By Skippy (Investigative reporter) Dateline, July 6, 2001 The Bayou Sentinel

THE REAL HELEN UNMASKED

One of the greatest hoaxes ever perpetrated against mankind has been uncovered at last. For several months, if not years, a cruel and insidious plot has been perpetrated against the citizens of the world wide Fruitcake Resistance community; a community renowned for it’s benevolence to humankind, honored for it’s literary contributions, famous for global leadership in this dark age of fruitcake proliferation.

It has been discovered that an impostor has been foisted upon this august group and has endeared herself within the close knit ranks of poet-warriors, clowns, story tellers and other assorted prevaricators. Calling herself simply, “helen”, with a little “h”, this highly secretive poster has slowly won over her readers with stories of down-home experiences on her “farm”. Using tales of simple characters such as Mike the kissing mule, or Edna Leatherbags, the conspiratory goat, this siren of the written word has lured readership away from the more pressing and eminently important issues such as, what ever happened to Lucky the clown, or where are the two star-crossed lovers, Robert and Agnes?

But to what purpose, one might ask, would such a well planned and orchestrated attack be leading to? It has been discovered by this reporter, working alone under the sole authority of the Bayou Sentinel, that the impostor is none other than the flamboyant heiress, Miss Fruticia Fusty. Sole heir to the mega-giant empire started by her infamous ancestors in the wee hours of history, she is now CEO and Chairman of Hardrock Fruitcake Industries, Inc.

Headquartered in Flabby Bottom, Mississippi, the mammoth company controls a world wide network of candied fruit farms and stale flour refineries stretching from secluded tribal sweatshops in southern California, to glitzy and exclusive showrooms in virtually every major city on the globe. This reporter began the incredible and dangerous trail of discovery at the flagship of the company’s showrooms, the 30,000 square foot sanctuary to fruitcake immortality in Salt Lake City, Minnesota.

Six grueling months later, I had managed to bribe myself into the position of room service boy in the prestigious Stump Tower of upper Manhattan. It was rumored that “Fruity” Fusty was ensconced in the penthouse apartment, ordering daily essentials of caviar and champaign from the room service menu.

Masterly posing as a handsome but simple minded country boy, this reporter soon won the confidence of the building manager and was shortly given the task of delivery to the fabled penthouse. Even years of journalistic duty, documenting the seedy underbelly of humanity could not prepare one for the spectacle that unfolded on that summer afternoon. Answering the door herself, Miss Fusty staggered back to reveal an interior landscape littered with the crumbs of broken hearts and fruitcake indulgences. The flotsam and jetsam of a life dedicated to the development of preservation tins and candied pineapple.

Attired only in a flowing nightgown of diaphanous silk, even though it was after two in the afternoon, her hair still mussed from a long night of wanton abandonment, the heiress grabbed the bucket of Beluga and hastily returned to a waiting computer keyboard. With a voice cackling as if it were made of aged walnuts, she spoke only to herself and to the ghosts of Christmas fruitcakes past:

“I’ll get them, my pretty. I get them all, and their little clown too!”

Whirling suddenly she gazed into the shining buttons of the room service uniform with eyes red shining as glazed cherries.

“It’s brilliant, you see. I’ll lure them with tales of a farm wife, cozy and flannel. Stories of affectionate mules and matriarchal goats. Uncle Remus meets Shirley Temple, you see. THEN! Then, I’ll get them all. I start posting stories of treasured fruitcakes, lovely fruitcakes, heirloom fruitcakes; the enduring lifeblood of familial domestication.”

Spittle foamed at the corners of her lips, frosted like two unblemished candied orange peels, as she clasped an ancient foil-wrapped confection to her perfect breasts.

“I’ll tame them all; them uncouth Frellians; break them, my precious. Yessss, just one fruitcake. One fruitcake which finds them. One fruitcake which rules them all, and in the darkness binds them.”

With a flutter of fingers stained dark with troglodyte walnuts, she dismissed the room service cart along with world of reason and sanity, as she furiously pounded the keyboard into submission and once again attempted to poison the minds of trusting readers everywhere.

