Friday, January 23, 2015

Vignette # 342: Tubby goes to HawryRoood!

Tubby:  Frankie went to Hollywood. (blinking tears away)

Signore Pizzicato:   Relax!  Don't do it.

Tubby:  B-but m-maybe if I go there, I can get in pictures.

Signore Pizzicato:  You oughta be in pictures.

Tubby:  Do me a favor, d-dump some more of that condensed onion juice into my bell?

Signore Pizzicato:  You oughta be a star! (dumping entire gallon of onion juice in)

Tubby:  B-but I can't even cry on command.  (gargly noises) What kind of film star would I make.

Signore Pizzicato:  But Tubby, you are already a film star.  (motioning towards the film crew and stop motion animation crew) See?

(The conductor holds up his wand and looks around the stage at all the instruments.  All the instruments stand to attention, take a deep breath, and begin.  As soon as Tubby joins in, a geyser of onion juice {mixed with that godawful stuff that gathers in the innermost tubes and resevoirs of Tubby's innards} spewed over the three front rows of the audience, and quite drenches Signore Pizzicato.  The orchestra stops and everyone glares at Tubby).

Tubby:  (sniff) S-s-sorry, everybody.

Director: CUT!!!!!!!  What the fuck was that?!

Turned-tables Boredom (Why Pee? Why?)

“The worst thing about immortality,” Khamisi mulled as the smell of his stew grew savory, “is that everything gets boring eventually.” He felt qualified to think this, as he had tried most of the pleasures and tortures available to humankind so far. Oh, everything felt new for the first few decades he tried it, and sometimes he was surprised by just how refreshing even, say, slavery could be. But nothing lasted forever, except forever. And boredom, it seemed.

He was sure it all went back to that terrible day thirty-three suns after his birth, with that strange animal so far south from its habitat, when he had been so far north of his home—in the years since he had learned its name was “wolf.” But he didn’t consciously think about this now; his mind merely touched it like a chapped lip.

“The best thing about immortality,” his thoughts continued, “is the parlor tricks.” Those were always amusing for at least a brief moment, although like tobacco they always eventually created more trouble than they were worth, even for the unkillable. (“That’s true for the tobacco too. Now there’s an enslavement!”) But no, really, he shouldn’t be so hard on parlor tricks—they were what opened the door to his many years as king. And those years as a king opened the doors to so many pleasures. If nothing else, thanks to them he now knew they could not end his boredom. Women... Bantu women, Arab women, even women from even farther east... he had had his pick in those days. Gold and riches in every combination, though no silver. 

(He said he couldn’t touch the damn stuff, and it was literally true. Every time he tried, his hand pulled away—he couldn’t force it with all his will. He never really explored this strange aspect of himself, unlike his constant broodings on immortality.) 

Yes... all manner of playthings and curiosities had passed by his eyes. He had managed a lot in his few short decades as god-king, but in the end, he was only happy that it had to end. And it did have to end, because by the end, there was too much explaining, too much hatred, too little acceptance of a god-king that was truly immortal, rather than pretending so. They couldn’t kill him, but he found himself wishing he were dead more often than usual by the end of those years. 

So his dearest and most trusted advisor Bakari was true to his name when he concocted the plan with that delightful ignoble defeat and overthrow. Khamisi reaped years of amusement and happiness for his friend’s lovely life when the “traitor” Bakari “found Khamisi’s weakness” and sent him into slavery at the fringe of the empire. Bakari, understanding his subject’s mortal agonies better than his Khamisi had, had been a wise ruler and beneficial, and Khamisi made sure to stay informed on news of his land even as a slave so that he could enjoy it. He found the pain and hard labor refreshing for those years, and perhaps the hardest thing was pretending to truly suffer “losing the short years of the only life he had” to it... and finding a way to be enslaved in a new place several times to avoid, yet again, those inevitable nagging questions about his rock-stable, unaging face.

“It’s so hard to still need when I really should need nothing, he grumbled,” as he ladled the stew into a bowl. And he really did need nothing. He’d never needed to eat, though he still enjoyed food. Nor to drink, nor sleep... nor even to piss. But he still enjoyed all of it. It was just like that goddamned tobacco that these new “Europeans” had showed him oh-so-short ago... decades at the most. Why pee? Why? When it doesn’t do anything that he needs? Because he loved it, more than sex, even.

“Oh, yeah. I’m gonna pee right now.” He journeyed to a not-recently-used spot in his shaman’s abode (even the visceral, lively pain of slavery eventually got boring) in the Amboni Caves, and let out a delicious stream. He felt great. And entertained. For ten tortuously infinitessimal seconds. Why pee, why? Because it was another tobacco.

What was it that trader from “India” had once said of the philosophy of that “Buddha” fellow? “All is Maya—illusion.” 

Yeah. That. 

Damn, that was a good piss, though!

Friday, January 16, 2015

Don't Worry, Joe Co.

Joe Eawest was alone, tied to a chair in his parents' living room.  Don't Worry Kyoko was just getting going.  

Fuck it, thought Joe Eawest.


I'm already totally busted.  I might as well have fun with this.  Besides, Raymond doesn't know what I do about this album.  

Joe looked around.  His mouth full of joints was smoldering.  Thanks to the moist dankness of this Maui Wowee, three joints had already gone all the way out, and two others looked on their way out.  He shifted his inhaling to the side of his mouth with the lit ones, hoping the other would peter out.  After a moment, they did.  He let the dead joints fall to his lap, where his waiting hands began to deconstruct them and stuff the joint weed into his mouth and the torn rolling papers into his pocket.


