|
(Introduction) Looking out of the window
aboard my own train of thought, I suddenly realized I was on the wrong
track.
"Good Godfrey!" I exclaimed, "Stop this train!"
How could this happen? How could I repeat this tragic mistake,
especially after being in the same situation previous to this one?
I kicked open the door to jump ship, landing head first on a large pile
of rocks; before I even got the chance to jump! I was then approached by
a small Merry Band of Calypso Singers who were caroling the lyrics of
"Amazing Grace", to the tune of "Gilligan's Island".
"Have you any water?" I begged in thirst for an answer. But they went
about their merry way, not noticing my bleeding pride, or for that
matter -- my scraped elbows.
Staggering to my feet, I looked in the distance noticing nothing at all.
But, after a lengthy observation, I realized I was mistaken, and moved
on.
Tired, thirsty, embarrassed, and in my mid-thirties; I came across a
large maple tree. I looked closer and read the carved inscription:
YOU'RE PROBABLY HERE.
What could this mean? How did they know? I became very paranoid while
watching my step; then, suspicious of my own two feet, I let my fingers
do the walking.
"Pardon me?" a voice said.
"Er... Ah... Yes?" I answered.
"Could you tell me the way to the Grand Entrance to the Gate of the City
of the Intellectually Inept?"
"Yes, that's in the first episode of the first story," I told him.
A bit of a strange stranger he was. I couldn't help but notice his golf
ball eyes, potato nose, and watermelon smile, even from my own
disadvantaged perspective (what ever that means?). But, I gave him a map
to Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro, and kicked him in the
direction he should go.
Speaking of food, I realized I had a rather deep valley in my stomach.
"I'm hungry!" I yelled.
"And who isn't?!" Echoed the mountains.
Then a large loaf of manna fell on my head; two days later, I came to...
and ate it.....
The evening and the morning were the third day, and what a wonderful day
it was to be. For on that day, I, Clyde P. Hipwing, was to learn the
answer to the question not yet asked by the Gentleman in the Back Row,
with the Gray Flannel Suit and Funny Looking Nose.
"Why have you not asked the question yet?" I asked.
"Do what?"
I asked again: "I asked, why have you not asked the QUESTION that you
were to ask?"
"You sure are inquisitive for a fellow your age," he sarcastically
insulted.
This offended me greatly, so I grabbed the first available QUESTION MARK
and struck him right between his optic receivers; and left him for dead.
Running from the scene, I tangled my feet in some railroad tracks as I
heard the approaching clickity clacks, and I realized the dilemma I was
in....... "How can it be that at the beginning of this great journey I
am to partake, I am to be run over by my own abandoned Train of
Thought?" I thought.
So I changed the subject -- and went home.
----------------------------------
COMING IN FROM OUT OF A BRAINSTORM
(EPISODE 1)
It was an ordinary Oklahoma Monday morning during the early fall of
1995, in the small south-central town of Mountain Oyster; though I was
in a bit of a bad mood after cutting off my nose while shaving. Ah! But
what a beautiful day it was; the leaves were falling, the trees were
singing; and I was enjoying an action packed game of Ping-Pong with my
cat.
"Jolly good for me, Clyde!" she purred enthusiastically, "A perfect 21,
how about another?"
Just then the phone rang; and I could tell by the way it was ringing
that it was not an ordinary phone call. So I didn't answer, instead, I
grabbed my coat and went out for a walk. I came to terms with a fact I
couldn't escape-- that I was being followed by a 6 foot, 8 inch, 250
pound, phone booth (that not only was ringing, but ringing loudly). I
cut sharp to the right, down a dark alley-- but it was only a dead end.
There was no use. I had no choice.
"Okay... okay... I'll answer!" I screamed, "Just stop following me!"
But of all things, it stopped ringing before I could get to it. The very
nerve! Angry, I began kicking the blasted phone booth, just as its door
opened and swallowed me whole. "Am I going to suffocate and die?...
Who's going to feed my cat?" I thought to myself. I panicked....
WE INTERRUPT THIS STORY TO BRING YOU THIS NEWS BULLETIN.... SAM'S DELI,
ON THE CORNER OF "I" AND "AM," WAS ROBBED THIS MORNING. MILLIONS OF
DOLLARS WORTH OF GOODS WERE REPORTED STOLEN, BUT ACCORDING TO SAM, IT
WAS NOTHING MORE THAN JUST A BUNCH OF BALONEY.
POLICE ARE SANDWICHING THE AREA, AND WHEN ASKED IF THEY WERE GOING TO
SEARCH FOR THE SUSPECT AROUND THE CLOCK, POTHOLE COUNTY SHERIFF MARSHALL
DUMAS, WAS QUOTED AS SAYING: "WELL, WE'VE SEARCHED THE ENTIRE PREMISES,
SO I DOUBT HE'S HIDING ANYWHERE AROUND THE CLOCK."
THE MAYOR IS TO CALL A PRESS CONFERENCE AS SOON AS HE CAN GET HIS
CLOTHES ON...
IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ABOUT ANYONE WHO, IN THE LAST FEW WEEKS, HAS
DEMONSTRATED AN INSATIABLE APPETITE, YOU ARE TO CALL POLICE SERGEANT
HAROLD THIGHMASTER, AT 1-999-GLUTTON, IMMEDIATELY!
OPERATORS ARE STANDING BY!...THE FIRST 3 SECONDS ARE FREE! COME ON...BE
THE FIRST ONE TO CALL!!! ......NOW BACK TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED
PARAGRAPH, ALREADY IN PROGRESS......
(Meanwhile) .......I got away from that blasted phone booth right before
I was about to die! What an impossible situation!...What a cat!... I was
never going to make her sleep outside again.
Not noticing where I was going, because of all the excitement; I bumped
into the town odd-ball. Quite an outlandish, but lovable old man; he was
still wearing the same suit he put on for his wife's funeral, three
years ago.
"Good morning, Homer." I bid him.
As predictable, he just tipped his hat and muttered, "Dawn Comes with
Rosy fingers."
That was all he would ever say. Nobody knew why... but he was treated
lovingly as a novelty in our mundane existence, there in Mountain
Oyster. Someone who professed to have witnessed him uttering anything at
all, recalled he was convinced he was on a particular sort of odyssey,
that supposedly lead to nowhere. I always thought that was just called
'life.' Well, at least he appeared sanguine in his mythical world.
Calculating the morning sun in concordance to the billboard with the
half-naked woman on it, I realized it was the 11th hour, and I hadn't
eaten a full meal since my last big train ride. I looked west, and spied
a Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro, and salivated
uncontrollably.
Once inside, I accosted the counter and noticed the strange stranger I
had encountered a couple of days ago in the introduction.
"Been waiting for you all morning," the strange stranger in an audible
whisper waved me over to his booth in one of the dark 90 degree angles
of the restaurant. "Is this the Grand Entrance to the Gate of the City
of the Intellectually Inept, or should I look elsewhere?"
"Yes, you're here, but what is the secret verse?" I asked, amusing
myself by toying with his obviously displaced reasoning.
Without being forewarned, a waitress who expressed no remorse in regard
to interrupting our conversation, butted in, "Whad'll it be?"
"Oh, uh, I'll take the Catcher on the Rye, hold the Tartar, please?" the
strange stranger drooled, then looked back at me with a double-take when
I regained his attention with my former question about the secret verse.
He slumped in his booth, wiped his sweaty brow, then sat up straight
again; and cleared his throat while he reached in his coat pocket for a
pitch pipe. After rehearsing a series of ear bending, obnoxious and
embarrassing renditions of "Mommy made me mash my M&Ms" musical scales,
he began: "Where seldom is heard-- a discouraging word.... for what can
a buffalo say?"
The entire crowd in the bistro busted out in ovation, as the boisterous
waitress barked, "Cute... now wh(Introduction) Looking out of the
window aboard my own train of thought, I suddenly realized I was on the
wrong track.
"Good Godfrey!" I exclaimed, "Stop this train!"
How could this happen? How could I repeat this tragic mistake,
especially after being in the same situation previous to this one?
I kicked open the door to jump ship, landing head first on a large pile
of rocks; before I even got the chance to jump! I was then approached by
a small Merry Band of Calypso Singers who were caroling the lyrics of
"Amazing Grace", to the tune of "Gilligan's Island".
"Have you any water?" I begged in thirst for an answer. But they went
about their merry way, not noticing my bleeding pride, or for that
matter -- my scraped elbows.
Staggering to my feet, I looked in the distance noticing nothing at all.
But, after a lengthy observation, I realized I was mistaken, and moved
on.
Tired, thirsty, embarrassed, and in my mid-thirties; I came across a
large maple tree. I looked closer and read the carved inscription:
YOU'RE PROBABLY HERE.
What could this mean? How did they know? I became very paranoid while
watching my step; then, suspicious of my own two feet, I let my fingers
do the walking.
"Pardon me?" a voice said.
"Er... Ah... Yes?" I answered.
"Could you tell me the way to the Grand Entrance to the Gate of the City
of the Intellectually Inept?"
"Yes, that's in the first episode of the first story," I told him.
A bit of a strange stranger he was. I couldn't help but notice his golf
ball eyes, potato nose, and watermelon smile, even from my own
disadvantaged perspective (what ever that means?). But, I gave him a map
to Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro, and kicked him in the
direction he should go.
Speaking of food, I realized I had a rather deep valley in my stomach.
"I'm hungry!" I yelled.
"And who isn't?!" Echoed the mountains.
Then a large loaf of manna fell on my head; two days later, I came to...
and ate it.....
The evening and the morning were the third day, and what a wonderful day
it was to be. For on that day, I, Clyde P. Hipwing, was to learn the
answer to the question not yet asked by the Gentleman in the Back Row,
with the Gray Flannel Suit and Funny Looking Nose.
"Why have you not asked the question yet?" I asked.
"Do what?"
I asked again: "I asked, why have you not asked the QUESTION that you
were to ask?"
"You sure are inquisitive for a fellow your age," he sarcastically
insulted.
This offended me greatly, so I grabbed the first available QUESTION MARK
and struck him right between his optic receivers; and left him for dead.
Running from the scene, I tangled my feet in some railroad tracks as I
heard the approaching clickity clacks, and I realized the dilemma I was
in....... "How can it be that at the beginning of this great journey I
am to partake, I am to be run over by my own abandoned Train of
Thought?" I thought.
So I changed the subject -- and went home.
----------------------------------
COMING IN FROM OUT OF A BRAINSTORM
(EPISODE 1)
It was an ordinary Oklahoma Monday morning during the early fall of
1995, in the small south-central town of Mountain Oyster; though I was
in a bit of a bad mood after cutting off my nose while shaving. Ah! But
what a beautiful day it was; the leaves were falling, the trees were
singing; and I was enjoying an action packed game of Ping-Pong with my
cat.
"Jolly good for me, Clyde!" she purred enthusiastically, "A perfect 21,
how about another?"
Just then the phone rang; and I could tell by the way it was ringing
that it was not an ordinary phone call. So I didn't answer, instead, I
grabbed my coat and went out for a walk. I came to terms with a fact I
couldn't escape-- that I was being followed by a 6 foot, 8 inch, 250
pound, phone booth (that not only was ringing, but ringing loudly). I
cut sharp to the right, down a dark alley-- but it was only a dead end.
There was no use. I had no choice.
"Okay... okay... I'll answer!" I screamed, "Just stop following me!"
But of all things, it stopped ringing before I could get to it. The very
nerve! Angry, I began kicking the blasted phone booth, just as its door
opened and swallowed me whole. "Am I going to suffocate and die?...
Who's going to feed my cat?" I thought to myself. I panicked....
WE INTERRUPT THIS STORY TO BRING YOU THIS NEWS BULLETIN.... SAM'S DELI,
ON THE CORNER OF "I" AND "AM," WAS ROBBED THIS MORNING. MILLIONS OF
DOLLARS WORTH OF GOODS WERE REPORTED STOLEN, BUT ACCORDING TO SAM, IT
WAS NOTHING MORE THAN JUST A BUNCH OF BALONEY.
