Christmas With Rip Van Winkle VI

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Two days ago, Rip Van Winkle VI had woken from a twenty-year nap. It comes as no surprise; he was undernourished and weak. He had a six-foot gray beard. There is no way to sugar coat this, he looked half dead. He was fortunate to have been discovered by a team of psychologists, as opposed to a gaggle of cannibals. Long story short, first cold day, as good a day to treat one’s self, thus annual office skating party. The group found Rip Van Winkle VI, who was in a wandering stupor as they gathered under a snow-covered oak tree.


Dr. Gruber, having declared himself the eldest German, appointed himself the lead physician. Gruber had his eyes and heart set on a killer book deal. He pointed his flashlight in Van Winkle VI’s wrinkled eyes. “Count backwards from one hundred by ten.”

“100?” The group of doctors leaned forward, took notes and nodded. “90?” Van Winkle VI’s lips were obscured and hidden by his overgrown mustache. If he had a dummy, he could have the best ventriloquist act ever. “80?”

“Tell me, who are the last five presidents of the United States starting with the most current.” Gruber’s German accent came through. It happened when verbalizing the United States of America. Call it irony, call it an interesting character flaw, it’s kind of weird.

“70, 60… Uhm, Jimmy Clinton, you know, that hillbilly from Arkansas.”

Like a collective of possessed children-of-the-corn-types, the shrinks said, “Uh oh.” Troublesome when said by one person, especially a doctor, more than downright eerie when said by said by thirteen doctors in perfect unison.

“What year is it?”

“1997.” This was followed by a collective gasp, just as eerie as the previous uh oh, and then a thud, followed by, “Call 911, Margaret has fainted.”

Now, it was Christmas day, and the mind doctors placed Rip in the care of more responsible hands, Room 214 at the General Patton Hospital. The doctors took pity on the lonely man, they gave him a present intended for another patient who had passed away moments earlier. Keep in mind, ethics on Christmas day in a hospital is like policemen on college campuses on 4/20.

It was an iPhone®. With the assistance of grumpy nurses, Rip turned the device on. As he realized that the power of a desk top was now in the palm of his hand, he wept uncontrollably. First, tears, followed by his eyeballs, and then blood, and ultimately brain matter.

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One thought on “Christmas With Rip Van Winkle VI

  1. Pingback: Photographer Interview – Margaret Lindsay Holton – ‘Pinhole Photography’ | toofulltowrite (I've started so I'll finish)

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