As we were leaving the producer sidled up to me, chuckled, and said, “'BS artist’, I sure nailed that one.”

From My Uncle Vellanoff’s Journal 

 Anybody Want A Mule? 

    One spring we were booked to play the El Tovar Hotel in Grand Canyon National Park. The Hotel had a small auditorium where they put on top-notch entertainment for their guests. 
    We were all excited because none of us had had the opportunity to see this National Park. As we traveled by train, we had time to contemplate and discuss the fun we were going to have on this gig. I had no idea that this fun would come with two big ears, and a warped sense of humor. 
    The show’s producer had recently hired a three member Hawaiian group -- two sisters, Nana and Kaila, and Nana’s husband, Keanu. The ladies would do the hula, very effectively I might add, and the man did a spear-juggling act where, for his big finale, he would light the spears on fire. The fire was real, and the spears were sharp. All three played the ukulele, steel guitar and pahupai (drum), and sang. It was a good act. 
    We were scheduled to put on a show every night for one week. That didn’t leave much time for sightseeing, but we were agitating for a couple extra days off at the end of the engagement. 
    On our third night, the Hawaiian act was in full swing when some young huddlehunce in the audience thought it would be fun to hit our juggler with a spit wad powered by a rubber band. His aim was extraordinary, as the projectile hit Keanu beside his right eye. 
    It was startling enough that he put a little too much effort into one of his tosses of a burning spear. It went up into the ceiling beams, stuck there, and started a fire. The natural excitement of watching a man juggling sharp burning spears reached a new level in short order. Our MC asked everyone to leave in an orderly fashion. 
    Those instructions were ignored after the first three seconds. No one was hurt as a result of the fire, but the stampede to get away from the fire put thirteen people in the local infirmary. We didn’t know if one of them was our spit-wad artist, but we were hopeful.
    The Hotel’s owner told us that it would be three days before the fire damage to the auditorium was repaired. Suddenly we had some free time. 
    Ten of us decided to take the mules down to the bottom of the Canyon. It sounded like fun. We were assured that these mules had made this trip numerous times, and that it was completely safe. 
    The following morning we arrived at the mule corral. We’d never done any horseback riding, or even spent time around horses. The wranglers asked each of us about our riding experience, and on hearing mine, gave me a mount that they said was gentle and loved people. 
    One of the wranglers led me over to my mule, who acted totally disinterested in me and what we were about to do. I walked up, patted him on the nose and said, “We’re going to get along just fine, okay?” 
    As I turned to watch the wrangler demonstrate the proper way to mount one of these animals, I felt this severe pain in my left shoulder and found my feet a couple inches off the ground. The mule had his huge set of teeth clamped on my shoulder and was actually lifting me off the ground. 
    I said a few unchristian words and tried to reach around and whack the mule on his nose. That seemed to amuse my attacker. Finally, he put me down and just stood there with a stupid grin on his face. I shouted at the nearest wrangler, “Did you see what this dumb mule just did?” 
    The wrangler admitted that he hadn’t seen anything, so I explained it to him. While I was telling him this, the mule, still with that stupid grin on his face, was nuzzling my shoulder like we were best friends. Right in the middle of my tale of woe, I realized that this mule was running a con on these poor wranglers, and unless I decided to opt out of this trip down the Canyon, I was stuck with this wily beast. 
    Once the wranglers had us all mounted we headed for the edge of the Canyon and the trail. As we went from flat terrain to the downward-sloping trail, my mule did a little shuffle step with his hoofs, which for a second gave me the impression that he was falling. 
     My stomach was in my throat and the adrenaline was running rampant through my system. At that moment I probably could have carried the mule. 
    After his little trick, the mule shook his head and let out with a quiet hee-haw. If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn he was laughing. 
    I reached forward, grabbed one long mule ear, twisted it around so he could hear me better, and uttered a couple somewhat unchristian comments. The mule ignored my suggestions and didn’t seem concerned by my threats. 
    At this point the trail had nothing scary about it, only that it was going downhill some. Within five minutes this changed. The trail turned into a one-sided nightmare. By one-sided, I mean that on one side of the trail we had a wall of rock and on the other side we had nothing. As uncomfortable as this was, it did give me an opportunity for some scientific inquiry. It was the first time I had been able to observe eagles from above. It was mildly interesting, if I didn’t think about it too much. 
    The people who made this trail figured we would need an additional thrill, so every once in a while they made the trail go back the way we had just come, except, of course, a lot lower. I heard the wranglers refer to these phenomena as ‘switchbacks.’ 
    Now as the mule and I were making one of these turns, there were a couple seconds where we were headed straight toward, and about two steps from the abyss. 
    That’s when my mule tried his little double shuffle again. I thought it had scared me the first time, but, oh boy! This was a whole new level of excitement than I’d ever experienced before. Even while being shot at when trying to leave Russia, I’d not been this scared. When they caught me and I was thrown into the infamous Labyanka Prison, I’d not been this scared. When the secret police were preparing me for torture (they thought some foreign power was paying me to escape), I had not been this scared. In the process of escaping from the prison and hiding in a wagonload of turnips for two days, I’d not been this scared. But I digress. 
    Once my mule was going straight down the trail again, I concentrated on getting my heart rate down to something reasonable. It took a while, but when it was under control, I had another conference with my mule. I got him by an ear and explained to him the facts of life as I saw them, like what was acceptable and what wasn’t. This time when I got the head shake and the quiet hew-haw, I knew for sure he was laughing. 
    After calling him several more uncomplimentary names, he stopped dead still with his head drooping and his ears hanging down alongside his face. I shook the reins, kicked my heels into his sides, and made clicking noises with my tongue. I’d seen this done someplace. Nothing worked. If I hadn’t know better I would have guessed I’d hurt his feelings. 
    Finally, a wrangler noticed my situation and yelled, “Andy, move your ass!” 
    I shouted back, “My name isn’t Andy, and I’ve been trying to do just that.” 
    Come to find out, my mule’s name was Andy. The effect of the wrangler’s shouted instructions had the effect of getting Andy moving again. 
    He tried the double shuffle twice more, but I was learning when he would try it, so was more of less ready for him. When Andy figured out I wasn’t reacting to his little trick any longer he quit. The rest of the ride to the bottom of the Canyon and then back up to the rim was uneventful. 
    Two days later the auditorium repairs were completed and the shows started again. For the next couple months whenever somebody wanted me to do something they would say, “Andy, move your ass!” 
    Everyone in the troupe seemed to think this was hilarious.