POLICE ARE SANDWICHING THE AREA, AND WHEN ASKED IF THEY WERE GOING TO
SEARCH FOR THE SUSPECT AROUND THE CLOCK, POTHOLE COUNTY SHERIFF MARSHALL
DUMAS, WAS QUOTED AS SAYING: "WELL, WE'VE SEARCHED THE ENTIRE PREMISES,
SO I DOUBT HE'S HIDING ANYWHERE AROUND THE CLOCK."
THE MAYOR IS TO CALL A PRESS CONFERENCE AS SOON AS HE CAN GET HIS
CLOTHES ON...
IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ABOUT ANYONE WHO, IN THE LAST FEW WEEKS, HAS
DEMONSTRATED AN INSATIABLE APPETITE, YOU ARE TO CALL POLICE SERGEANT
HAROLD THIGHMASTER, AT 1-999-GLUTTON, IMMEDIATELY!
OPERATORS ARE STANDING BY!...THE FIRST 3 SECONDS ARE FREE! COME ON...BE
THE FIRST ONE TO CALL!!! ......NOW BACK TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED
PARAGRAPH, ALREADY IN PROGRESS......
(Meanwhile) .......I got away from that blasted phone booth right before
I was about to die! What an impossible situation!...What a cat!... I was
never going to make her sleep outside again.
Not noticing where I was going, because of all the excitement; I bumped
into the town odd-ball. Quite an outlandish, but lovable old man; he was
still wearing the same suit he put on for his wife's funeral, three
years ago.
"Good morning, Homer." I bid him.
As predictable, he just tipped his hat and muttered, "Dawn Comes with
Rosy fingers."
That was all he would ever say. Nobody knew why... but he was treated
lovingly as a novelty in our mundane existence, there in Mountain
Oyster. Someone who professed to have witnessed him uttering anything at
all, recalled he was convinced he was on a particular sort of odyssey,
that supposedly lead to nowhere. I always thought that was just called
'life.' Well, at least he appeared sanguine in his mythical world.
Calculating the morning sun in concordance to the billboard with the
half-naked woman on it, I realized it was the 11th hour, and I hadn't
eaten a full meal since my last big train ride. I looked west, and spied
a Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro, and salivated
uncontrollably.
Once inside, I accosted the counter and noticed the strange stranger I
had encountered a couple of days ago in the introduction.
"Been waiting for you all morning," the strange stranger in an audible
whisper waved me over to his booth in one of the dark 90 degree angles
of the restaurant. "Is this the Grand Entrance to the Gate of the City
of the Intellectually Inept, or should I look elsewhere?"
"Yes, you're here, but what is the secret verse?" I asked, amusing
myself by toying with his obviously displaced reasoning.
Without being forewarned, a waitress who expressed no remorse in regard
to interupting our conversation, butted in, "Whad'll it be?"
"Oh, uh, I'll take the Catcher on the Rye, hold the Tartar, please?" the
strange stranger drooled, then looked back at me with a double-take when
I regained his attention with my former question about the secret verse.
He slumped in his booth, wiped his sweaty brow, then sat up straight
again; and cleared his throat while he reached in his coat pocket for a
pitch pipe. After rehearsing a series of ear bending, obnoxious and
embarrassing renditions of "Mommy made me mash my M&Ms" musical scales,
he began: "Where seldom is heard-- a discouraging word.... for what can
a buffalo say?"
The entire crowd in the bistro busted out in ovation, as the boisterous
waitress barked, "Cute... now whad'll YOU have?"
I realized we couldn't conduct business there, so I ordered a Baby Barf
Burger and Bunion Rings to go. "Okay, you're in." I said, as we split
from the joint.
As we were scurrying away from autograph seekers, a metallic silver,
early model Mercedes, rounded the drive-through on two wheels, then
screeched to a halt, landing back on all fours. In my original glance, I
failed to witness anyone inside, as the windows were tinted beyond legal
standards. But gradually the door creaked open, though all I could see
was a cowlick and the crown of what I thought was a juvenile's head.
Miniature fingers gradually wrapped around the exterior of the driver's
door and abruptly hurled it shut.
"Your cat, or your life?" a one-eyed midget, with a hideous limp, and an
equally silly pawn shop discount special aimed just below my knee-caps,
imposed as a difficult choice... His finger trembled disturbingly on the
trigger.
"NO.. Not my cat! Not my Matilda!" I motioned over at the Strange
Stranger, "....over HIS dead body!" I bellowed as I swept her up, fled,
and looked back after hearing the firing of his weapon. The Mercedes
sped away, and a lone figure in a pool of black gooey substance,
resembling ink, laid dead.
"Good Godfrey! The Strange Stranger!" I shivered.
___________________
(Episode 2)
How could I have done it? I caused the loss of an innocent life. Well,
at least I still had Matilda, my best friend and Ping-Pong partner. But
what was it I was to learn from the Strange Stranger? What was it he
wanted? Then it hit me... The maple tree! The inscription!... I had to
get back and look again. I went deep into the woods, until I found it:
YOU'RE PROBABLY HERE.
I got out a knife and carved:
YOU"RE PROBABLY RIGHT.
Just as I had crossed the "T", a bolt of lightning struck the tree.
After the debris cleared, I couldn't believe my eyes as I read:
YOU COULD HAVE SAVED US BOTH A LOT OF TIME AND TROUBLE, IF YOU HAD DONE
THIS TO BEGIN WITH!
Then there was a terrible earthquake! As the ground parted, a black
cloud swirled overhead, and I feared for my life. But the ground stopped
shaking as the earth belched up a Rand McNally road map, with a note
attached:
You're going to Los Banos, California, where you
are to meet a certain fruit picker named
Elmo Pigglesworth.
He will give you further instructions...
Oh by the way --
Don't blow it this time, Clyde!
With no means of transportation, for my car was in the shop, I didn't
look forward to the long journey. But walking along Interstate 40,
somewhere in the panhandle of Texas a week later, Matilda and I
exchanged old war stories. I was amazed at how much I didn't know about
my own cat.
Being of some Siamese descent, her great-great-great-great-great- (and
then some) grandfather, lived in the royal household of Ghengis Khan.
Gramps would often lick Mr. Khan's wounds after he'd return from battle.
He faithfully kept the rats out of their dwelling, and even helped
Ghengis with hunting prey from time to time. Gramps would strive
earnestly to secure his master's fondness, being as faithful as he
could. One Saturday afternoon the Mongolian King got real ticked-off
with Kublai, his grandson, for leaving the lawn mower out in the rain,
despite persistent reminders. Being that Kublai was much bigger than
Ghengis, poor Great Grampa Kitty took the brunt of his exasperation, and
ended up that evening with a bright red luscious apple stuffed in his
mouth on the Khan's dinner platter.
Then there was one of her great-great-great (etc) uncles, who helped
Christopher Columbus discover America. Seems Chris stepped on Uncle
Tom's tail, who instantaneously belted out a deafening shriek. It
alarmed Chris so severely, he turned the ship west and unexpectedly
spied a peninsula. Upon returning to Spain, Queen Isabella attempted to
knight the potential Sir Tom, but like Chris, she accidentally stood on
his rear appendage, resulting in the same consequences. Startled by his
loud squall, the queen tumbled over him and, unfortunately, hurled her
sword into King Ferdinand's chest. Uncle Tom was immediately sent before
the Spanish Inquisition, but was spared being burned at the stake, as
long as he agreed to become a court jester. When she needed a good
laugh, Isabella would, from time to time, call upon him to remind her of
the governing factors surrounding the matter of how the Good King kicked
the bucket.
On a couple of Wednesdays later, Matilda and I had walked a good twelve
hours before we stopped for the night just east of Santa Rosa, in the
barren desert of New Mexico. She caught a couple of rats and I roasted
them over some burning tumbleweed. We were delightfully filled for the
evening, but boored with my cooking. After successfully panhandling
along the way the next day, we aquired a decently adequate amount of
change to purchase a few pre-packaged peanut butter sandwiches along the
way, for the rest of the journey.
We had just made it to the California border nearly a month later, when
Matilda suggested, "You know, this is dumb. We ought to hitch a ride."
We had plenty of opportunities to hop a train or two, but after landing
head first on a pile of rocks for the umpteenth time, I stayed away from
them as much as possible, so we walked on. We had just about made it to
the San Joaquin Valley when, coming over a hill, we noticed an armored
road block. When we got no more than about 15 feet away, they raised
their guns while a short but stocky BATF officer blared on an amplified
megaphone, "Clyde P. Hipwing?!"
"Yes....And I can hear just fine without that thing!"
"Oh, uh sorry, drop the knapsack, sir...and walk away slowly," he
demanded, aiming his gun nervously. "You and the cat hit the ground,
NOW!"
Laying flat on my face, I observed a small bomb squad of three men, in
fully protective clothing, gently putting my knapsack in some sort of
sealed heavy metal capsule. "Its just our lunch!" I laughed.
"We know what it is...I'm afraid we're gonna have to take you both in
for questioning concerning the Sam's Deli robbery, back in Mountain
Oyster, Oklahoma."
We were rushed frantically to the Prune Pit County sheriff's office in a
convoy of five squad cars, followed by three FBI vans and two armored
trucks, filled with SWAT teams escorting us on either side.
The sheriff was a big beer-bellied type displaced Texan, and was all
haughty for having brought us in. "You wanna tell me bout this here
robbery in Oklahoma, boy?"
"I'd like to, but I know nothing about it," I answered.
"Well you're writing this story, aren't you? Come on...You did it. You
stole all that stuff, didn't you?" he insisted with his face into mine.
"That's baloney!"
"And you stole that baloney, didn't you, boy?"
"I don't even know what you're talking about. I was being swallowed by a
telephone booth about the time of the robbery... If you don't believe
me, just ask my cat. She's the one who saved me!" I stood up.
Sheriff Bonehead really liked that one. I should have just kept my mouth
shut. "Ok, Mr Hipwing...Clyde, why is it you can clearly remember what
you were doing at the time of this here robbery over a month ago, but
you can't tell me where this half-eaten baloney sandwich, that was found
this morning in your knapsack, came from?"
"I don't know! I don't even like baloney. If I remember correctly it was
a peanut butter sandwich, but, I'm not really sure."
"Well, boy, sounds to me like your long term memory is purdy doggone
good, but as for the short term........"
"Alright," I smarted, "Ask me about that baloney sandwich again...and
I'll give you an answer in about three years, Ok?!"
I was locked up overnight with one other prisoner, who snored
monstrously. The next morning, I thought I'd get friendly and introduce
myself to my cellmate in the top bunk. "Good morning. When do they serve
breakfast here?"
There was a long pause. Then suddenly he replied, "Dawn comes with Rosy
fingers."
I hit my head as I raised up. "Homer!?"
--------------------
(Episode 3)
I was charged with eight counts on possession of stolen property, four
counts on "the intent to distribute" (I guess they meant sharing four
sandwiches with my cat), and one count on "not properly packing your
lunch like your mother surely taught you!"
I was to stay in jail for two long months without a word from Matilda.
Poor cat, they probably put her to sleep, I thought. I was so depressed,
I didn't bother to prepare for the trial, which was to be held in
California because of all the public rage back home in Mountain Oyster.
To top it off, I was assigned a court appointed attorney who rarely came
around.
Some time later, the hearing was well into its third hour as the DA was
twisting testimony out of his concluding witness.
"Now, you're employed by the only meat packing plant in downtown
Helenback, Arkansas. This has already been established for the record.
But could you tell those of us who have never been to Helenback, Mr.
Kimble, what exactly is the name of that business, trademark or
establishment, as registered with the Internal Revenue Service?"
"'The Only Meat Packing Plant In Downtown Helenback, Arkansas', Sir."
"And just what is your job title?" The cocky Prosecutor drilled.
"I'm the Head Meat Inspector!" Mr. Kimble boasted.
"Very well, Mr. Kimble," the DA praised his witness, then confidently
approached the bench. "Your Honor, I'd like at this time to introduce
Exhibit H to the jury as a momentous segment of consequential evidence
in this egregious litigation."
"For heaven's sake, Benson," the Judge harped, "It's just a stupid piece
of baloney! This is the eighth exhibit you've introduced today...When
are you going to wrap-up all of this baloney, it's getting mighty
stale!....Hey, that was pretty witty, wasn't it!?"
"Joking aside, Your Honor.....This isn't just a piece of baloney; but a
'half eaten' piece of baloney!"