And such is the ending of this story. Or is it just the beginning? Beware, gentle readers, be very ware.

--

-- Skippy (investigative@reporter.nofoolin), July 06, 2001

Answers

I KNEW IT!!! I knew it all along. It all just smelled funny, ya know.

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), July 06, 2001.

Bbbbbbbbbbbbbut............ what about Mike Mule? You mean he's (GASP!) fiction too?!?!?!

It just isn't worth going on ............................. sniff.

-- (PatriciaS@lasvegas.com), July 06, 2001.

Patricia, you need to keep in mind that Skippy thinks Lon Frankenstein is a reliable source ;-)

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), July 06, 2001.

You mean he's NOT?!?!? Next you'll tell me there's no fruitcake either.

A night of disappointments . . . All hopes and dreams shattered . . . no point in going on . . . slinks away into the sunset . . . wait a minute, it's after 10 PM . . . just slinks away . . .

;-)

-- (PatriciaS@lasvegas.com), July 07, 2001.

It's a lie. I've never even seen a fruitcake in my life.

-- helen (reward_for@skippys.head), July 07, 2001.

Till I hear from Helen I refuse to believe this blasphemy.

Nevermind. Mike just called. dang

-- Carlos (riffraff@cybertime.net), July 07, 2001.

Troglodyte walnuts? I gotta get out more often! ;-) And speaking of getting out... I love you Skippy, but you've never even been to Manhattan OR Minnesota. Where did you get this information on Miss Fruticia Fusty? Did you steal someone else's research?

-- Chief Investigatress (privacy@please.com), July 07, 2001.

First off, if I lived in a penthouse do you think I would let some simple minded country boy named "Skippy" inside my door? Huh? Didja think of that? It's a lie, I tell you, a lie! The only reason I don't have pictures to prove my story is because no one will tell me how to get pics onto the net. Do you think I could make up a freedom-loving mule? Huh? Have you ever read about one before? NO! You haven't! And that's because my stories are true, all of 'em!

-- helen (skippy@aint.real), July 07, 2001.

Well, I hate to take sides so early, and you all know much I admire Mike the mule, but, actually there HAVE been rumors floating around the bayou, so to speak.

I mean, sure, Skippy is just a well-meaning and eager young reporter, and he's just the type to be duped by the Fruitcake establishment. But then the Bayou Sentenal is a classy news organization, and well, maybe I shouldn't say anything, but, I got an e-mail from helen once with a smudge on it. A smudge that smelled just like candied orange rind.

But, I could be mistaken.........maybe...sure.

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), July 07, 2001.

(hanging head in deep shame.....)

Helen, I looked up your scanner on the 'Net and couldn't find the instructions. But if you loaded the software that came with it, the Help file might actually BE some "help".

I'll slink back away now -- I hear thunder in the distance. My power should be going out any minute now . . .

-- (PatriciaS@lasvegas.com), July 07, 2001.

Helen, email a picture to me at gaylasd@hotmail.com and I'll try to get it on here for you. :-)

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), July 07, 2001.

Gayla -- how do I email a picture to you? I have a scanner. Instructions please.

-- helen (scanner@the.REAL.farm), July 08, 2001.

LOL. I read that earlier this AM, and it never hit me.

Mas cafe'.....

-- (PatriciaS@lasvegas.com), July 08, 2001.

Helen, your scanner should be attached (or able to be attached to your computer.) When you scan a picture, it will ask how you want to save it. You will save it in one of your files (like 'documents' or 'pictures'.) Remember where you save it. While online, you will send an email like you normally do, but you will click on attach or insert. (Not sure if you have Outlook Express or whatever.) Under insert will be 'file attachment'. Click on that, and it will allow you to attach the picture. It will give you a choice of what you want to attach. Find the file (picture) you just saved and click on it. It should automatically attach it to your email. Then just click on send. Your operating system may be different. Let me know.

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), July 08, 2001.

