Tales from Gnomeville
by Ken Carpenter
I always loved Gnomes, and it would be very cool if they really existed. Who knows, maybe they do. What I don’t love about them is that I resemble one, both in stature and appearance. Maybe attitude too, but not having conversed with one I’m not sure about that.
The following story is from 2002, in the middle of my last bachelor days. I am not sure how that affected my writing, though the story does touch upon bare boobs and the sexual proclivity of Gnomes. Oh yeah, I forgot, I was living the life of a monk during that period. Anybody want to buy the Brooklyn Bridge?
An ordinary human must suffer many indignities throughout their lifetime, and many times the indignity of the indignity is that their own flesh and blood is the cause of it. In my case, the sour fruit of my loins, my youngest son, has decided his poor old Pappy is deserving of a nickname that is based primarily on physical stature. I am now known as the Gnome, even in the sanctity of my own home!
Deciding not to take this latest insult lying down, I dug out my Gnome encyclopedia and did a little research. I am not making this up, I have a 1” x 9” x 12” hardcover book that tells everything you ever, or never, wanted to know about Gnomes. It was a present from my sister 20 years ago, and she no doubt thought it hilarious that the book includes a full color picture of bare Gnome bosoms. More on that later.
The first discrepancy I discovered concerning my new moniker is that Gnomes are only six inches tall, so even my stubby little legs are taller than they are. Maybe only by an inch or two, but taller nonetheless.
Gnomes are very hairy little dudes, and I admit a few people to whom insults are the candy of life have called me a hairy ape. But Gnomes, even though they can live for 500 years, never go bald. So (Hah!) that slowly spreading bald spot on my dome is yet another clue that if I have any Gnome blood in me at all, it is tainted. The fact that I have a beard, as all Gnomes do, is circumstantial evidence at best.
Gnomes are reputed to be master craftsmen who can create wonderful and useful objects from the most rudimentary of materials. Building projects under my power become monuments to ineptitude where the only square thing around is the builder.
The favorite headgear of a Gnome is a red, peaked, dunce-style hat. I do not like dunce hats, even when I am sitting in the corner. I do, however, have a green elf hat that pops up around Christmas, but I don’t think it counts.
Legend has it that Gnomes are the veterinarians of the forest, mending and helping animals of all kinds. They are also vegetarians, so they help out in that way too. I eat meat, and while I may have a serviceable bedside manner, folks or creatures in need of medical attention would do well to look past my Tylenol wielding mitts.
Gnomes remain sexually active for 400 years, or at least they have spread the rumor they do. While I would enjoy such a reputation, the world’s best PR guy would be unlikely to convince anyone of that.
Now I have to digress for a minute, for it is time to get back to the bosoms. The little Gnome Mama in the picture has to be named Dolly, for of her ten ounces of weight, four must be bosom. The footnote below the drawing says that Gnome ladies have no need for bras because gravity has little effect on such small beings. Keeping that in mind, I would advise humans with sagging parts to make extensive use of the line “ It’s that pesky gravity” when they feel an explanation is necessary.
I now feel I can rest my case. If my gigantic son, all of three inches taller than me, insists on continuing to call me a Gnome, I can rest easy knowing he has based his conclusion on misinformation. Except for one thing. Gnomes have long memories and they always get their revenge.