"All right, let the record show Exhibit H....another piece of baloney
has been submitted into evidence," Judge Thomas grumbled, looking at his
watch and thinking about lunch.
"Now, Mr. Kimble, explain to the jury what this is...." Benson
commanded, dramatically holding the exibit against the witness' nose.
"Uhhh Yer kiddin', right?" He snickered, insulted. "Why, it looks like a
piece of baloney to me, but of course I could be wrong...I ain't an
expert; I've just managed to keep my job through the years cause I'm
with the union!"
The courtroom broke out in silly laughter, while I noticed my Public
Defender looking as if his hopes had been lifted. However, humiliated by
his immediate fiasco, and sensing a mockery was at hand, the Prosecuting
Attorney bitterly chewed out the jury:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, this significant piece of evidence was found on
the defendant's person at the time of his arrest by a BATF (Baloney
Alchohol Tobacco and Firearms) officer! When this case retires for
deliberation, you'd better really strive to consider how seriously
damning this is to Mr. Hipwing's alibi. Not only do the bite marks match
his dental records, but I've spoken with every lunch meat connoisseur in
this state, and all of them concur that...."
"Benson, this is not the time for your closing remarks! This is the
fifth time this morning you've tried to manipulate the jury. I won't
have anymore of it in my courtroom; and if I should, you won't be
released from holding, until you miraculously pull out of your nose
$25,000!...Now, direct only questions, exclusively to your Witness! Do
you understand Me?!!!!!" His Honor Shouted.
Benson immediately humbly bowed himself apologetically before the
Throne, "Yes Sir, it won't happen again, sir!!!!"
"Good.......You may proceed!"
"Thanks...I'm sorry, Sir, Your Honor...Yes, Thanks Again, Sir!...
.Now..... Uh, MR. Kimble, just how old would you say this particular,
half-eaten scrap of baloney is, just by inspecting it?"
"Hmmm, I wouldn't throw a Barmitzvah any time soon!"
"Mr. Kimble," Judge Thomas spoke softly, but firm, "I'm very
serious...Would you like me to hold you in contempt?"
"What? NO, I wouldn't like you to hold me at all!...no matter how
serious you are!...Just what exactly are you hinting at with that
question?"
"Your Honor, I have no further questions." Benson sighed and rolled his
eyes, throwing his notes so as to scatter them all over the table, and
sat down.
"Very well, if there is no further questions from the defense, You may
step down, Mr. Kimble."
"No further questions, Your Honor," my lawyer declared.
Before stepping down from the witness stand, Mr. Kimble made known his
regret for his behavior: "I'm sorry, Your Honor, if I hurt your feelings
when I was shocked by your offer. I'm just not into that sort of thing,
but if I were in your shoes...uh well, I don't mean to say I wanna be
gettin' into your shoes or nothin', uh..but of course, I don't have
nothin' against nobody that does!...but uh....." he finally gave up
trying to explain and offered a hand of tolerance, praying His Judgeship
wouldn't kiss it.
"You Will Step Down, Mr. Kimble!!" Judge Thomas, whose face would have
caused confusion on a busy interstate, being that it was as red and
illuminating as a traffic light, couldn't believe all that was happening
in his courtroom.
---------------------------
(Episode 4)
"At this time, Your Honor, I'd like to call a surprise witness to the
stand, a certain Miss Matilda Waudlebaum," my court-appointed counselor
announced.
"Very well, let the record show that........A CAT IS GOING TO TESTIFY?!"
Justice Administrator Thomas gasped. I started crying tears of joy as my
beloved feline approached the bench. I was equally comforted by the
judge's facial adoration for such furry cuteness. "Well, I guess I can
confirm this morning that I haven't seen everything in these 30 years!
You may proceed, Council."
"Thank you, Your Honor. Miss Waudlebaum. You're a cat. Would you say
this is true?" my attorney asked.
"I would," she proudly affirmed, though slightly bewildered because the
Judge, probably from being over-stressed, forgot to make her swear to
tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help her;
Saint CATherine! Matilda was a devout CATholic--Never missed one day of
CATechism! She always wanted to be a Nun, but she got kicked out of
Parochial School for chasing a "Cardinal" up a tree....I know, enough
already! Okay, back to the trial............
"And as a cat, you were pretty close to the defendant, were you not?"
"I object!" the DA shouted. "Council is putting words in the witness'
mouth."
"Overruled!....Come on, let's hurry this thing through!.....You may
answer the question, ma'am," the Judge's stomach spoke up on his behalf,
more eager than ever to go to lunch.
"Yes, I know the defendant well... I know the way he thinks... How else
could it be that he has yet to beat me in Ping-Pong?"
"I object!.... This is irrelevant to the case... I want to go to the
meat of the matter! What about Exhibit H?" the DA huffed.
"Overruled!.. You'll get to cross examine... Now go ahead, precious
little kitty you... I mean, please continue, ma'am," said the Judge.
"Thank you, Your Honor," she purred. "There's not a dishonest bone in
his body. He's always been good to me. Never once as a kitten did he rub
my nose in it when I messed on the carpet... he..."
"I object!. Your Honor, you're falling in love with that cat!"
"Shut up, Benson, or you'll be removed from this courtroom, even if I
have to forcibly take you by the hand and lead you outta here
myself!!!!!"
"Well ain't that just the cat's pajamas! I'm sure Mr. Kimble would
really be fond of that!" the D.A. stomped. "Never in my..."
"Bailiff, take Benson out of here... This case is now dismissed! Now
where were you, precious little fuzz ball, hmmmm?" The Judge, like a
charmed adolescent school boy, melted as he gave ear in a mesmerized
daze for at least 30 more minutes, before shyly begging Matilda to give
him the liberty to take her out for lunch.
Once again my beloved cat had saved my life and we were at last
reunited. I asked the bailiff if I could go back and say goodbye to
Homer and was then led down to his cell.
My few hours of freedom made me take for granted the long black hall,
cold and damp as it was, all the way back to the cell we shared. Homer
just stood there clutching the bars as if he could inflict pain on them.
"Well, Homer, I don't know what they got you in here for, but when this
is all over I'll come back for you," I promised, putting my hand on his
shoulder.
He just looked down at his shoes and mumbled his ever familiar line:
"Dawn Comes with Rosy Fingers."
I paused and sighed, ".... Yeah, I know,."
--------------------------
(Episode 5)
After all the charges were dropped and my record once again spotless,
Matilda and I headed west. After walking a mile or two, Sheriff Bonehead
pulled alongside of us.
"You'n yer cat wanna ride, boy?" He asked.
All along the way to Los Banos, Matilda and the sheriff exchanged
hidious Star Wars jokes.
"Now let's see if I can say this one right... Hee! Hee!.... Obi-wan
Kanobi had a son that was born mute... What was his name?.. Obi Quiet!..
Get it?"
Then Matilda fired back, "What did Obi-wan Kanobi suggest when Luke
Skywalker was trying, but failing, to perform the Jedi trick of
manipulating a tasty morsel of hamburger with his mind, into his mouth?"
"Hee Hee! Heck, I dunno, tell me?!" the Sheriff asked in anticipation.
"Use the fork, Luke!" Matilda slapped her paw on Bonehead's knee as he
swerved out of the wrong lane of the highway, and almost off the road.
Luckily for me it was just a 45 minute trip...
We pulled into a Christian-owned 'discount' service station called
'Jesus Saves' in Los Banos, about three o'clock in the afternoon. I went
inside to ask for a phone book, to look up Mr. Pigglesworth's address,
only to find the entire 'P' section had been ripped out.
"Excuse me, can anyone tell me where I can find an Elmo Pigglesworth?" I
asked. Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to study me.
"Who wants to know?" inquired a rather large tough, barely visible in
the dark of the garage. I told him my name as two cars just about hit
each other trying to split the scene.
"How do I know you are who you say you are?" he squinted.
"Well, let's see,... let's just say... `I'm probably here.`," I sneered.
His face turned as if he were wearing talcum. "`You're probably
right`.... Come with me." He lifted a manhole cover and lowered himself
in. He then asked me to follow. We must have walked for miles
underground until we approached daylight peeking through a crack
overhead. "Well this is the place. Climb out of the manhole and knock on
the farmhouse door.... But please, Mr Hipwing...... don't tell him who
led you here, okay?" he begged.
I gave him my word. I had just about got to the door when an old man
came out with a shotgun. "Oh! It's the writer lost in his work." He
laughed.
"I beg your pardon...." I said throwing up my hands, "I was told to come
and see you. You see I'm on a mission and...."
"Don't need to finish. I already got you figured out... Where's yer
side-kick protagonist?" he questioned.
"I don't follow you."
"Where's the strange stranger?" he asked again.
"Oh, he's dead... You see..."
"It was either him or the cat, right?" he laughed, with tobacco juice
running down both sides of his chin. I couldn't help but think to
myself, "Well, at least he's level headed."
"How did you know?" I queried, puzzled.
"My thoughts are your thoughts," he said, as he spit on the ground.
"Come on inside---Oh, I don't allow cats in my house."
-------------------------------
(Episode 6)
Pigglesworth was an eccentric ex-con, who swears to the day of this
writing, he'd been wrongly set up. As the story goes; he claimed at one
time to have the ability to predict the future. Though it was all bunk,
he made quite a lot of money at it. Soon, he became very publicized
around his neck of the woods, but in an opposing way.... Word got around
among his followers that many of his predictions turned out to be
frivolous.
After most of Elmo's clientele quit coming around, he 'fessed-up about
being a fraud, as far as having the ability to foretell events, but
maintained he still had supernatural abilities. Only, not as most would
understand. He took out a giant ad in the Los Angeles Times, claiming
not only was he truly clairvoyant, but was blessed with a gift no other
has ever claimed... The miraculous ability of 'For-sawing The Past!'
He listed 36 major world events that in fact did happen, including
times, dates, years, centuries, decades, and believe it or not,
temperatures! He named who won the World Series the previous year, and
by what score! People marveled over his 100 percent accuracy so much,
that he was paid one million dollars in advance; to write a book on
'1000 post-dictions of the 1st millennium.' But the apple cart was soon
to turn over (though he couldn't see it coming).
Rumors began to circulate about his authenticity, so much so, that the
FBI launched an investigative probe, to determine whether or not he was
a fraud. Soon afterward, a librarian claimed to have identified
Pigglesworth, in spite of women's panty hose pulled over his face,
engaged in incriminating activity.... reading!!!!!!!!. To back up her
story, she presented to the authorities a library card with his name and
address on it. He supposedly left it behind by accident. That was all
they needed to get a search warrant.
Searching his home while he wasn't there, they found over 125 books, 45
magazines, various video tapes, and a complete collection of newspapers
dating back to 1962. But what they found that really could have nailed
him, what convinced them to bring him in, what left him without anyone
willing to vouch on his behalf...
was....a.........(GASP!).........TELEVISION!
They interrogated him for five hours, but the evidence was all
circumstantial. They had to let him go. But being the likable guy he
was, there weren't any hard feelings. He talked motor racing for awhile
with some of the cops, traded Vietnam adventures, and bragged about his
kids. Out of friendly curiosity, the police chief casually asked him
where he bought his solid gold Rolex watch, because he had one at home
just like it. Elmo thought for a minute, shrugged his shoulders, and
said, "I can't recall.." He got 10 years.
Elmo Pigglesworth enjoyed a peculiar looking dwelling. There were a lot
of maps scattered all over the floor, yet some were hanging on the walls
with thumbtacks pinned on various strategic locations.
"The thing you need to do is get back on that there Train of Thought,"
Elmo began, "and reverse the locomotive back to the duration of the
time, when you first met the Strange Stranger. Then find out what kind
of information he has. Once you find him, commence to lead him to the
Grand Entrance to the GATE of the City of the Intellectually Inept,
which is Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro. Now you, as the
Gate Keeper, are to lead the Strange Stranger to the Intellectually
Inept."
I couldn't believe that after traveling 1500 miles on foot, that was all
he offered us (besides a rather greasy lunch). Especially since none of
it made any since to me At least he was kind enough to point out the
nearest railroad tracks to us.