Ok...now here's the second part of my proof that Skippy is a plant from a tabloid rag:

I really do have a husband. He really owns the scanner. In order for me to use the scanner, I have to read the manual that came with it. In order to get the manual, I have to ask him where it is. That will open a can of worms Wal-Mart doesn't carry a cure for. You see, when he asks why I need a scanner and I tell him, he's gonna find out about the mule and me.

Hey, Skippy, if I spent my nights in wild abandonment do ya think I'll be sneaking around with a mule? Huh? Didja think of that?

I'll spend a quiet day looking for said manual.

-- helen (scanner@int.mine), July 08, 2001.

Helen, Or, whoever you may be, your protestations sound so much like billy clintoon and gary condom that I am beginning to think there may be some substance to these wild charges. After all, the official policy when asked an embarrassing question, is to make something up. At least that seems to be the way the important people do it.

Now, the critical question is: Is helen important enough that SHE gets to make something up when asked a personal question? What say you, Robert Cook? Is this person who he/she claims to be?

(Or, for that matter, are any of us who we claim to be? Or, even, who we think ourselves to be? In short, is there any epistemological basis upon which to base the assumption that any of us exist at all? But then, that is probably a topic for another thread, best addressed in high coo.)

-- gene (ekbaker@essex1.com), July 08, 2001.

HUH?? Did I see the word episiotomy associated with me in that paragraph??

-- helen (ack@not.that), July 08, 2001.

I received this um... charming photo of Helen from Skippy. He asked me to post it to the forum. He said those were her gardening gloves. I guess Mike likes pink tu-tus? Yikes!

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), July 09, 2001.

Oh, fer cryin' out loud. That picture was probably sent by helen, herself (gardening gloves?) I can't believe she would think we could be duped so easily. Why, anyone can see that this lovely creature is obviously one of those high-fashion covergirl-type models! She probably cut it out of some glamour magazine, like "Farm Wives On Parade", or "Lumberjacks And Jills".

I don't actually subscribe to those kind of magazines, you know, I just heard about them, er, from, uh, ... my evil twin. Yeah, that's it, I just heard about them. Really.

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), July 09, 2001.

SKIPPY!! WHERE DID YOU GET THAT PICTURE?? THAT BELONGS IN MY PRIVATE COLLECTION AND WHAT'RE YOU DOING WITH IT??

-- helen (um@farming.really), July 09, 2001.

I must say this whole thread is starting to get rather embarrassing, what with all the accusations and photos and such. Can't we all just get along? To quote a famous statesman. And, does anyone have any more Helen photos?

-- gene (ekbaker@essex1.com), July 09, 2001.

My dear friends, didn't it make you feel good to believe that a mule can understand English? Didn't it give you a warm glow right in the heart (that's just above your kidneys Mr. Frankenstien) to read tales of roosters, goats, and little baby kittens? Does it matter if they're ... you know ... REALLY real? Doesn't your belief in them MAKE them real? Does it really matter where the stories are coming from? Doesn't it do you some good to believe in something light hearted and special and non-newsworthy? Huh?

-- helen (mules@goats.chickens), July 09, 2001.

Need more helen.photos@nowwecanseeall.cam before I can tell.

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), July 10, 2001.

The National Bayou Inquisitor

Dateline 11 July 2001

By Desdemona Desire’, Staff Reporter

-

“FRUITCAKE HELEN” LOVE SCANDAL EXPOSED!

On the very heels of the world wide scandal brought about by the recent bombshell report that “helen” was allegedly none other than the notorious and devious heiress, Fruiticia Fusty, the National Bayou Inquisitor launched an in-depth investigation which has now delivered an even greater shock to the entire fruitcake resistance global network.

Working from an anonymous lead, hand written on the back of a label from the “Original and Famous, Bayou Jiggle Juice and Aphrodisiac”, and nailed to the door of Ledue’s Bait ‘n Gas, reporters from NBI have now discovered the true extent of a scandal destined to blow the hermetically sealed lid off the secret underworld of fruitcake distribution.

