So Jack and Jill wandered down the used straw brown colored road until they reached a spot where trees had been broken off at their bases, were uprooted and tossed aside and generally made unwhole.
“This isn’t good” said Jill as Jack led her through the copse of corpses.
“No worries love” Jack said in his best Crocodile Dundee, “I have a plan.”
Just then an incredibly loud voice stopped them in their tracks.
“Fee Fi Fo Fum I smell the blood of an Englishman! Be he….”
“Wait a moment” Jack hollered; “I think you may be making a big mistake that will cost you dearly!”
“Err, wot?” said the giant; “There’s no mistake. I smells you, and I’s gonna eat you!”
“No, I’m afraid you’re wrong there, you see, we’re not English at all. If you do smell an Englishman he must be hiding somewhere nearby and you should see to finding him straightaway as to damage my lady or I in any way wouldn’t be healthy for you.”
“Wot? Not an Englishman you say? What are you then?”
“Belgian my good man; my could be a wife and I are Belgian!”
“Well then I shall simpy amend my poem to subs Belgianman for Englishman, and then I finish verse and eat you!”
“But I’m afraid that will never do sir, as the proper word for a person of Belgian heritage is Belgie!”
“A Belgieman then; I smell a Belgieman!”
“Well, no again I fear. You see while you’ve been up here in DA CLOUD ™, political correctness has taken the surface by storm. Now, we call each other ‘person’, so as to not genderize ourselves and do great harm to our self-esteems. So in actuality your poem would need to say ‘Belgiepersons’, not only making the Fum rhyme, which was a stretch in the first place… fum, man… dreadful… but it would change the iambic pentameter of your dining preface.”
“I don’t care about dis rhymey stuff. I am so hungry!”
Jack pulled a huge book from his breeches. “Sorry old chap you have no choice but to care about the rhymey stuff. You see here on page 365 of the Grimm-Goose Compendium it reads ‘And the giant of DA CLOUD ™ shall be free to eat any Englishman that comes within smelling distance so long as before said giant grinds the trespasser’s bones for bread he must recite a Fe Fi poem, following the accepted rules of poetry as stated in the Hoyle’s Book of Poetry Rules. If said giant cannot for any reason recite a poem preface to his dining pleasure he must leave said trespassers alone and search for food elsewhere, like perhaps in the Black and Wizened Wood a few miles to the west of Giant Manor. Breaking this contract will result in the banishment of said giant to the city of London where he shall forever be sickened by the constant smell of Englishmen.”
“Oh Lord” said the giant, “That would be awful!”
And a pact was made twixt Jack and the giant to keep quiet about the little misunderstanding, and Jack presented the giant with a loaf of Jill’s famous Pimento and Olive Oily Feta Schmear bread that he might not go hungry and instead taste a bread that’s not made from ground Englishman bones.
Once Jack and Jill were well out of earshot, and even smellshot, Jill stopped and applauded Jack for his heroicnesses.
“Wherever did you find that Grimm-Goose Compendium my love?”
“I didn’t” said Jack, and he pulled out the book and showed her the cover which read ‘600 Crumbs to Witchville, the untold story of the bird who ate Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumb trail and nearly cost them their lives.’ Everyone knows giants can’t read” he chuckled, “and giants have no idea I’m the best liar in Mother’s Gooseland. Now let’s go find us some golden eggs!”
Jill said nothing and followed along; but she was thinkin. “He’s so dreamy” she thought; “I’m so glad I got him before that goodie two shoes Bo Peep did.” (Of course, Bo was a sheepsbian, so she needn’t have worried about competition from that quarter)
Suddenly they came to a shed, and within the shed was a large gilded pillow, and upon the pillow slept a big fat goose! The pair stepped into the shed and found the wall across from the goose was almost covered in stacked golden eggs! There must have been a Bajillion of them Jill thought, as Bajillion was pretty much the only big number she knew.
But then the goose woke and began to scream! “Help” shouted the goose; “Honkity honk honk! Someone’s here to steal my golden eggs! Please Mister giant, come eat them!”
“Save your breath” Jack said finger waggingly, “Mister giant is on a little excursion! So we’ll be taking this gold and then be all like skedaddling! “
The goose laughed, in its goose-like way. “Man I love that word, I haven’t heard that in a duck’s age. But please, I beg you, don’t take the eggs or Mr. giant will eat me instead of you, and I much prefer it the other way ‘round! Besides, I think you’ll be very disappointed with your treasure once you have it.”