After walking approximately a mile, Matilda and I waited around for
about an hour till we abruptly heard the rumble of the approaching
train. As it approached, we jumped in one of the boxcars and immediately
pulled a lever (that was oddly located on the ceiling) and abruptly
threw my Train of Thought in reverse.
--------------------------
(Episode 7)
The long ride from California back to Oklahoma took all of two days. I
noticed from the beginning, that the sun rose every morning in the west,
and set in evening in the east. From what I gathered we were making a
voyage reverse in time (Duh...).
On the second morning, when I got up to stretch, I noticed I was
approaching familiar surroundings. Again, I suddenly spied a small Merry
Band of Calypso Singers and realized it was time to bail out. Same as
before, I landed head first on a large pile of rocks, but this time I
rose to my feet to join in with the singers--- I was curious to find out
where they were going.
They at once stopped playing and singing, as one of them shouted,
"You're not one of us!" and began hitting me over the head with their
guitars and bongos. I fled realizing they weren't so friendly after all,
and walked on to the large maple tree to wait for the strange stranger;
but fell fast asleep.
The wind danced in my hair as the old maple swayed and creaked. Then
suddenly, I awoke to the sight of large smelly tennis shoes.
"Pardon me, could you tell me the way to the Grand Entrance to the Gate
of the City of the Intellectually Inept?" the Strange Stranger asked.
I got up on my feet and told him to follow me. We strolled into the City
of the Intellectually Inept and looked for Big Buford's Buffalo Barf
Bucket Burger Bistro. When we got there, we found a quiet place in the
back of the room. I whispered, "Okay, you're here, what is it you want
to tell me, and what do you want to know?"
"Are you the Intellectually Inept?" He stared into my eyes.
I paused thoughtfully, "No, I'm just the Gate Keeper."
"Do you know where I might find him?" He leaned closer.
Fresh out of oblivion, who else but Homer slowly sauntered up to our
table like molasses that's been refrigerated for a year. Or a scene in a
movie that dragged, and never got to the line that you knew was coming
next. Or like a book that pretty much does the same thing while you
wonder, why am I reading this? My kids will probably grow into teenagers
before he gets to that stupid line that I've been expecting, and waiting
on now for 84 words; all for the privilege, at the expense of my
bladder, just to once again read Homer mumble, "Dawn Comes with Rosy
Fingers."
"And leaves with dishpan hands!" Strange excitedly fired back..
"What color were her eyes?" Homer asked, as I fell out of my booth..
"One was strikingly beautiful, and blue as robins' eggs, the other green
with envy!" Strange got some applause from the table behind us with that
one.
"And why was she frugally walking the tightrope, while nervously
balancing her checkbook on the tip of her nose?"
There was a long meditative pause.... "..........Because it was two days
before payday, and she's a lousy juggler!"
"Yes! Yes!... But!... Most importantly, why was she balancing the
checkbook on her 'nose?'"
Strange slumped and wiped his sweaty baffled face. He'd been stumped.
But being one to never accept being outplayed, he guessed ... "Because
there wasn't anything else to write on?"
"Ok Charley, tell Mr. Strange here what wonderful prizes he'll be taking
home today!" Homer sarcastically praised... along with everyone else in
the joint, and even some in the drive-through, who hoorayed. Streamers
and confetti fell. A beer barrel polka band, consisting of World War II
vets, marched inside and down the isles playing-- what else but-- The
Beer Barrel Polka; as Homer and Strange got out maps and diagrams,
conversing amongst themselves in even more ridiculous riddles, while
each person stared with great interest.
"Uh, fill me in guys, huh?" I suggested, wanting them to clarify, what
in the world was going on.
"Shh!" the Strange Stranger whispered, "Homer here is the Intellectually
Inept!"
"You just now figured that out?"
"Don't you understand?" Strange asked elated, "Now the Question can be
asked by the Man in the Back Row with the Gray Flannel Suit and Funny
Looking Nose!"
"But first we have to go into the Fictional Forest to find him!" Homer
announced. "Didn't the 'Anti-Beast' you met in the 5th episode of this
story tell you that?"
I wasn't going to even bother trying to figure out 'who' that was. I
just gave both Homer and Strange a self-evident, bewilderedly
born-brainless, dumbfounded look.
"Don't worry who he is right now," Strange said, tossing me an
explanatory life jacket. I swam over to it as he continued, "you'll know
about him soon enough, but you'll probably have to wait until you have
completed the last story in your upcoming sequel."
"Oh."
-------------------------------
(Episode 8)
We camped by the large maple tree deep in the Fictional Forest. As I was
munching on sardines and crackers, Homer was finally explaining to me
things I found puzzling. "You see, we're all here cause you brought us
here. Without you, we wouldn't exist!" Homer got out a hunting knife and
pricked his thumb. "You see that, that ain't blood... that's ink...your
ink.... our life support. Everything that's here is only here cause you
wanted it to be."
I was beginning to understand, I thought. "You mean I've dreamed up the
whole adventure and we're not really here?" I grabbed Homer's knife and
pricked my thumb. "INK!.... Oh great, even I'm a figment of my own
imagination!" I surmised, flipping the knife to the ground.
Homer put his hand on my shoulder, "You'll understand later, just enjoy
the ride until then."
-----------------------------
(Episode 9)
It was the break of morn as I rolled over and studied Homer,
ungracefully waking. He sure was an ugly sort that time of day. It
appeared as though he had combed his hair with an electric mixer, and
without his dentures, looked like a wide-mouthed bass. One undeniable
trait about ol' Homer though, was that he had plenty of hindsight. I was
told he used it quite a bit in his spare time, sitting on park benchs
observing the pretty ladies that went by.
"Dawn Comes with Rosy Fingers," I laughed. He just threw his
drool-soaked pillow at me as I darted from its path..
Strange was snoring away, sounding like a hog with asthma, till I got up
and yelled, "We're hungry!"
The mountains echoed back, "Hold on a second, will ya?" Seconds later,
it began raining manna as Homer and I began gathering it..
"Manna's gettin' hot, and the coffee's gettin' cold," I informed Strange
as he finally threw back his covers, with a "I can hardly wait" look.
Just then, there came a loud MEOW out of the maple tree. I stopped to
realize I hadn't seen or heard from my cat in awhile. "Matilda... is
that you?"
"Yeah, I didn't want to disturb you all when I came back from the
convenience store to get some beer and pretzels... So I passed the time
away with 'The Wall Street Journal,'" she answered, folding the paper
and hopping down.
"Homer, Strange, this is Matilda," I announced. "As you can see she's
not an ordinary cat."
"I'm so hungry, she'd make a mighty fine omelet, if you'd ask me,"
yawned Strange, refusing a manna loaf because he was watching his
cholesterol.
"So what's the plan?" questioned Matilda. I began filling her in on
everything as she was batting at some moth or something. "Have you met
with the Man in the Back Row with the Gray Flannel Suit and the Funny
Looking Nose, yet?" she asked.
"No," I answered. "That's why we're camped here for the evening...
we..."
Just as I almost completed the sentence, the one-eyed midget in his
Mercedes swerved up to us. He slowly got out of his car, limped over to
our campsite and pulled out his small revolver. "Your cat or your life,
which is it?"
Out of nowhere popped a 6 foot 8 inch, 250 pound ringing phone booth.
"Wait just a minute." I demanded, "I've got a phone call.... Hello..."
"Yes this is your editor calling. I tried to call some months ago, but
you refused to answer. I just wanted to let you know this is YOUR story,
and YOU shouldn't fear the one eyed midget... He's at your mercy. All
you have to do is erase him, if he gives you any more trouble..."
(Click)
"Well,... well,... well," I sneered, hanging up the phone, "Seems you
think you can intimidate me. I think I'll just erase you." The one eyed
midget's eye got real big as he dropped his gun and ran for his car --
but I erased it.
"Who sent you and why do you want my cat?" I yelled.
"Please, Sir, I ... I'm the Man. The Man in the Back Row with the Gray
Flannel Suit and Funny Looking Nose..." he tearfully answered. "It's
just, well, I got a family... and I never get any good parts... you see,
because I'm divorced from my wife, my kids, they don't think much of
me... I..."
"Oh knock it off..." I growled in disgust. "Look, I promise you, in my
next story you can play the one-eyed midget, okay? But we're wasting a
lot of ink right now. So I wish you'd just ask the BIG QUESTION that
you're supposed to ask."
"Well,... ah... Okay. Here goes... What if anything is the meaning of
this story?" he asked.
"That's it? ... Why didn't you ask me that in the very beginning like I
asked you to?"
"Sir, my time had not yet come, and for that matter, your thoughts are
my thoughts," he shrugged.
"Homer, what is he talking about?"
"Well, Clyde, best as I can figure, he's trying to tell you that had you
wanted him to ask that question in the first place, your felt-tip pen
would have put the words in his mouth."
"All right, here is the answer to the quiz... All I have created is
meaningless... as meaningless as your very life. You're nothing without
the stroke of my pen." I could almost feel his heart sink as the
one-eyed midget picked up his own gun, and with a pull of the
trigger.... spilled his own ink.
-------------------------------------
(Episode 10)
We buried the one-eyed midget's remains in a sardine can, after
cremating him over the fire we set the night before to roast
marshmallows, said a quick prayer... then told the Creator he could go
back to whatever he was doing.
"Well what now, Homer?" I asked.
"Well, before all this was goin' on, we figured a way to get you back to
your physical reality," Homer smiled.
"Look, Homer and I have devised a plan. Read it carefully, study, then
eat it," Strange added.
"Eat it?" I questioned in puzzlement.
"Yes, if you don't, some character might find it and follow you back
into your physical existence," Homer spoke up. I didn't want to go, life
was so much more interesting in their world, but I knew if I didn't
return now, I'd never be able to do so later.
Homer, Strange, and Matilda walked with me to the tracks. We all shared
a tearful farewell. "I'll think about you guys often, and maybe from
time to time, visit you. It's been a most enjoyable three months," I
expressed with tears pouring, and snot-rag in hand.
In the nick of time, prior to the moment I would have drowned in my own
swimming hole of grief, I heard the train whistle blow. Matilda and I
started running to gain momentum to leap aboard. Just as it approached,
we clung on to the engine and climbed in. I looked back and waved to
Homer and Strange. I gazed ahead and saw the many characters I had
fabricated, waving as the train went by. Then I passed by the Calypso
Singers and yelled out the window at the top of my lungs, with all the
sincerity I could muster, "Get a job!"
I suddenly felt uneasy as I had no I idea what lay ahead. I reached in
my pocket and pulled out the plan that Strange gave me. It read:
"It's not very often a writer and his characters become the best of
friends, and now as your friends, we ask you to leave this Fictional
Forest.. The only way for our world to rest in peace is for you to
leave. Homer and I have theorized a way to return you to your physical
reality. You must die a fictitious death. It's risky, but you must try
it.
Strange and Homer"
I stuffed it in my mouth, swallowed and began looking around at all the
unfamiliar scenery, while pondering to myself as to how I should die. I
was scared, so I decided to put it off for awhile, and succumbed to a
snooze. Two hours or so afterward, I awoke and looked out the window,
noticing in the distance there stood a mountain range. It was then that
I chose my death.
The track veered off into the mountains, then it divided in two
different routes. One track remained unfinished over a half-built
bridge. This was the one I elected to use. My Train of Thought gained
speed as it swerved to the right and proceeded straight for a downhill
plunge. The rocky embankment approached at a high rate of speed. I
closed my eyes as I heard the loud split-second flash and visioned the
iron shrapnel exploding all around Matlilda and I. Then I felt......
nothing?.....
I opened my eyes. I was at my writing desk and the half-written story
was scribbled on paper. It had in fact been fantasy. I sat there for a
minute, then got up to get something cold to drink. Without realizing
she was there, I stepped on Matilda's tail as she let out a loud squall.
"Oh Matilda, I'm sorry. I didn't see you...Are you all right little
kitty, hmmm? I sure didn't mean to do that," I apologized.
She just rubbed her side against my pants leg. "Think nothing of it,
Luv, I know you didn't," she replied.
-------------------------------------
YESTERDAYS MILK
(Episode 1)
December 27, 1995
My dearly beloved diary:
It's a little past 3 am and all is hell.... as I'm sitting in a rather
large pit being stoned to death by my peers, while hitting myself
repeatedly over the head with a monstrous sized boulder. Sometimes I'd
just like to dunk my face in the toilet bowl, slam the lid on it; and
commit sewercide!