Through an effort of intensive sleuthing, intuitive questioning, and sleepless nights mired in the black gumbo mud of the bayou low country, the NBI reporters uncovered a tale of deceit and corruption unequaled in the annuals of this newspaper. It can now be revealed that Skippy is actually the forlorn love child of helen, and that the pair evidently fabricated the entire penthouse story simply to further their scheme to sell glamorous photographs via the internet to lonesome and desperate lumberjacks, working in the sparsely populated delta area of Furnace Creek, near Death Valley, California, as well as the occasional Nuclear Ingeneer.

Reporters from NBI are diligently working on the question that has millions of readers squeezing their fruitcakes in anguished anticipation: just who is the father? This story and this question will continue to hold the world hostage until answers are dredged up from the murky depths of the dark bayou waters that run through it.

--------------------------------

-- believe (it@or.not), July 11, 2001.

Mr. "or not", you need to enter the following into this contest:

Working from an anonymous lead, hand written on the back of a label from the “Original and Famous, Bayou Jiggle Juice and Aphrodisiac”, and nailed to the door of Ledue’s Bait ‘n Gas, reporters from NBI have now discovered the true extent of a scandal destined to blow the hermetically sealed lid off the secret underworld of fruitcake distribution.

You'll win next year's competition hands-down ;-)

-- always ready to help a friend in need . . . (PatriciaS@lasvegas.com), July 11, 2001.

Yeah, Patricia, I saw that site the other day; it's hilarious! I imagine that Ms Disire' might have been inspired by it as well.

But, I just don't know what to think of this latest development. What will we find out next about helen and her apparently sordid past? I mean, really, a love child? I just hope my evil twin didn't have anything to do with it!

---------------------------------------------

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), July 11, 2001.

Dere vas no fader.

-- helen (jedi@vader.maker), July 11, 2001.

"squeezing their fruitcakes in anguished anticipation"

ROTFL! What a great line!

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), July 11, 2001.

"Dere vas no fader."

Yeah sure! I was born at night, but not LAST night, sister. That line mighta worked on some dumb Jedi knight, but we ain't buyin' it.

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-- Homer Frump (bayoumorals@andtemperance.society), July 11, 2001.

Foder for thought......Can I vader in this conversation without needing hip boot?

But never an udder disppointment.

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), July 12, 2001.

Skippy, the Immaculate Particulate?

-- flora (***@__._), July 12, 2001.

Seems to me, Skippy ain't particular in the least having spent umpteen years "documenting the seedy underbelly of humanity." I've had four kids and I can tell you, seedy underbellies aren't all that fascinating. I think Skippy was having a slow news day and decided to fabricate a story. As proof, how many little girl babies do you know of by the name of "Fruticia"?!

What say you, Skippy?

-- Linda Mc (jmcintyre1@mmcable.com), July 12, 2001.

Linda, you dare to cast aspersions on poor Skippy????

(D'ya think he'll notice? :-)

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), July 13, 2001.

I'm not sure I'd want whatever Skippy would catch if he cast aspirations while trolling for new stories wearing hippy boots .....

After all, Cleapatricia was bit buy a snake while casting aspirations as queeen of denial.

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), July 13, 2001.

It's a fine day in America when the methane-modified machinations of a bayou-bred bubble boy like Skippy can cast aspersions on one of this country's finest mules. My own reputation means little to me -- a good thing since that incident back in 19THREAD DRIFT! -- but Mike Mule would be aghast that his credibility is under attack. It has taken all hands and the rooster to keep Mike Mule offline and ignorant of this travesty. To keep him busy, I had to give in and let him read articles written by John Locke, Thomas Jefferson, and Edgar Rice Burroughs. No one can imagine the trouble this is bound to cause me in the future. I think he's sorry he didn't revolt with Edna "Leather Bags" Goat when he had the chance.

This is the last and only warning, Skippy: One more whisper of a hint that Mike Mule isn't real, and there'll be NO MORE STORIES. Bet you didn't count on that, didja? Huh?

-- helen (last_stand@the.corral), July 13, 2001.

Now - wait a minute!

I thought the whole problem with Mike was that he WAS a bit frisky and exiciteable.....down under the collar so to speak with doses of garlic and fire ant repellent......

What's this with Mike casting aspirations too?

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), July 13, 2001.