“Disppointed? Are you nuts?” Jack started to move toward the egg wall when the goose rushed him and started to bite him on the ass, like geese will do as you may already know, and Jack was so startled by this action that he leapt forward and crashed right into the stacked eggs.
“Splurgh” went the eggs. “Crackle, crunch, smoosh” said the eggs. And there Jack lay, covered in egg juice and tiny pieces of shell that were now so small that had he been making scrambled eggs and had cracked a few dozen into a bowl and thousands of tiny pieces of shell had landed in the egg juice that looked like they did here he’d never be able to get them out of the concoction so he’d have to start all over with fresh eggs and… well, you get the idea.
“What the heck!” Jill screamed even though she wanted to say hell but the last time she’d done that Mother Goose had scrubbed her mouth out with soap made from Cheshire cat drool so she wasn’t about to make that mistake again.
“Where’s the gold!”
Jack looked up from his frittata in progress. “Yea goose! Where’s the gold!” he watched as the goose nervously shifted on her feet, head cocking left and right, suspicious peering at a small, upright supply cabinet on the other side of the shed. Jack jumped up and ran to the cabinet, flinging the doors open on the fly. Inside was a case of gold spray paint and a dozen white eggs.
“I warned you” said the goose. I said you’d be disappointed. They’re just goose eggs Mister man. Gold painted goose eggs. It’s simple. I was wandering in the meadow when Mister giant grabbed me and started this stupid poem where he rhymed the words tureens and geese! Gods it was dreadful. But the last line was about my bones and bread so I told the creep I could lay golden eggs so he brought me here and, well what was I gonna do? I ran to the nearest Army Navy supply store where they had military epaulette bar paint and I bought a case and ran back here and, well, you can see the result.
Jack thought for a moment as Jill smiled at the goose.
“What a lovely story” she said. “I didn’t think geese were so smart, they’ve always just seemed meaner than junkyard dogs to me.”
“While I do admire your resourcefulness in the face of adversity” Jack began, “I did trade a perfectly good pail for the beans I would need and made this climb and then outwitted a giant all so I could steal your golden eggs which as it turns out aren’t golden at all.”
“Boy” said the goose, “you’re havin a bad day aren’t you?” And then she chuckled in that hissy gooselike way.
“Well, I may change it for the better with a lovely roast goose dinner!” Jack shouted, and he rushed the goose who honked and hissed and flew up a storm, creating an enormous cloud of fluff until finally, she’d vanished completely in a poofy haze!
“Crap!” said Jack. “Double crap! Let’s go home Jill. Maybe we can get the pail back and get some water like the good book says.”
You start Jack” Jill said, “I’ll catch up. I just want to tidy up a bit; you know how I am.”
“Yes dear” said Jack as he rolled his eyes so hard and high that he almost got vertigo and lost consciousness, but recovered just in time. “Don’t be long dear, the giant will likely be coming back soon.” And he set off down the used straw colored path, slowly, shoulders hung, head bowed, marching to a dirge playing in his head.
Meanwhile Jill was snatching up all the tiny feathers the goose had shed during her disappearing act. She’d noted that as the smallest of the feathers had begun to cover her, she felt warmer and warmer, like a witch locked into a preheating oven. “These must be magic feathers” she thought. “Why I’ll make a coat of them and sell it for a bajillion dollars! Jack will be so proud of me!”
And after collecting every single magic feather within reach, she ran after her manliest of men, followed him down the beanstalk and toddled off to her sewing room where she made her coat with her magic feathers which were once up on DA CLOUD ™ and now were DOWN on the ground which made her think “why what a lovely name for a clothing manufacturer!”
She named her company “The Down Coat Warehouse” and sold a billion coats and made a Bajillion dollars and everyone lived happily ever after, except the goose who was eventually caught by the Grimm-Goose Postal Inspector who prosecuted her for “defrauding an intellectually defenseless storybook Big-person (the word giant has come to be seen as derogatory by the giant community; therefore the name change), and for Jack, who, though by maybe marriage was the fiscal beneficiary of Jill’s genius, felt wholly emasculated by her earning more than he, and spent the next few years obsessively carrying water with the pail he’d bought back from Jack the Cow Salesman up all the hills in Mother’s Gooseland until he’d broken his crown so many times he was renamed Humpty Dumpty and was forced to sit on a wall for his own safety (which didn’t work out so well as you probably know) only after having had to allow his maybe a wife a maybe a divorce so she could marry the handsome Tommy Tucker who entertained Jill with his adorable singing voice at his matriarch bride’s whim (and Jill was quite a whimsical girl, what with all her experience tumbling after a certain man). And THEN everybody lived happily ever after.