You're brought into this world cause 'someone' screwed around... and,
you leave it cause 'you've' simply screwed up. But, it's not you holding
the screwdriver. Rather, a large- bellied maintenance man on the third
floor and seventh door to the right. "How do you know all this?" you
ask. Well the answer would come automatically in most cases were it not
for the fact that most brains come in standard models, and prices may
vary depending on what circumstances you're willing to pay for attaining
such knowledge.
Oh pardon me, the dog wants out. She's been quite patient really. Yes,
Maggie's quite a Lady. I found her half-starved, and begging me for my
fries in the parking lot beneath the golden arches, one fine day....
Introduced herself as Maggie McMutt. And both of us being of Scottish
descent, get along well, the lass and I. Well, that's it till
tomorrow....
Sincereley, last time I checked, still Clyde P. Hipwing
As I opened the door to let her out, I noticed it was a lovely full
moon.... OOPS, well I was wrong. It was only Mrs. McPherson bending over
to pick up her morning paper. "Morning, Mrs. McPherson!" I called out,
scaring the dickens out of her. Which probably came as a surprise to
her, not being related to the Dickens' who lived next door to her and
all.
Then there was my other neighbor, George Birthington. Rumor had it old
George did his clothes only once a year. Everyone around here referred
to it as George Birthington's Washday. All of my neighbors were a bit
strange.
Well, it was a bit early, but I was in the mood for a morning stroll. As
I was walking, I noticed a milk truck parked next to the curb. It was
Marty the Mysterious Milkman! He was making his morning rounds.
"Mornin', Marty!"
"Um... Mornin'..." He replied.
"How's the milk business?" I asked.
He thought wisely to himself, "Well as Louis Pasteur once said:
"Yesterday's milk is tomorrow's curds! "
We were both left in an awkward silence before going on with our
business. "Pardon me," he excused himself, "but there's milk to be
delivered."
Marty was kind of a born loser. Always wanted to be a dentist. He went
to Dental School and graduated with honors. Yet, he failed to make any
'impressions.' Marty always felt his calling for notoriety-- his new
aspirations were to become the next sheriff of Pothole county. He ran a
massive campaign, but he was up against stiff competition as Deputy
Doodah lead in all the polls, inspite of the fact he had little chance
to prove his authority, being under the tight reign of incumbent,
Sheriff Marshall Dumas. They were constantly at each other's throats,
especially since Doodah often refered to him as "Doofus".
"It's Dumas! How many times do I have to remind you? It's Dumas!" The
frustrated Sheriff often replied.
He wasn't a bright sort to say the least; he was constantly being
reprimanded for chasing Indians on horseback, as there wasn't a Bingo
parlor around that didn't get busted up occasionally. And today was no
exception as I observed our lame duck Sheriff galloping off into the
sunrise of another day of Bingo busting.
---------------------------------
(Episode 2)
The morning sun illuminated the darkly desolate hopes of the general
populous of Mountain Oyster, as our latest mortal of admirable exploits
-- Deputy Doodah -- was at the front of a line, in a local department
store, picking his nose... "Yes, Um... I'll take the one with the large
nostrils and thinned out bridge......."
"Oh, that one? I'm so sorry Sir, that's the display model...We don't
have anymore in that particular style and size on stock..." The sales
lady, syrupy sweet with much concern as if his mother had died, said.
"That's Ok, I'll just take the display model." Doodah mumbled.
"Oh, I'm sssssssso sorry, but..."
"Look lady, I called down here 20 minutes before I took the time to
drive up here, and the assistant manager told me that he had five of
them in stock; so I'll pick whatever nose I want to pick! Man, the
service stinks here!!"
As the cashier was about to inject Doodah with a lethal dose of
saccharine, there was a tumultuous thunder of breaking glass that woke
even the sleepy floor sweeper. A large Good Humor truck had smashed
non-stop through the exterior windowpane, knocking over cash registers,
destroying merchandise, and scattering panty hose, merging with ice
cream sandwiches, far and wide. DooDah loosened himself out of the
rubble, removed a popsickle from his ear, and discovered the truck lying
upside down.
"Fudge!" He exclaimed.
Slowly, a rather dwarfed, shady and eccentric character emerged out of
the passenger's side door. "What in tarnation are you doin' and who are
you!" Doodah demanded from what appeared to be a one-eyed midget shaking
broken glass out of his hair.
"Sorry bout the mess," he began. "My name's Emilio Esparanza Mucho Gusto
Julio Big John... Um... My friends call me Mr Big, for short."
"Okay, Mr. Big..." Doodah snapped back, "what's the BIG idea crashin'
into this here department store, scarin' children and old ladies, and
just why were you in such a hurry?"
"Well sir, I couldn't reach the brake. Aside from that, as to how I got
here... it's a long story," Mr. Big explained, "but to make it shorter,
you don't have to read the whole thing, just revert about 2 or 3 pages
back in this book!"
Subsequent to reading a few paragraphs, Doodah, in a brief span of
minutes, understood that the one-eyed midget had been brought into
physical existence after dying a fictitious death, in the previous story
(Hint, Hint).
"Do you know where I might find a certain Mr Clyde P. Hipwing?.... We
have some unfinished business to take care of," Mr. Big sneered.
Doodah, in spite of the immediate pandemonium, was happy to help. He put
his hand on Mr Big's shoulder and vigorously lead him to a window with
an exceptional panoramic view.
"Well, if you take that there road up ahead, and turn right; you'll
eventully come to a red light. Take a left and then you'll see Big
Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro...Behind it, there is a
gravel alley way. Now, if you're not careful, you'll miss the south turn
around the corner hidden behind Mrs Betcher's rose bushes. Go all the
way till you come to Mike's Mattress Mart on the corner of Rabid Skunk
Blvd and 5th...You'll see the Lee West addition entrance, but don't turn
there, go 4 blocks further. His is the first house on the second block,
two miles up on the right.....
"Oh no, come to think of it...that route is closed off cause of all the
construction work....I guess you'll have to take the detour down that
street over there... Mr Hipwing lives in the only pink house on the
right after the left turn. Sorry to have to inconvenience ya, fella,"
Doodah said, patting Mr Big on the top of his head, when, all at once,
the floor began splintering where he and the one-eyed midget were
standing inside the emporium.
Isles scattered, as several of the surviving, terrified patrons from the
previous calamity, were now being physically abused by, foaming at the
mouth panty hose, boxer shorts and bras, while the least fortunate were
forced to involuntarily break-dance across sadistically slick
fudge-sickles. Concrete was instantaneously strewn barbariously in all
points of an imagined compass, as an enormous flame-spewing Rumpusaurous
Rex lurched upon Mr. Big, who darted out from beneath him with swiftness
he in no way knew he had.
Doodah observed the beast's feline-similar, whiskers and brutish face,
outdone only by his enormously, hairy derriere, which made up three
fourths of his physique. "Who in tarnation...?!" Doodah trembled.
"Permit me to introduce myself," he beseeched, offering Doodah his
forepaw, making evident his saber-toothed abundant grin...for which he
offered heartfelt thanks to his orthodontist. "My name is Chairman Meow.
I exemplify the one-eyed midget's persecuting conscience as
self-punishment for all the tribulation he will be trying to bestow on a
Miss Matilda Wattlebaum. This after all, is going to be Mr. Big's story,
and every good short story, deserves an antagonist."
Doodah scratched his head in disbelief and reached for his talkie.
"Dufas! We've got a 10 Sumpthin'er-other down here at the department
store, on the corner of "I" and "Am", across the street from Sam's Deli.
You'd better get down here, NOW!"
------------------------------
(Episode 3)
While waiting for the Sheriff to arrive, Doodah listened to the entire
narrative Chairman Meow told concerning the one-eyed midget and his evil
intent; who by then was very probably approaching my front porch, in
want to banish me back into the Fictional Forest or The City of The
Intellectually Inept; while he himself, sought to find his own train of
thought (man, this is getting wordy!).
All the while I was watching The Patti Peptalk Hour on television, with
Matilda and Maggie:
"...........And it's scums like you, who call this show, wasting my time
with your petty, narcissistic concerns; that don't go beyond your own
precious nose!!!!!(SLAM) .......I'm sorry about that, ladies and
gentlemen, but there's some things I just don't put up with on this
show...Omaha, Nebraska, thank you for calling The Patti Peptalk Hour,
I'm Patti, can I help you?"
"Yeah, uh, Patti, Im just uh.....well, what I....."
"You're just nervous, honey. Go ahead, I'm listening!" Patti sweetly
assured him.
"Patti, I ..I'm at my wit's end. My wife of 30 years just told me that
the kids aren't really mine....I'm holding in my hand a 110 volt AC
electrical cord, cut in half; and I might just plug it in, stick the
wires in my ears, and fry myself! I hope I burn to a crisp! I could care
less if this whole place, that I sweated, scrimped and saved for, for 20
years, burns down!!!"
"What's your name, honey?"
"Uh, Bill...My name's Bill."
"Ok, Bill, don't be hasty...You want to do the right thing....And I want
you to do the right thing, Ok, Bill...honey!?"
Bill answered, tearfully, "Oh..Ok, I really don't want to burn this
place down, with all the money I put in it over the years. I made sure
that if I ever ceased to be around, that she'd be able to make it on her
own without me to look after her. But I'm desperate, Patti, what's the
right thing to do?"
"Ok, Bill, honey, here's a solution..........FRY YOURSELF IN THE BATHTUB
WITH THE WATER RUNNING; SO YOUR LITTLE BRAINLESS WIDOW CAN STILL GET ALL
THAT MONEY YOU SCRIMPED AND SAVED, FOR THAT DOGGONE STUPID HOUSE!!!
(Slam!!!!!).. ............LET'S GO TO A COMMERCIAL, FOR THE LOVE OF
MOUNT SAINT HELEN!!!!!"
"If you live in the Los Angeles area, the number to call Patti for the
next 2 weeks, is, 1-999-767-8463, that's 1-999-PMS-TIME. If you don't
live in the Los Angeles area, don't you DARE call collect!!!...For
tickets to the upcoming, annual Patti Peptalk Pity Party, call, 1-9 9 9
9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 SOMEBODY HAD BETTER FIX THIS SON
OF A (CRASH!!!!!!!!!)8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8"
"Oh dear," I do believe Patti's hair's a bit dreadful these days,"
Matilda sighed.
"Oh the lass has bloody well lost it since the divorce, ya know.... What
might you think, Clyde?" Maggie asked.
But I wasn't listening. Instead I was day dreaming as to how to
reconstruct my demolished train of thought. "If only I could get back on
track," I mumbled.
"Huh...?" Matilda meowed, as Maggie looked a bit concerned.
"Oh nothing, Just thinking."
At that instant came a rapping on the unlocked front door, as Maggie
barked. This was not a traditional knock. No! This was a very cunning
knock. I hesitated, then glanced through the peep hole, perceiving no
one. My shaking, sweaty palm smothered the knob as I swung open the
door. Ah, whew! It was just the paper boy collecting his week's wages,
"Oh by the way, here's your paper," he innocently beamed.
Glancing down at the front page, I caught the photograph of a Ice Cream
Truck on its back, on the floor of the downtown department store,
resembling a desert-sun-baked carcass, and laughed to myself. "Thanks a
lot, Sonny," I said, handing him a couple of bucks.
Just as I shut off the doorway, unbeknownst to me, the paper boy peeled
a sticky rubber like, synthetic mask from his face. He was, in fact, Mr.
Big -- the one-eyed midget. "At last, I find him," he grinned. "This is
gonna be easy, all I have to do is retire Mr. Hipwing to the Fictional
Forest, grab his cat, and I'm off to Vegas!" As he grasped at the
doorknob, he was at once tapped on the shoulder. "What?!!!!! Who?!!!"
Mr. Big gasped.
Deputy DooDah, who had just been alerted of his wicked endeavors, was
lost for breath from running several blocks; but managed to encounter
the hoodlum with bodily force, and wrestle him to the ground.
I wondered what the commotion was about, so I threw open the door and
was immediately outraged by the perception of the burly Deputy whooping
up on the clearly inferior, size challenged, paper boy. "Oh good golly!"
