Fellow townspeople, I appreciate you gathering to hear my concerns and appeal. I know that taking time away during mulberry season is no small thing—we Jingleheimer-Schmidts understand the importance of a good harvest. However, I felt compelled to address the matter of the other John Jacob and his recently composed song before any further damage is done to my good name.
Up until recently, the fact that our town boasted two John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidts was a quirky coincidence—perhaps more amusing for some than others, but even I could see the lighter side. Yet, John Jacob’s new tune has swept through our town like wildfire—echoing in schoolyards, in the general store, even amidst the mulberry groves. And I understand its appeal: it is undeniably catchy (especially that “da-da-da-da-da-da-da” refrain). However, the song has fostered serious misconceptions about the bond between him and myself, suggesting a camaraderie that simply does not exist. Therefore, I must clarify the truth.
Firstly, the lyric “His name is my name, too” is not entirely accurate. My family’s name is spelled Jingleheimer-Schmidt, complete with a hyphen, while his omits it, rendering it Jingleheimer Schmidt. This hyphen may appear insignificant, but to those versed in Germanic history, it signifies a profound distinction. My lineage traces back to around the year 500 when the Jingleheimers of the Bavarii tribe united with the Schmidts of the Frisii, forging one of the most influential families under Clovis and beyond. The Jingleheimer Schmidts, on the other hand, were originally the Kinderschmidts, a fading Chatti clan who adopted our name in 776 to deceptively gain favor with Pepin the Short—conveniently overlooking the hyphen and our shared history. Thus, you see, a certain degree of duplicity runs in their bloodline.
The most significant issue, however, stems from the line, “whenever we go out.” John enjoys depicting us as close companions, frequently embarking on outings together, which is patently false. Yes, we occasionally find ourselves in the briar patch simultaneously, but only to retrieve stray cows (set loose by an individual I shall refrain from naming). Beyond that, our paths may coincidentally cross in town when procuring supplies, though even this I am beginning to question—I suspect he observes my departure from his hovel and deliberately follows, as he is invariably trailing five paces behind me on my strolls. And later, at the tavern, guess who is consistently five pence short for mead and seeks to borrow from his “brother” John Jacob?
John has persistently attempted to force this fabricated friendship, even proposing we establish a four-initials club, given that most possess only three. I have repeatedly stated my disinterest in joining any club with a man who sports holes in his trousers, ignites hillside fires, and routinely dozes off during the fourth hour of Sunday service. Yet, upon each encounter, he flashes me our supposed “sign”—the index finger and thumb forming a “J,” waved thrice, before joining them with the other index and thumb to create an “S.” Speaking of which, should you come across “JJJS” etched into walls or branded onto livestock, know that this was not my doing. (Note again the crucial absence of a hyphen between the final “J” and the “S.”)
This is not solely John’s fault; you townspeople also bear some responsibility. “The people always shout, ‘There goes John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidt!’” Here, he speaks truthfully—but what is all the commotion about? Two individuals sharing a name is hardly a spectacle.
And why can you not proclaim, “There go both John Jacob Jingleheimer-Schmidts”? Or better yet, “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 who rescues the cows!”
At the very least, I implore you to prevent this charade from escalating. As you are aware, John is now endeavoring to capitalize on the 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 resulted in financial losses for me, and I can endure no more.
Therefore, I beseech you, my fellow neighbors, to please disregard all verses of John’s jaunty yet devastating song. And strive 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’s reputation.
And now, we should probably ascertain what John is up to, as the sheep are bleating and the hillside is once again ablaze. ♦