I Feel So Much Better Now 

      I have discovered, via the media, and repeated again and again since the election, that nearly everything that is going wrong in my life is due to Trump’s winning and becoming the President-elect. 
      I don’t quite understand how some of these things can be connected to the election, but would the media lie? 
      The media has been touting some strange things that people swear are the result of what they feel was an unfair and totally manipulated election. 
      I think these people might be the ones who as kids got a trophy for just being there, whether they excelled in any way or not, or even put in an effort, and expect life as an adult to do the same for them. 
      But I’m getting off the subject, but only by just a little bit. Today I went to the grocery store and what do you know, the price of grapes was up to 1.88 per pound. Trump’s winning the election has struck again.   
      Then there’s the stock market. A number of people were predicting that a Trump win would take the market into a nosedive like we’d not seen for years. I’ve no idea who these predictors were, and I’m guessing the media didn’t know or care, just gave their prognostications conspicuous coverage. But woops, it didn’t quite work out that way. The day after the election, the market started to go up and hasn’t stopped until today when it dropped a tad. 
      I’ve not seen one follow-up by the media on the market’s reaction to the election. I’m not saying the media has ignored it, just that I’ve not seen it. And face it, the media is not known for admitting when it’s gotten something wrong. 
      Another thing is the price of gas. The last tank full I bought cost me more than two cents a gallon more than the tank full I bought just before the election. Trump’s winning the election has struck again. 
      I could go on, but I think you can see why I feel so relieved, finally knowing why these adverse things are happening to me.

What Is Going On With Our Wild Turkeys? 

      It seems we have another turkey insurrection, this time in California -- Davis, California, to be exact, in case anyone wants to avoid that area. 
     According to reporter Daniel Uri, it seems that forty aggressive wild turkeys have chosen Davis to exhibit their militant tendencies. To the point where a man couldn’t get out of his car because one turkey, that’s right, one turkey, was surrounding his car and holding him hostage. This man finally called the police for help, otherwise he was going to be late for work. 
      Now picture this; there is a grown man in a car. The car works and can be driven. The man is sitting behind the wheel of this car and can drive it away at any time. There is one turkey circling the car. The man reported that the turkey was huge, but unless this ‘huge’ turkey outweighed the car or could run faster than the car, the man was still at liberty to drive away, say around to the back of the building and get to work using the back door. Or, if desperate enough, just run over the cotton-picken’ turkey. My apologies to all the turkey lovers out there, but self-defense sometimes calls for drastic measures. 
     But we’re not here to discuss the mental acuity of this particular person. 
     This particular aggressive turkey is known as ‘Downtown Tom’. He has already managed to allude captured by Wildlife Officials once. Maybe they were afraid to get out of their truck. 
      The city of Davis has earmarked twenty-thousand dollars to catch and release the unwanted turkeys. However, I think they’re missing a great opportunity. 
     With Thanksgiving only a few weeks away, this city is probably shopping for five dozen turkeys for their “Feed the Needy” program. These are going to cost the city several thousand dollars. So why not--see where I’m going with this--save the twenty-thousand dollars, spend a few dollars on shotgun shells, and use the rest of the appropriated funds to fix a bunch of potholes. 
     They would eliminate their turkey problem, and get the needy fed. Everybody wins. 
     It seems simple from here.