Matilda exclaimed, "it's the one-eyed midget!"
Just as the words departed from her whiskers, Mr. Big slipped under the
Deputy's dukes, barging his way inside and darted in the direction of my
word processor, that I had just recently purchased to make my work more
effortless. "So Clyde, who's at whose mercy now?" He, basking in the
glow of his triumph, questioned.
"How did you come back to life, you spilt your own ink in the last
story!?" I gasped as Mr. Big's only eye widened in even more amazement
of his conquest.
"You forgot the rules, Clyde! Like you I died a fictitious death,
therefore I've now entered your reality," he grimaced.
He therewith began counting down from five, and on each digit, descended
his index finger closer to the delete button. "Four!"
"Just WHAT IS all this stuff about dying a fictional death?" Doodah
scratched his head.
"No, Mr Big, get a hold of your senses!" I begged.
"Two!"
"Is there anything, besides my cat, that I..I could give you? You know,
we..we could be friends!"
"Say," Doodah spoke louder, "I asked a question!"
"ONE!" Mr Big's brow emphatically expressed the thrill of the moment.
"Look, Mr Big, I've got a good part for you in my next story. See..we
could make you a good guy, yeah...You could....Oh, Good Godfrey! Just go
ahead and do it!"
"ZERO!...Bye guys!" Mr. Big at that moment pressed delete as all
existing mortality, excluding Matilda, was eliminated. "It worked! I've
actually got my own creative powers!" Mr. Big rejoiced.
With myself, his adversary, no longer an obstacle, it was now Mr. Big's
tale. Grasping Matilda by her esophagus, he swiftly approached the
nearest tracks and anticipated his next move.
"You're not going to get away with this!" Matilda vowed.
"Shut up, cat!" He snarled as his Train of Thought accelerated upon its
approach.
-------------------------------------
(Episode 4)
On the outskirts of the Fictional Forest as MY Train of Thought swiftly
passed, I discovered myself, once again, on a large pile of rocks. This
time as the Merry Band of Calypso Singers neared, I tried desperately to
get their attention. "Hold it guys!... I need your help!"
A bit agitated, they stopped as the apparent leader yelled "Yesterday's
Milk is Tomorrow's Curds!" I was instantly atomized with large
quantities of what appeared to be cottage cheese spurting from a fire
extinguisher. Consumed in Curds, I made a breakneck retreat, slipping
all over myself.
"What's with this yesterday's milk business? Where have I heard that
before? It must be the secret phrase to this story.... Ah the large
maple tree!!!" I strode up to the standing timber, finding no
inscription, shrugged my shoulders and carved:
I'M PROBABLY HERE
But nothing happened. A moment later, to my astonishment, a sheet of
lightning flashed and bit the bark. I waited in anticipation as the
vapor from the combustion cleared. Hacking heavily and waving smoke
away, I made out the assertion:
"Sorry, this isn't your story, sucker!..... Tough luck!"
Feeling desperately forsaken, I remembered my friend the Strange
Stranger. With Strange nowhere to be found after a lengthy search, I
buried my face in my hands and cried aloud. "Woe is me! For what reason
was I born? My life is but a cruel joke to which their laughter is like
a slick dagger, twisting and turning, purging me of any reason or desire
to go on...Woe is me!"
Again I buried my face and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, until I was
doing the backstroke in my own lamentations. Then what sounded like
tennis shoes swishing through shallow water...(I never had the courage
to swim in water more than a foot deep)... startled me.
"Pardon me, but do you know where I might find the Grand Entrance to the
Gate of the City of The Intellectually Inept?" Strange quizzed.
"Strange !!!" I delighted.
"Strange? What's strange?" Strange asked.
"You're Strange, of course!"
"I beg your pardon, but, you're not so ordinary looking yourself!"
Strange protested.
"No, Strange, I know who's the Intellectually Inept!... It's Homer!" I
exclaimed, grabbing Strange by the shoulders.
"Homer?... Now that's strange." Strange nearly sprained his brain as his
mind almost tripped over its own confusion.
I gave up trying to clarify myself and grabbed him by his bewilderment,
and hastened him to Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger's Bistro.
Upon arrival, Strange looked around, closed his eyes and pondered
deeply, "Yeah it's vaguely clear...I think it's all coming back...I ate
here once!!! Yeah I had a Spam Slam. Yeah, it was...."
"No Strange. You've got to think real hard. Don't you remember the
phrase...Dawn Comes With Rosy Fingers!" I frantically queried.
"Oh! So you're the Intellectually Inept... that explains everything!"
"Yeah!...No!...Yeah! Wait a minute...No, it's Homer. I'm just the Gate
Keeper, remember?!!" I attempted to clarify in frustration.
Slowly, a white haired man, who resembled Homer, though I thought it
couldn't have been-- on account of he was sporting a mature Van Dyke--
strolled up to where we were waiting in line for a vacant table. "Dawn
Comes With Rosy Fingers," he spoke in a hoarse whispery voice.
Strange drew a revolver from a holster I hadn't noticed, strapped to his
right knee, and pulled the trigger, aiming for Homer's chest.
"Whadja do that for?!!!" I shouted.
"Well, I figured he was this 'strange' character you've been warning me
about."
"No Strange!" I attempted to forcefully assist him to remember what I
was trying to drive into his thick skull by slapping the top of his
head. "You've just shot Homer, the Intellectually Inept!"
"Oh, now I get it!" Strange remarked, shrugging his shoulders as I
stooped down to Homer who lay dying.
"Homer, you got to think real hard; this isn't my story, and I have no
inkling as to what the answering phrase to Yesterday's milk is
tomorrow's curds, is."
Homer gasped for breath, but managed to declare "I'm not the... the...
milkman...uh (cough cough)..." Then breathed his final breath.
I closed Homer's eyes as Strange crossed himself. "What did he mean, the
milkman?" I sighed..
-------------------------------
(Episode 5)
As Strange was gobbling down his lunch while sitting on Homer's corpse,
for the lack of empty seats, I was trying to put the pieces together in
my mind. A couple of rows up sat a face I was well-aquainted with. Could
it be? Yes, it was Marty! Of course! Marty is the Milkman! "Marty, how
did you get here?" I hooted kind of puzzled.
He looked up in surprise with a piece of lettuce from his buffalo burger
hanging from his mouth. "I was out deliverin' milk in yer neighborhood
early this mornin', when all the sudden, this one-eyed midget holdn' a
cat in one arm and runnin' outta yer house, holdin' a word processor
under the other. Next thing I knew I'd landed on a large pile of
rocks... head first!"
"So, Marty," I whispered closely, "what's the answering phrase to
Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds?!"
Startled by my intrigue of a seemingly meaningless lyric, he almost
choked on a Bunion Ring. "It ain't nothin', Clyde. Just a stupid poem I
made up."
"Stupid or not," I said grabbing his hand as it was about to once more
feed his face, "it's probably our only hope of getting out of this
fictional muddle we're in!"
He stopped and took a big slurp of his Fermented Brussels Sprout Soda,
and belched politely with his face imbedded in his napkin. "Ok,
Ok...Yesterday's Milk is Tomorrows Curds; But Cow Patties Burn Better
Than Buffalo Turds...I told you it ain't nothin'."
Marty informed me that there were others deep in the Fictional Forest,
hiding in a cave. I instructed him that we'd have to assemble the entire
group together and search for The Merry Calypso Singers, they were
undoubtedly our only covert connection in this whole matter.
Upon departing from The City Of The Intellectually Inept, we entered
deep into The Fictional Forrest on a drawn-out quest for everyone else.
Nearing the underground shelter deep-set into the fringe of a humble
foothill, Maggie came running toward us. "Mag, is that you?" I asked,
blocking the sun from my eyes.
"Aye Clyde, I'm sure you know me good friend Deputy Doodah!"
Doodah appeared out from behind some bushes then recognized us. "Clyde,
I have some very important information for you..."
(We'll return to Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds, after this brief
public service announcement).
If you smoke....Stop!!!!!!!!
(We now return to Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds, starring Clyde
P. Hipwing!)
"Now what in tarnation was that all about?" Doodah scratched his head.
"Now I've lost my train of thought..."
"YOU TOO?!?!" I asked surprised.
"Oh yeah," Doodah remembered, "There's a unusual fella inside with some
big news for ya about the one-eyed midget!"
Upon entering the small but spacious cavern, I spied a middle aged
hooligan looking fellow with an effortless-to-behold-in-the-dusk 5
o'clock shaddow. "Hello Clyde." He somberly spoke.
"Mr Pigglesworth, is that you?"
Elmo cleared his throat. "I've got some information concerning Mr Big,
the one-eyed midget. Now, I haven't been able to maintain contact with
my collegues as to whether Chairman Meow, the Rumpusaurous Rex, has in
fact completed his task in devouring him as of yet, but if not, your job
once you return from the Fictional Forest is to, in essence, blackmail
the one-eyed midget to return, or face public disgrace in light of the
following info. Listen carefully:
"As a young sprout, he financed his college tuition 25 years ago with a
money making scam, targeting the old and senile, making a killing by
posing as a 'Professional Door To Door Toilet Flusher,' charging $10 a
flush!
"He's been twice abducted by Europan Moon Women, and is known to have
fathered as many as a dozen half human/half Europan children; thus
contracting an extremely rare skin disease called, The Bacteria Poop
Syndrome (BPS). Bacteria from the inner body work their way up to the
outer layer of the epidermis and defecate in large quantities, turning
the flesh into Cheddar, Mozzarella, Swiss, Colby, Monterey Jack,
Parmesan or Cottage Cheese, depending on your ethnic background. Every
month the victim sheds about a pound of cheese that's sold to your
unsuspecting neighborhood Mom and Pop grocery store; to help pay medical
costs and earn a little profit for the grocer.
"Mr Big is now suffering from the far more advanced stages of the
disease; and his feet are gradually succumbing to the final, most
decisively horrifying manifestation due to the affliction; Limburger
cheese. For that very reason, he belongs to a highly, secretive support
group, called 'Odor Eaters Anonymous.' The group gets together two times
a week, wearing paper bags over their heads so as to not recognize each
other. Everyone is to participate in an hour long session of foot
washing; to share in each other's misery and shame.
"You present the warning to Mr Big, and he'll have no choice but to
return to the Fictional Forest." Pigglesworth announced.
"Wow, where did you get all of this?" I whispered, being very deeply
struck that a simple cherry picker would have the resources to gather
such sensitive information. But, how stupid of me, he could For-saw the
past!.
Then He leaned closer... "It's all in The X-Wife Files!"
----------------------------
(Episode 6)
After a near complete fortnight while surviving on wild berries, nuts
and maple sap; we woke on the 13th morning, eyeing the The Merry Calypso
Singers approaching our encampment. "Go ahead Marty, you know what to
do!" I prodded.
Marty swaggered toward the obvious chieftain of the gleeful bunch. "Are
you the Milkman?" The band leader demanded.
"I am!" Marty boasted.
"Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds!...." the leader prompted.
"...And Cowpatties Burn Better Than Buffalo Turds!" Marty heralded with
his chin held towering high.
I, with much ado, darted at the leader who subsequently reared back and
hurled a blazing cowpattie, just missing my right shoulder, after I
approached to greet him. "Why do you guys keep doing this to me?!" I
whimpered..
"We don't want you! We want the Milkman!" The headman insisted.
Marty advanced forward as the Merry Men picked him up over their heads,
hailing "God save the Milkman!"... and marched on.
We tarried along for miles, and still more miles, until we fell upon a
massive pile of mangled wreckage..."My demolished Train of Thought!" I
cried.
----------------------------
(Episode 7)
"I hope you know, though I don't need to assist you much... I'm going to
do everything I can to make a fool of you!" Matilda clawed at Mr. Big.
"Shut up, pretty pussy cat, you're gonna make me rich!"
"And now, live from the Sands Motel, in Las Vegas, Nevada.... Ladies and
Gentlemen, it is my privilege to introduce to you this evening...Emilio
Esparanza Muchco Gusto Julio Bigjohn, i.e. Mr. Big, and the world's only
talking cat!"
After about five minutes of thunderous applause, Mr. Big started his
gigantic leap into world fame. "Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen ....
