Fellow townspeople, I appreciate you gathering to hear my concerns and appeal. I understand it’s a busy time, especially during mulberry season – we Jingleheimer-Schmidts also take our mulberries with utmost seriousness. However, I must seize this moment, while the other John Jacob is tending to the sheep, to address the situation concerning him and his newly composed song, before any further damage is inflicted upon my reputation.
Until recently, the existence of two John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidts in our town was a lighthearted coincidence – perhaps more amusing for some than for myself, yet even I could find humor in it. However, John Jacob’s recent tune has swept through our town like wildfire – echoing in schoolyards, the general store, and even amidst the mulberry groves. And I grasp its appeal: it’s undeniably catchy (particularly that “da-da-da-da-da-da-da” part). Nevertheless, the truth is, this song has fostered serious misconceptions about the relationship between him and me, suggesting a bond far stronger than reality dictates. Therefore, I must set the record straight regarding this John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt situation.
Firstly, the lyric “His name is my name, too” is not entirely accurate. My family spells our surname Jingleheimer-Schmidt, complete with a hyphen, whereas his family uses Jingleheimer Schmidt, without it. This hyphen might appear insignificant, but for those versed in Germanic history, it signifies a considerable distinction. Our lineage traces back to approximately 500 AD when the Jingleheimers of the Bavarii tribe united with the Schmidts of the Frisii, establishing one of the most influential families under Clovis and in subsequent eras. In contrast, the Jingleheimer Schmidts (hyphen-less) were originally the Kinderschmidts, a fading Chatti clan who adopted our name around 776 AD to deceive Pepin the Short and gain his favor – conveniently omitting the hyphen, as they were ignorant of our history. Thus, you see, a streak of deception runs through their very bloodline.
The most significant issue, however, arises from the phrase “whenever we go out.” John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt enjoys portraying us as close companions, frequently embarking on outings together. This is simply untrue. Yes, we occasionally find ourselves in the briar patch simultaneously, but solely for the purpose of rescuing errant cows (released by an individual I shall refrain from naming). Beyond these bovine emergencies, we might, on rare occasions, coincidentally venture into town for supplies at the same time. Though, even this I am beginning to doubt – I suspect he spies me leaving my dwelling and deliberately follows, as he is often trailing just five paces behind when I commence my stroll. And later, at the tavern, guess who is perpetually five pence short for mead and seeks to borrow from his “brother” John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt?
This other John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt has persistently attempted to force this supposed friendship, even suggesting we establish a “four-initials club,” given that most individuals possess only three. I have repeatedly explained my lack of desire to join any club with a man who sports holes in his trousers, ignites fires on the hillside, and habitually dozes off during the fourth hour of Sunday service. Yet, whenever our paths cross, he flashes me “our sign” – index finger and thumb forming a “J,” waved thrice, before joining with the other index and thumb to create an “S.” Speaking of which, should you encounter “JJJS” etched into walls or branded onto livestock, know that this was not my doing. (Note once more the crucial absence of a hyphen between the final “J” and the “S.”)
This situation is not solely John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt’s fault; you, the townspeople, also bear some responsibility. “The people always shout, ‘There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt!’” In this, he speaks truthfully – but what is the cause of all this shouting? Two individuals sharing similar names is hardly a spectacle.
Why cannot you simply say, “There go both John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidts”? Or even more accurately, “There goes the John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt who releases cows into the briar, splattered paint across the Town Hall steps, and incinerated the old mulberry field! And also the John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt who rescues the aforementioned cows!”
At the very least, I implore you to prevent this confusion from escalating. As you are likely aware, John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt is now attempting to capitalize on his song’s popularity with a new verse:
John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt,
His name is my name, too.
So if one should buy mead,
There really is no need,
To check which John the bar tab applies to.
This has already incurred financial losses for me, and I can endure no more.
Therefore, I beseech you, my fellow neighbors, please, consign all verses of John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt’s jaunty yet devastating song to oblivion. And endeavor to perceive us as distinct individuals. We manage this with the Marys – acknowledging that one is quite contrary and the other possesses a little lamb. I request that you extend the same courtesy to me, for the sake of my family name, Jingleheimer-Schmidt.
And now, perhaps we should ascertain what John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt is currently engaged in, for the sheep are bleating and the hillside appears to be ablaze once more. ♦
