#280: Manning King, the Thing-Bringer

      'Tis the day after the day after the day after Christmas. More streaks of belly-roll-induced ware trace the crannies of your chimney, and the author myself is left with a truth to carry into the new year. Jolly ol' Santa Clause and six-out-of-seven reindeer are now more believable than my ability to meet a deadline. However, in spite of a buckling fender bender of my scheduling bafoonery and countless reasons for the season hacking my seasonal art slate down a couple thirds, I'm not in the business of surrendering. Thus, before that pesky landlord Father Time tugs the plug on 2017, here commences a proper finale. I present Manning King, the Thing Bringer! Scuffed are the pinheaded heels of the alien insect race the Aruchee, scattering over the static sands of their planet Pragga Prime like hairpins poured down a slope. As spry and old, winged and dune-bound conjoin in packed reverie, the busied bug crowds fling and flitter, joyously hugging their pillars of worship: a pair of chunky rubber soles, and just north, those oh-so-familiar buckles of velcro. For the merry Aruchee have once again united under the kindly eye-in-their-sun-roasted-sky, the doughy deity they call their very own Little St. Nick: Manning King, the Thing-Bringer. Not one living Aruchee can say they witnessed the first visit of the Thing-Bringer--or the last, for that matter-- but whenever he returns, they're never in the mood to care. His lumbering charity has overseen more than a dozen generations of Aruchee, being met with open arms and misty arthropod eyes on their riotous holiday of sacred reunion: Saturday. Squeezing through a pit-black square portal dubbed the "Gateway of Micubbie" in the holy scripture, Manning King has enlightened provinces with Viewmasters and marbles, and fed frail villages with tapioca pudding. Eon after eon, weekend after weekend, the Thing-Bringer never fails to leave a ridged, glossy footprint on the legend of the Aruchee people, one as giant as it is lasting. That is, in between lofty naps and kid-kwon-do classes at the strip mall.

(Pictured: the Bringer of Things in mythic action, thumping his fascinating foreign wears with kindly tenation across Pragga's humble planes. Bat property of Sammy Swatt's Little League for Big Tots, all rights reserved.)

IT'S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR.

     The muffled murmer of a morning alarm lifts you from your slumber. A cream sunbeam peeks through your frosted window and skips down your hallway. Foamy cradles of crisp December snow dapple the antarctic blur beyond your doorstep. *hefty exhale* You live anywhere besides Southern California. However, in spite of the identity and increased nippiness of your neck-of-the-woods, its carotid artery is pumping steady with the zesty cocktail of seasonal merriment, and I'm in no position to interrupt the flow. My envy can wait until May showers. In the meantime, the season of giving with all of its clauses in tow will keep my sun-puckered palms on-task. Without further further ado, the 12 Creations of Christmas, everybody! Despite fate keeping the twelve speediest machinations of my twelvemonth to a less-than-per-day basis, festive superstition won't let me say "no." Fair game, Kringle. I'm a slave to your staccato sleighbells. Now, bluntly scissoring the sheeny ribbon of the 12 Creations in a clean two, straight from the art class I never told you I joined, all the things I never informed you I made. Cheers.

"The Beckoner."

"Posterboy."

"Cindy Sits."

"The Divine Digets."