What I'm going to demonstrate to you this evening, took years of hard
work in exhaustive efforts to teach a rather dumb feline to master the
English language. No one else in all the world can take credit for my
fantastic feat. She holds a PhD, has dined with 3 US presidents, 14
different world ambassadors; and knows 23 different languages from many
different nations."
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" The audience sighed in adoration.
And now! .... Ladies and Gentlemen," Mr Big proudly announced, "I shall
ask Miss Matilda Waudlebaum the following Question: In all the years of
my exhaustive genius efforts, as concerns your education, how be it that
you of all dumb... er um...uneducated species can express your innermost
thoughts in the English dialect?"
Matilda replied quite profoundly....... "Meow."
The crowd dotingly chuckled as she rubbed up next to the microphone,
purring for all to hear.
"I'm gonna have violin strings made from your entrails, if you don't
co-operate, cat!" Mr. Big whispered, covering the mic. "She's just
kidding, aren't you, Matilda?"
"That's right, Ladies and Gentlemen, I was left at an orphanage at 3
months of age, until my humble Mr. Big rescued me. I never had to sleep
outside, ate the most nutritious of food; and after he taught me to
speak, he enrolled me in the finest Ivy League school in the nation!"
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" The audience melted as Mr. Big smiled and winked
his only eye to the camera.
"But, if you think I'M fascinating," Matilda purred, "I'd like to
introduce you all to someone who REALLY has a lot to say!"
"WHO?!" Mr. Big nervously inquired.
"Let's give a big hand for Mrs. Nelly Big, who is sure to entertain us
with a fun-filled evening of fascinating tales of her estranged husband,
come on out, Nelly!"
"But, but, but there is no Mrs......"
"Hi, dumplings," Nelly winked, "as soon as Miss Waudlebaum informed me
of this occasion, I cancelled all my prior promised appointments just to
speak on your behalf. Now, where do I begin? Oh yes, let's talk about
all the troubles in the bedroom..."
"Woooooooooooooooh!" The crowd lit up.
"Oh, I'm gonna kill you, cat!!!!" Mr. Big yelled, while in pursuit of
Matilda as the crowd became indignant -- throwing chairs, shoes, the
four basic food groups, and whatever else was available, on to the
stage. Just as you'd think there absolutely wasn't anything left to
throw, a brawny gentleman in the first row leaped onto the stage and
clobbered Mr. Big with a 60 pound kitchen sink over his oversized head,
knocking him senselessly comatose. BONK!!!!!!!
"Woooooooooooooooooh! Ouchhhhhhh!!!!!!!!"
Then, there was a sudden hush on the crowd as the floor rumbled and the
fire breathing Rumpasourous Rex, Chairman Meow, exploded like a ruptured
appendix... and pounced on Mr. Big, rump first, over his entire face;
then loosed an enormous 300 decibel hunk of cheese, shattering Mr. Big's
every bone... not to mention bringing down all the fancy portraits
hanging on the walls. He arose triumphantly and swallowed the One-Eyed
Midget whole, as the audience begged for more.
Nelly, not having good hearing or eyesight, figured they wanted more of
HER and lectured for another half hour before she was escorted off
stage. A book publisher quickly approached her with a gigantic book
offer, and a $10,000 check as an advance. "I was married once to an old
fart just like him," she whispered, grabbing her elbow and escorted her
to her van to sign contracts.
Matilda, meanwhile, had made a mad dash out a side door, not realizing
what was going on while jumping into the backseat of a waiting cab. "To
the airport please! Do hurry!"
The sleepy cab driver nodded without looking in the rearview mirror.
Matilda was frantic as to what to do next. No more than fifteen minutes
later, the taxi screeched to a halt. "Ah, dattle be five bucks, ma'am."
Matilda answered nervously. "I don't have any money, but,...."
"Hey look, ma'am, I ...." The driver realized he was conversing with a
cat as Matilda gave him a cute but dumb animal look, and left him in a
CATatonic trance (sorry, couldn't help myself).
She ran past the indoor crowd, looked up at the flight schedule. She
noticed that 'Tragedy Airlines, Flight 13,' had a plane headed for
Oklahoma City, boarding passengers in 5 minutes. "How am I going to
board a plane? Oh! In the luggage compartment, naturally."
She sneaked past the gate and noticed the loading attendant not paying
attention, apathetically loading luggage, then she prowled behind and
noticed he was about to sneeze. With his eyes shut and nose itching, he
didn't see her jump inside, just before he shut the compartment and
locked it tight.
-----------------------------
(Episode 8)
Meanwhile deep in the fictional forest I was trying to piece my Train of
Thought back together.
"All I have to do is gather my scattered thoughts and reconstruct my
story line."
This was going to prove taxing, creating a story within a story, but I
had it settled in my mind it could be done. Of course, I dreaded the
chore of using a pen once again, but, I had no choice; the one-eyed
midget ran off with my word processor and hocked it.
As I began my introduction, my locomotion of ideas were starting to be
put back on track (corny, huh?). Gradually my Train of Thought was
beginning to piece together. I excitedly got into the engine.
"Good Godfrey! No fuel! Where am I going to get the ink? The life blood
of my story?!!" I asked myself aloud.
"Why don't we jest push it till it gets uphill and then let'er rip?!"
Doodah suggested.
"Okay, just push it till she starts goin' down. Then everyone jump on."
Doodah and Marty pushed as Maggie held a megaphone in one paw, giving
directions. We were having a difficult laborious time till the Merry
Band of Calypso Singers joined in pushing, and singing "We Shall
Overcome."
Once the train reached the top it began to speed up. Marty and DooDah
jumped aboard just as steam erupted from the spout. I looked down at the
front panel. "Ink! We've got ink... a full tank!" The entire group was
elated with enthusiasm. We did it!
As I looked out the window I noticed my exact 'Fictional Likeness,' that
the One-Eyed Midget had created, waving farewell to me. I returned the
gesture, realizing I was no more subjected to Mr Big's imagination, for
I was leaving my fictional self behind and would again enter my own
reality... by again dying a fictitious death. Something I hadn't
informed the others about.
"Shouldn't I tell them? Or just do it?" I thought to myself. But there
wasn't much time to explain as the unfinished track was fast
approaching. Upon its advance, Marty immediately passed out
"Where in tarnation are you goin'?! Look out!" and..."We're gonna bloody
die!" were Doodah and Maggie's inquisitions and proclamations concerning
their inevitable --inescapable demise.
"Hold on! It's gonna be all right!" I shouted, holding on to Doodah's
arm as he thinks about jumping. The train gathered momentum, going
faster and faster, approaching the same fall as before. Then as everyone
gasped it plunged into the rocks and exploded.
We opened our eyes, still screaming--- and realized we were back in our
physical reality. We were also in the middle of the intersection on the
corner of "I" and "Am" and everyone was honking, demanding we get out of
the road as Doodah began making threats to arrest the next horn blower.
We had all just shaken the dust off ourselves when the ground began to
tremble and the fire breathing, feline looking, Rumpasaurous Rex came
ripping up through the ground in the middle of the intersection,
scattering concrete fragments in all directions... "Hey, yer gonna have
to stop doing that, buddy!" Doodah demanded.
"Yeah, yeah, okay." Chairman Meow shrugged. "The-one eyed midget and all
his mischief are no more!" he proudly affirmed.
"Where is he?" Doodah asked, needing reassurance.
"Consumed in kitty litter.(hee hee)" the cat-like Rumpasaurous joked,
though no one laughed, instead everyone headed home, each one of us
going in separate directions.
Just as Maggie and I were about a block away, Matilda observed us from
the topmost of her favorite shade tree and came running. "Oh dear luvs,
I worried so much about you! You'll just never believe what I've been
through." She excitedly rapped on and on.
"Well," Maggie replied, "while the lad and me-self had been risking our
lives, you got to go Vegas."
"Oh my, aren't we in a bitchy mood today?" Matilda purred.
"Oh you sissy little pussy willow!" Mag growled. The two of them battled
similar to cats and dogs, all the way to our humble abode.
---------------------------------
(Episode 9)
Meanwhile, Next Monday Night At The Bid For Sheriff Debate
... And as the next sheriff of Pothole County," Marty promised, "I'll
make sure we don't have nothin' like that again."
"Would you like a rebuttal, Doodah? You have one minute." The Debate
Judge asked.
"Yeah, I'd like to say that my opponent is an arrogant S.O.B.!"
Immediately fists began to swing as the band started up, and a singer
stepped up to the microphone to lead those in attendance with a cheerful
campaign chorus--- with the melody of Camptown Races;
Who's the man who'll cut your grass?
Doodah Doodah...
Even carry out your trash
And meet your every whim.
He'll even wash your car
Or treat you at the bar
He'll go so far as kiss your butt--
If you'll vote for him!
All cheered as Doodah and Marty were tumbling all over the platform,
still punching it out. Everyone except the little neighbor lady, Mrs.
McPherson, who paced up to the mic. "Will everyone please just shut-up
and listen? Neither one of these heathens deserve our votes. I say let's
draft Sheriff Marshall Dumas for another term in office!"
Everyone, but Doodah and Marty, who were still rolling on the floor,
catcalled her off of her soapbox. The whole community wanted to see more
blood, gore, and guts. After the judge broke up the battle and calmed
the crowd, he demanded that the debate resume peacefully. Doodah was the
first to get up, bloody nose and all, surprisingly sportsmanlike
though... as he lent a hand to Marty, who now was adorned with a
plaque-stricken bicuspid, lodged in his left earlobe.
"You boys oughta be ashamed of ur-selves." the Judge harped. "Now
Doodah, if you can't say anything respectable about your opponent, then
don't say nothin' at all! You hear?"
"Ah yes sir.... Ma opponent wants to be easy on first time offenders. He
wants to have readin' and rithmatic books in the jail cells. My opponent
has a big heart... a real big heart... a really, real big heart.. but
there's still plenty of room in it for his really, really, real big
mouth... and... I still say he's an arrogant S.O.B.!!"
Following fifteen more minutes of knuckles soaring, Marty ascended up to
the microphone to secure the platform. "I'd just like to say... I know
my opponent don't like me much. But I've always looked up to him as my
big brother...er somethin', and I've just decided that if this here
election is gonna divide everyone, I'd just as soon go back to
deliverin' milk. I don't want your vote. I want my old buddy, Doodah,
back!"
All the people booing and hissing began leaving in disgust as Doodah
rose to his feet to bear-hug Marty, and let loose on his shoulder. "When
I said Marty was an S.O.B, I was right." A stillness fell on those who
stuck around as he continued, "He's a full fledged Son of a Boy Scout!
And I demand that you vote for Marty, tomorrow!"
"No no no, Doodah, YOU deserve it, my friend!" Marty replied.
"Nope, I'm takin' over yer milk business, Heh Heh." Doodah snickered.
"What's so funny 'bout the milk business? Think you could do it better?"
Marty boiled.
"Why no, Marty, Heh Heh! Unlike you, milk and I aren't in the same
league, Heh Heh!"
Before long, the entire affair started up again. The debate judge took
charge of the festivity as Doodah and Marty, more vicious than before,
rumbled about, throwing punches. "Thank you, everyone, for comin' to the
debate. Votin' time starts tomorrow at 7 A.M. Should there be a problem
with the electricity tonight an yer clocks should stop 'cause of the
up-coming blizzard.... that's around the time Frank Jones lets the
chickens out, and the cock crows thrice."
-----------------------------------------
(Episode 10)
And, In The Middle Of The News The Following Day.
"....................Concerning the situation in the former Soviet
Union, 'all hope for Russia is lost, cause Vladimir's Pootin'!' said an
up and coming......... Oh, I'm sorry, I read that wrong..... "All hope,
for Russia, is a lost cause!" Vladimir Putin said.... An up and coming
member of the Duma, who's seriously considering the Prime Minister-ship,
if offered. More details on that later, as they arrive.
"In National news today........From Los Angeles, California, we've just
recieved word that popular television show host, Patti Peptalk, from The
Patti Peptalk Hour, is being held in the Los Angeles City Jail on 2nd
degree murder charges of 61 people, and attempted murder of 12 others
who were all attending the annual Patti Peptalk Pitty Party.
