Love Letter to Roald Dahl (or: Fireside Stories with Karl)

This is a story I somtimes tell my Nieces, when we are all gathered around the fireplace in Vermont.

Once upon a time (in a land far, far away), there lived a group of people called the "Quiggles". The Quiggles would change what they wore every 6 months, and some of them even changed what their pets wore- one Quiggle changed their zebra's stripes every 6 months so by the end of 5 years, the zebra looked like a crossword puzzle with thinly fading lines from last season and "bold new lines" (I'm quoting a newspaper here) from this season. The Quiggles were very protective of their kingdom, and were incredibly hostile to outsiders ("Squiggles") who dared to enter their lands. The Quiggles would say "look! There goes a Squiggle! Look at how he's wearing a scarf from last season! Look at how that jacket seems like it came from a thrift store!" and they'd go "haw haw haw" among themselves, bathing in their own superiority. Because after all, they were Quiggles, were they not? Their culture was so advanced as to have a mechanism where the clothes change every 6 months- they called these "shows", and several cities had a whole week of these shows. Once the shows had been seen, the Quiggles would immediately toss all of last season's clothes into a trashbin and walk naked to the nearest boutique. The Quiggles had gods, like all cultures- the gods would bestow clothes upon the Quiggles every 6 months, as a reward for the great sacrifices the Quiggles made- fasting for long periods of time to fit into artifacts our archaeologists call "dresses", writing vast, fawning pieces about the gods, putting pictures of the god's creations in what they called "magazines"- a kind of altar to the gods. If you go into a museum you'll find some of these "magazines", where you can see the demi-gods- something the Quiggles called "models", posed in positions which presumably mean something; perhaps some sort of hieroglyphics. A "magazine" called "Vogue" had a particular fascination with "models" jumping. We don't know what the jumping means yet. Like the Egyptians, the Quiggles not only wrote in hieroglyphics, but had a Cleopatra like-figure, ruling over them all. Her name can roughly be translated to "Ana", or "Anna".

Anyway, one day in Quiggle Land, the Quiggles found a "magazine" in which there was a non-Quiggle on the cover.
"That....that is a Squiggle" said one unimpressed onlooker, who resumed combing his hair once uttering his only-statement-for-the-day.
"How could a Squiggle be on the cover of one of our precious magazines?" said another bitter Quiggle, her thighs looking like black sausages entrapped in the leggings which was the Quiggle fashion at the time.
"And look at her! She's only....why, she's only a child Squiggle."
"Outrageous!" cried a vast man in a suit which made him look like an umbrella.
"How dare she?! This magazine is an adult magazine" said another onlooker, who wore a bib because it was fashionable.
"Oh, I don't know- I just don't know. This magazine used to be adult and now it has a Squiggle on it! Not only a Squiggle, but a child Squiggle!"
-And on they went, telling anyone who could bear to listen to them that their magazine was a thoroughly adult magazine.
"What, is it like- Playboy or something?" said Woody Horyn, who stumbled onto the scene after raiding the muffin bakery.
"NO!" the entire crowd of Quiggles roared- "it is a adult magazine with adult themes like uh..."
"Well?" said Woody Horyn. The crowd turned away rather sheepishly.
"It says here", a lone voice piped up from the crowd", that this Squiggle-child has a "blog."
Now, a blog is rather similar to a treehouse if none of you know. You can find them in all good diary's.
"Ludicrous! Her Squiggle-parents must write this for her!"
"Ridiculous!"
"Squiggle-children" said a particular loathsome voice in a particularly loathsome manner. "Squiggle-children are foul and filthy!"
"They are! They are!" chorused the Quiggle-crowd, at which point I noticed the voice was coming from a woman dressed in gloves.
"Squiggle-chidren are smalling of dogs' drrrroopppings!"
"Eww!" cried the crowd, "Ewww! Ewww! Eww!"
"Ve must have only QUIGGLES on the cover of magazines!" shouted the lady in gloves.
"Only Quiggles! Only Quiggles!" cheered the crowd.
"None of zis- zis children"
"No children! No children" echoed the crowd, and I imagine it must've felt a bit like a children's television show at this point.
"Magazines are ze business of adddults! Zis....zis business is far too important to leave to ze children!"
"Magazines matter! Magazines matter!" at which point I imagine the on-looker would think they'd've stumbled upon a Conde Nast meeting.
"I do not care if vis child...vis SQUIGGLE child is creative! Fashion is very important! It is elitist! Telling you to wear umbrellas on your head is an Important Thing! What vill happen if we let children into it?"
"They will ruin it!" the crowd roared.
"Yes! They vill ruin it and burn it and stink the place out!"
"Ruin-it, burn-it, stink-the-place-out" chanted the crowd.
"You know, this Squiggle-child is actually more interesting than what most of you write", murmured Woody Horyn.
"BUT IS SHE AN ADULT?" the lady in gloves spat, projecting spit which would later land on Mars prompting David Bowie to write his hit song"Is There Life on Mars?"
"Does it matter that if she's an adult or not?"
"Of course it does!" said the woman we saw earlier, who was in the leggings which were far too tight for her- and she still is.
"Why?" questioned Woody Horyn.
"Because...because...because....she's a nobody! She's not a Quiggle! She hasn't done a pole-dance on MTV like that great role model, Miley Cyrus!"
"Well, you know..." said Woody Horyn, and he began to sing: