More than my enthusiasm for slapping people’s thighs at the local pool, I have always been an avid fan of yodeling. Everyone near and far knows when I win a game of guess who, successfully find waldo, or take my weekly dookie by the forceful diaphragm projected notes passing gracefully through my ever relaxed lips.
I realized my talent for these melodies of truth and beauty (which I generally shorten to “Bruthe”) when I was 8 and my mom accidentaly set fire to my belly button lint collection, which was nested deep within my belly button. As I used my already developed vocal chords to direct her attention to the raging torrent of flames happening on my front middle, I naturally fell into arpeggios climaxing in falsetto glory.
My first yodel.
Years went by before I learned how to captivate others with my yodeling without having to set fire to myself, but the patience of my slowly building fanbase was greatly rewarded with the release of my first cassette album “Hey! I’m yodeling.” The album, though well received, was dwarfed by my second, third, and fourth releases: “Stop yappin while I’m clappin,” “You can’t spell Doyle without Yodel,” and “The Soul’s Whisper,” where I actually harmonized with a chainsaw on one of the songs.
Though I don’t write much anymore, I still yodel my every emotion from my porch for the benefit of friends, well-wishers, and Bert’s hotdog stand customers, who line up outside his stand to hear me across the street. Needless to say, I am a respected bucket of talent.
So why did it annoy you, Mindy, when I joined in the celebration of your father’s life with a special tune I wrote on the spot called “Yoda-yay-a-yoda-lay-a-yoda-lay”? If you ask me, the funeral was a hit.
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