"Her defense lawyers are trying to negotiate a deal, that if she pleads
guilty, the charges would be lowered to 1st degree manslaughter. But,
the DA's office is not budging and wouldn't release any details, other
than the apparent incident occurred when a sweet, grandmotherly like
woman in the front row kindly advised Mrs Peptalk that her dress didn't
quite match her eyes.
"Oh, I've just been handed a late breaking story..... Vladimir Putin
just called... I don't understand Russian, but he sounded pissed!...The
boss told me to tell you to clean out your lock.....er...........Uh
"............In local news: so far, there is a low voter turnout in the
efforts of electing a new sheriff in Mountain Oyster and the surrounding
area. Everyone is either watching the noon parade, taking their kids to
the park for the big picnic; or playing bingo since it's once again
legal in Pothole County. Tonight there's supposed to be a big fireworks
display, and the newly elected sheriff is to make a big speech. But of
course this celebration has nothing to do with election day..... it's
George Birthington's Washday!!!!!!!!"
GET THE CHIP OFF YOUR SHOULDER
(Episode 1)
Analyzing the Analyst
DR: Well how did we do this week, Clyde?
ME: You just wouldn't believe! My world has been turned upside down ever
since I started writing this book. A one-eyed midget followed me home,
but sent me to the Fictional Forest, while he took my cat to Vegas. My
dog and I..........
DR: There you go again! Are you still having a problem with reality?
ME: Oh no.... I don't have a problem with reality, the question is, does
reality have a problem with me?
DR: You know we talked about hospitalization last week... Have you
considered it?
ME: Oh no way, man! I've already been stuck in a strait jacket for the
past 3 months, and I was hoping you'd be the right person to pull it
off. I've just been under a lot of stress. That's all. But, sometimes I
do wonder, when this personality finally splits.....Who's gonna get
custody of my mind?
DR: Uh, Clyde, have you thought about doing something with
yourself...like finishing college?
ME: No, I'm currently attending my latter sophomore years in the great
school of life. And I hope, in spite of a few suspensions for
misbehaving in class, to graduate with honors in the hereafter; thanks
to my wonderful, compassionate school counsellor, who promises to speak
up on my behalf that day...Why, just this morning I realized I had been
doing a lot of laying around and feeling sorry for myself. So, I took
that great textbook of life, closed my eyes, and asked the almighty
professor to guide my finger on where it should land...he took me to the
book of Matthew...
DR: What did it say?
ME: "Take up thy bed and walk!"
DR: Oh yes, speaking of the spiritual, have you ever looked into the
great Gautama Buddah? Buddah was a man who, 500 years before Christ, set
out to find ultimate wisdom by sitting under a tree, and...
ME: Oh yeah, it fell on his head during a violent thunderstorm one
night, I remember!
DR: Uh, well no...how did we get off on religion anyway? What you need
is a social life. Have you considered dating? You never know, you might
just find a compatible friend, and who knows, Clyde, you might even get
married!
ME: Naw, marriage is just for married people. And besides, I just
recently read that life evolved out of bacteria. So, I figure, if I
continue to let the trash build up in my bachelor pad, that sooner or
later, I'll have a new roommate!!!... I just hope she's female.
DR: Huh?...well, lets talk about your mother.
ME: What's my mother got to do with anything?
DR: Okay, okay.... what's your earliest childhood memory?
ME: Well Um... I was breech birthed! Yep! Came into this world making a
ass of myself, as usual. My parents were taking a cruise when mom went
into early labor. It was May 1st, and when the doctor caught a glimpes
of the first thing that popped out, which he assumed was my face, he
cried, "Mayday! Mayday! Abandon ship!"
DR: Do I sense a bit of cynicism?
ME: I don't know!... DO YOU?
DR: You're making this very difficult for me.
ME: I'm just getting my money's worth.
DR: You seem so easily irritated, are you aware of that?
ME: Yeah well... Maybe that has something to do with my mother.
DR: I'm really trying to help you, Clyde. Do you not trust me?
ME: Well, as some narcissistic writer once wrote:
Drop another dollar
in the pocket of my coat.
My bank of trust had just gone bust
in other words it's broke.
DR: Did you write that?
ME: Yeah I did, but I'm no longer that person.
DR: I see... and why is that?
ME: Well the old man, who's dead now, used to ask a lot of questions....
DR: And you being the new man, don't of course.
ME: Nope! I question nothing?
DR: That's a contradiction!
ME: What is?
DR: You said you question nothing, yet you ended it with a question
mark.
ME: And you think I need help!
DR: I think I need a drink!
ME: Oh yeah, eat, drink and be Mary, or whoever else you want to be...
Is that the way you handle your problems? You know, that's what I don't
like about you people! Someone like me gets sucked into thinking there's
something wrong with them, when everything is really quite external.
When someone's lost their job, wife, kids, the house has been
repossessed and their best friend (which happens to be a dog) leaves
home - when that person comes to you, you say, Oh my! You're depressed,
why, by golly that's not normal; you should learn to be happy all by
yourself. You give pills at the drop of a hat, cause you can't accept
people where they're at. No! They have to be changed into thinking like
everyone else. Well I happen to think in four opposite abstractions of
13 different dimensions of mundane logic.... Can YOU boast that claim?!
DR: What did you just say!?
ME: I said; "Oh yeah, eat, drink and be Mary, or whoever else you...
DR: No, I mean what did you say at the last?
ME: Last doesn't matter, man! First comes before whatever is, and
nothing is whatever isn't. Don't you get it? This is was!!!
DR: Go on! go on! I think we're finally getting somewhere!
ME: My life lately has been just like that annoying coffee commercial
jingle, except my version goes: "The best part of cracking up... is
Martians in your cup!" And I keep hearing this voice inside my head
saying, "It's been you all this time and we both know it, don't I?" Why
just yesterday, I thought I was the 16th century humanist theologian
Desiderius Erasmas; until the tidy bowl man popped out of my toaster,
singing a microwave version of, "Mary had a little lamb, and he weighed
a healthy 5 pounds and 10 ounces."
Then Winter, who was also also inside my head and on the same O.B. unit
of the hospital; screamed out in labor pains, gave birth to Spring, and
sighed, "Ah isn't she beautiful! -- I think I'll call her Summer!"
But, you know doc, everything is just a cliché! There are no new
thoughts, just old ones that get twisted around trees bearing the fruits
of discontent. I could declare, "I stink therefore I am," and everyone
would begin holding their nose pondering my poignant utterance. But, I'm
a nobody!....You're a nobody!!!!..We're all just one big nobody!!
Somebody!......let me out from myself!!!! AGHHH! CRASH! CRUNCH! SMASH!
DR: That's right! Get in touch with that primal inner child wanting to
escape! Let him out!! Here, here's an ashtray!!
ME: SMASH! BAM! HA! HA! HA! HE! BOOM! OUCH!
DR: Here, take this! It's a telephone, but this is not an ordinary
phone. This one is your father! And you've never dealt with your Oedipus
Complex.... take this phone and castrate the impostor!!
ME: I'm gonna kill you, Dad!!! AGHHH! BOOM! RING ! LING! DING! Whew!
DR: Now lets sit back down and talk about what you were feeling.
ME: Well UH... Whew!... UH... you were wrong... um, it hasn't been my
mother...it hasn't been my father. It's... it's me! It's been me all
this time!
DR: Oh no, no, no! You're having delusions of grandeur! I'll have to
increase your dosage to prevent the psychosis from getting worse!...
Well, ah, our time is up. I'd like you to think about our session today,
and pick up where we left off next week... Um you do have insurance
don't you?
ME: Yes, my policy number is right there in your charts.
DR: Oh, okay, lets see... Ashtray; $150.00...it's been in the family for
years, I'm sure they'll understand.....Telephone; $300.00... Ceiling
Damage....Golf clubs.... and, uh, office visit... $130. Well I'd like
you to sign an agreement that you won't do anything foolish between now
and next week........
(Episode 2)
As I was driving off, I felt I was mighty lucky to have such a friend,
for only $130 an hour! Hah! I didn't need no shrink! Just didn't have
any drive anymore and I hadn't been writing as it was too risky. What
was I gonna do with my life, I wondered. I was almost 40! Heck, someone
who was as old as I was, when I was born, is either dead or mighty old!
Well, at least I had a mortgage, and I figured... in 11 years I'd have a
little cash saved and could go into a retirement home. Yippee!
As I pulled into the driveway, I noticed the mailbox was loaded and a
sudden surge of relevance flowed throughout my entire being. Ah a couple
of political magazines. "Wow! Look at this! A letter from a bill
collector, but, hey! It says I'm a preferred customer! This must mean my
life has meaning after all! Surely they wont mind waiting a couple more
months to recieve a payment... since I'm such a wonderful patron!"
Creaking open the door, I threw my fan mail on my ever faithful sofa who
received my aching body. "Why did I ever start going to that shrink
anyway! Now I've got a diagnosis!" I asked myself aloud.
I slithered, like a snake, crosswise on the rug towards my personal
library. "Schizo Affective Disorder, huh?" I mumbled, looking up its
definition in my DSM3 from my, only semester in college days. Through
all the medical jargon, all I could tell was that's it's a disease
indistinguishably centered between Bipolar Disorder, and Schizophrenia,
brought about by chemicals in the brain, reacting to stress.
"Great," I sighed with a satirical overtone, "Now I'll never be able to
be the President of the United States."
Well, the last few months to say the least, had been quite stressful.
Funny thing, ever since I'd been on medication--- Matilda and Maggie had
quit talking to me, or anyone for that matter. I couldn't figure out
what I'd done to give rise to their resentment. I couldn't tell my
Psychiatrist about it, Doc would've just figured that I needed to be on
more meds.
"I think I'll just" (click) "watch some TV..." I yawned, "Hmm, C-Spam
aaay?...."
"Will the congressman from Connecticut yield for the Gentleman from
California?"
"No I Won't!" the Congressman responded.
"Whatdya' mean no I won't?"
"I mean No I Won't! Dats wa'a mean! Cause I'm not finished yet, Mr.
Speaker!"
"Will the Gentle Lady from Utah remove the Gentleman from Connecticut
off the floor, please," the Speaker requested.
"Why me?" the Utah congresswoman asked.
"Cause he's carrying on like a buffoon... and you're bigger than both of
us put together..."
(Click)Hmmm, what else is on TV?(Click)(Click)
".........And now, for the best in innovative Chinese Cuisine, here's
the host of Chiang Kai Chef; Wae Tu Long Dum Naim!!!... Over to you,
Master Naim."
"Thank you, Seoul-Vehs..mmm..Seoul....ohhhhhh...how you say?..."
"Sylvester, Sir." The announcer muttered lowly.
"Oh yes yes, thank you Seoul-Vehs-Tah-Sir. Today we talk about tasty
dish my son Xing make...I call him Xing after sign I saw at busy
intersection. So funny yes? ha ha ha!.... No seriously, I talk today,
Lady and Gentlemen, about popular ancient Ming Dynasty dish, and show
you how to Wok Your Dog. First get fresh snow-peas...."(Click)
"I can't stand it. I've got to write some more in this book, but I'm
afraid of what else might happen. My life is so meaningless, without
expression, and these pills just keep my brain anesthetized. That's it!
No more! I'm gonna flush em down the toilet. That's what I'm gonna do.
Matilda, I'm not gonna take these pills anymore... have you got anything
to say about it?"
She just stared back at me. She knew what I was saying, she was just
acting dumb that's all. I've got it all figured out: Man destroys and
rearranges this world in his waking hours, but while he sleeps, the
animals communicate with one another devising ways to keep the planet
from being blown apart. They're just faking their witlessness, why I bet
they're thoroughly amused by us simpletons. They don't fool me!
"Let's see what's on C-Spam again."(click)(click)(click)(click-click)
"NO, I am not out of order, Sir!!!" Congressman Learhart insisted while
hurling the podium into a section of, all at once, vacated seats. "If
you'd check your Constitution, you'd find the 10th Amendment concurs
with my assertions! And I'm surefire ready as Helena Montana to behave
as a no good Son of a rich man's mother sucking lemons where the ship
got damaged, to take........"
"Mr. Learhart, watch your language!!!" the Speaker interrupted, red
faced, as he stood up and hammer |