So...Robert...you ADMIT Mike Mule is real?? You believe??

-- helen (farmer@or.fruitcake.queen.you.decide.and.hurry.up), July 13, 2001.

---------NEWS BULLETIN-----

BBC (Bayou Broadcasting Company) July 13, 2001

For immediate release: by Edmund Eggsuquer, Agricultural Correspondent

FARM WIFE HELEN EXPOSES HERSELF

In an international press conference, held today just outside Mamou, Louisiana, celebrated farm wife and author of the best selling series featuring Mike the kissing mule, exposed to the world that she is indeed just what she has claimed all along. Throughout the scandal that embroiled the world-wide fruitcake resistance community, the authoress has maintained her innocence and protested the earlier news release which tied her to Miss Fruitcia Fusty, flamboyant CEO of the Hardrock Fruitcake industrial empire. As proof of her identity, Helen produced for the assembled press corps, a pair of muddy rubber boots, size 8, an empty 30-pound chicken feed sack, a Sears catalog with half the pages ripped out, and a recent photograph of herself, preparing breakfast while wearing only flannel pajamas with footies.

In the face of such overwhelming evidence, it became obvious to all observers that Helen does, in fact reside in a typical rural setting with conspiratory and affectionate residents of the farm animal persuasion. Newspapers around the world are said to be hustling to print retractions and corrections to previous stories which included unconfirmed reports that Helen was the last surviving member of Hitler’s bodyguard, that her baking activities were primarily responsible for global warming, that her face had mysteriously appeared in a painting of the Last Supper in Snooksuck, Arkansas, with her tongue sticking out, and that she was the brains behind a plot to assassinate Barney the Dinosaur. It is rumored that the reclusive Commander-in-Chief of the FRL may surface to personally extend an apology.

In a bizarre twist to this already bizarrest and twistedest of twisted bizarre tales, the chief law enforcement officer of the Bayou country, Sheriff Big Bubba Babineaux announced within the hour that Skippy, the investigative reporter, had cracked under interrogation, and admitted fabricating the entire story in an attempt to win the coveted Pullet-zer Prize, awarded each year by the Happy Chick Feed Company, for the most outstandingest farm-related news story. Sheriff Babineaux continued, saying that Skippy had originally been sentenced to six months in the swamp, living with Lon Frankenstien, but since Amnesty International had filed such an extreme protest, simple capital punishment was now being considered.

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-- Bayou Broadcasting Company (BBC) (breakingwind@international.news), July 13, 2001.

I KNEW it!! I just knew that our beloved Helen couldn’t be involved with fruitcake proliferation. That story just didn’t smell right, ya know.

But I have to say, I’m quite shocked at all of you. You should be ashamed for spreading unfounded gossip, and not coming to the defence of one of our own. I hope this is a lesson to all of you in the future. Just try to be more like me; levelheaded, serious and steady in any crisis, that’s my motto!

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), July 13, 2001.

What a relief! Time to begin another story...

"It was a dark and stormy night, and the mule-kissing farmwife lay awake for hours pondering who she was gonna sue first for causing her media troubles..."

-- helen (b@ck.to.the typewriter), July 13, 2001.

Helen, no author worth her salt would sue any media types for getting her name all over the place... people forget the reason for the notoriety and just recognize the name the next time they're in the bookstore ;-)

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), July 13, 2001.

"FARM WIFE HELEN EXPOSES HERSELF"

Helen, you get your clothes on! ;-)

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), July 13, 2001.

""FARM WIFE HELEN EXPOSES HERSELF"

...

Mike blushes.

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), July 14, 2001.

If I actually exposed myself, birds would fall petrified from the sky, water would run uphill to get away, and Mike Mule would stop communicating.

-- helen (harrumph@nude.ranch), July 14, 2001.

YIKES!!!!!!

Dodging stealth geese as they plummet plumeless from the sky.....dropping plums, plumbers, and plumbobs.... plumebobbers.... plumber's bobbers....

Ah heck: You know: those sharp-ended weights with a point on one end and a hole for the string on the other that show which way is up.

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), July 16, 2001.