The Abbreviated Adventures of Mogey & Smush: 2023 Edition - Episode 34

 Mogey and Smush took their jobs as December Defenders very seriously. And that was good, because in the town of Santa Santa, Christmas was always under attack. 

The dastardly Chillbo Toboggans, an ornery gravedigger who believed the winter solstice ought to be a time not of joy and wonder but of treachery and grumpiness, hatched a plan each year to - as he called it - "foil Christmas." Along with his assistants, a pair of energetic porcupine brothers named Pert and Pert Plus, he had done everything from greasing the sidewalks near Santa Santa's downtown Christmas tree to stealing every ham, goose, and plant-based goose substitute in town. 

The only thing that stood between Chillbo and Christmas chaos was a citizens' paramilitary group known as the December Defenders, of which Mogey and Smush were proud members.

One night out on patrol, the pals spotted Pert and Pert Plus skulk-waddling along the trolley tracks, clearly up to some variety of mischief. Mogey motioned for Smush to follow at a distance where they'd be out of earshot (and quillshot). They trailed the porcupines into the center of town, where the hustle and bustle of Christmas revelry made it difficult to track their movements.

"Do you see them?" Mogey grunted, after several close calls.

"I think we lost the spiky miscreants," Smush acknowledged. 

"Ahem," stated a voice behind the pals.

They turned to see Pert and Pert Plus awkwardly holding out a beautifully wrapped box. Each of the brothers kept poking the other with his quills, making it nearly impossible to jointly hold the gift.

"Merry--ow!" said one.

"Yowch! Christmas!" said the other.

"For us?" Smush said. "You know we're members of the December Defenders, right?" He pointed to his official D.D. sweater vest.

"We know--gah! That one hurt!" Pert grimaced.

"But we figured--WOWSERS--you're just doing your job--oof!" Pert Plus groaned.

"And so are--yow! We," Pert continued. "So why let a little friendly rivalry get in the way of--AY-YAY-YAY!--a Christmas present?"

"Gosh, thanks!" said Mogey, accepting the gift. The porcupine brothers, clearly relieved to no longer be standing so close to one another, trundled off. 

"What is it? What is it?" Smush inquired, helping Mogey tear away the wrapping paper. 

When the gift finally appeared, the pals stared at it in disbelief for several moments.

"NOOOOOO!" Mogey cried, holding up a heavy cuboid the color of swamp mud. "I can't believe we fell for it!"

"Fruitcake!" Smush added. "They gave us fruitcake. The ultimate double cross!"

The Abbreviated Adventures of Mogey & Smush: 2023 Edition - Episode 33

 Twas the final round of the annual Ornament Tournament in the village of Pullet Cutlet Hamlet. A mere quartet of competitors remained, and for the first time ever, both Mogey and Smush had reached the Festive Four. 

"Competitors," announced Ferd Bulbous, the harsh but fair Head Judge who was known to all as "the Mule of Yule." "Congratulations on reaching the Festive Four. You all know the rules: One ornament each."

"Yes, Mule!" shouted the foursome of contestants.

"A standard conifer branch must be able to bear the ornament's weight," Bulbous continued.

"Yes, Mule!"

"And nothing flammable."

"Yes, Mule!"

"Yes, M-- wait, what?" Mogey stammered.

"These are the rules of the Ornament Tournament. Let the Festive Four commence! We shall begin with you, young Smush."

Confidently Smush stepped before the judging panel, set down a skunk-sized parcel covered in a red cloth, and whipped the cloth away with a dramatic flourish. The crowd gasped.

"Tell us about what you have here," suggested Bananas O'Toole, the second judge at the table. 

"Was anyone else expecting a skunk under that cloth?" whispered the Mule of Yule.

"My newest ornament is a photorealistic sculpture of Champ Cluckens," Smush explained. "The first chicken to discover Pullet Cutlet Hamlet and the main course of our beloved village's earliest Christmas dinner."

"Am I mistaken, or is the ornament glowing from within?" croaked the third judge, a soft-spoken goblin who went by the moniker of Clam. 

"You are indeed correct, your molluskness," Smush replied. "I used a warm orange light to give Champ the reverence - and plate presentation - he deserves."

"Thank you, Smush," the Mule of Yule said. "Well done. Let us continue with the next contestant. Mogey?"

"Huh?" blurted Mogey. He'd been hunched over his ornament with his back to the judges' table. "Oh - right."

He strode forward, clutching in his hand what looked like a tiny metal rubbish bin on a string. Soot smudged his face and hands, and upon the floor where he'd been standing moments earlier, a pile of charcoal briquettes was visible.

"What have we here?" queried Clam. "And what smells like kerosene?"

"Well," Mogey said, "I'll tell you what it's not. It's NOT a working miniature trash can fire upon which one could roast delicious Christmas marshmallows."

"Of course not!" guffawed the Mule of Yule. "That would violate the rules of the Ornament Tournament. Not to mention the profound foolishness of hanging a trash can fire in a brittle fraser fir. Say, what's that behind your back?"

"Nothing!" said Mogey, chucking a box of matches into the crowd less subtly than a lego policeman bending down to tie his shoes. 

The Abbreviated Adventures of Mogey & Smush: 2023 Edition - Episode 32

 As Mogey eased himself into the front seat of the trolley with an enormous groan, Smush cast him a sidelong glance. 

"What is it, Moge-man?" he asked over the clickety-clack of the trolley's wheels.

"Oooooooh it's the old noggin," Mogey replied. "It feels like a cartoon weasel is popping corn behind my eyeballs."

"Again?" queried Smush. "That's the third time you've complained of throbbing noggin this week. We've got to get you to a doctor."

"Excuse me," interjected a young man with ears the size of funnel cakes who wore a dayglo pink tracksuit, "I couldn't help but overhear."

"Bet you couldn't," mumbled Mogey, eyeing the gentleman's ears as he continued to clutch his aching head.

"Seems you two are looking for medical attention? Perhaps I can help. The name's Homer O'Pathy."

"Homer?" asked Smush skeptically. 

"Aye, but my friends all call me Homie. For a malady such as this, might I suggest--"

"Let me guess, Homie O'Pathy," Smush interrupted, "raw onions in the socks? Bacon bits under the full moon? Where'd you get your so-called medical degree from, anyway, Pete Bog's Bayou Institute of Folk Remedies, brought to you by Pete Bog Heating and Plumbing?"

"Imperial College," Homie replied. "Go Commodores! And I was going to suggest your friend start with two aspirin..."

"Ah, oh, erm," Smush stuttered, his face bright red. 

"I think what my friend is trying to say, Dr. O'Pathy," Mogey added, "is that we apologize. Please do go on with your recommendation."

"...washed down with a pint of strong irish whiskey that has been stored in the stall of a wistful donkey for no less than a fortnight and saged by a Grade 2 warlock."