That leaves two parially smoked joints left to go.  No problemo.  He puffed them both heartily, coughing and chuckling.

The chair he was tied to was not screwed or secured to the floor at all, so it was quite easy to lift off the floor.  He scooted the chair all the way over to the five foot long wooden paneled General Electric FM/AM 3 speed turntable stereo home entertainment system.  It was one of those old jobbies, it stood almost two feet off the floor and looked like a long coffeetable with gold speakers.  When he was parallel to the left speaker he lifted his leg and flung it into the turntable.  He managed to both turn the volume down a bit, then cause the needle to slide the rest of the way to the end of the side with a horrible "SCCCCRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEAAAAATCH!!!!"

Satisfied, he removed his foot and waited.  Then he smiled.  The record had started over.  The first song on that side was of course, Lennon's song Cold Turkey, which Joe loved.  It was almost his favorite song on the whole double album.  When the song finished, Don't Worry Kyoko began once again.  Joe bounced the chair a few times  The record skipped a couple times and found his new gouge and then bounced along it and screeched to the end of the side again.

In this way, Joe Eawest finished his two joints happily.  He ended up listening to Cold Turkey about five times, and to his new masterpiece, the 'remix' of Don't Worry Kyoko.
After he finished the jays, Joe figured out with stony clarity that he could yank the cord out of the wall with his foot.  He did, then managed to untie his right hand.  Raymond had been far too enraged to make a decent goddamn knot.  Fucking hothead.  He'd untied himself from the chair and stood.

And I'm outta here.  I gotta talk to Bart.

He decided that he'd ride his Schwinn Fleet.  He headed out to the garage.

Thursday, January 15, 2015

Smoke 7


Joe Eawest's pulse quickened and throat tightened, as they always did on hearing that word.

Raymond Eawest stepped into the room, suit and tie, the model of the perfect 50's father...

His face was red with rage.

"I don't know how... they... led you. But I've always tried to raise you to be a good Christian and a fine young man."

He pulled his furiously shaking hands from behind his back, revealing that they held a silver cigarette case, with a sticker of "one of your childish cartoon characters" on the top. Joe and he both knew where he had found it. He opened it up. It was full of joints.

"Smoke seven."

"Excuse me, Dad?"


"Excuse me, Father?"

"Smoke. Seven."

"What -"


Raymond's nonexistent patience expired, and he began ripping the fat, amateurishly-rolled cigarettes out of their slots and ramming them into Joe's surprised lips. Joe knew that if he resisted, the next stage would be the belt. He was already secretly learning the skills to physically resist his father, but wasn't ready yet. He knew he should be happy his father pretended to need the belt. He should be happy his father let him live.

Raymond, a pipe smoker, took his matches and lit the seven joints one by one, almost like birthday candles.


Joe asked no questions and inhaled.

He grabbed Joe, helpless in a fit of coughing, and maneuvered him into the living room, home to the adults' record player.

"Oh, hello Ray," said Mrs. Eawest as Ray entered. Joe was standing with his back to Mrs. Eawest.

"Hello, honey. May I ask that you stay in the garden for a few hours? Joe and I need to have a very long and very serious discussion about growing up and manhood."

"Oh certainly, Ray! Oh, come to think of it, Sally wanted me to come over for coffee."

"That sounds nice, dear."

"Well, you two have a fine afternoon, sweetie."

"We certainly will."

Mrs. Eawest exited to the foyer and did not return, presenting an excellent front of seeing nothing odd going on and having no reason to stop back in the living room. Mr. Eawest spent the next few minutes tying Joe to the living-room armchair while simultaneously making sure that he smoked his seven in earnest.

"I've heard that you young people love experimental music, and find repetition soothing.... Oh, id you know that this record player can repeat an album indefinitely?" Raymond said as he dropped the needle down on Yoko Ono's "Don't Worry Kyoko." He then turned the speakers up to the highest volume that wouldn't disturb the neighbors. The Eawest lived in nice suburbs with nice large yards. The neighbors weren't too close.

"Humph! I wish your mother would have tended to the garden instead of twittering with that diddy! Well, you know what they say! If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself!" Raymond shouted over Yoko's screams. "I hope you have a fine and educational afternoon, son!" Raymond concluded cheerily, as if he were doing the most natural thing in the world. The scream - the screen door slammed.

No, no, no!

Intermezzo: In the year 2525, part the third

[Punch collapses, red sawdust flowing from his chest. Note: it should be stressed that Punch *is* to be played a live actor.]

[Curtain closes.]

[Curtain remains closed for an uncomfortably long period of time - to be chosen by the cast. They are encouraged to talk among themselves in the meantime, loudly, and to speak out of character and/or ad-lib some “plot” that will receive no follow-up in the rest of the play.]

Curtain: Beeeeeeelch.

[Cast, now covered in slime, is to spewed out in front of the curtain as if vomited there. Punch is still “bleeding” and continues to do so for about the next three minutes. The cast rise, then begin slowly, then quickly and loudly clapping. Punch and Judy then yank the curtain back open, revealing a scene where everything seems to have moved ten feet to the left, including the fireplace - I mentioned the fireplace, right? - above which rests a gilded machete. Above that is gilded lettering, spelling out “C H E K O V.”]

Chipmunk (in a rich, velvety tenor, muffled frequently by bites out of the giant Subway sandwich):

If it is but a donor of sperm that you need,
Why not let your donor see release?
Why not see your kind donor freed?
Let them out to see the woooooooooorld!

Judy (in a chocolatey bass): Why?

Chipmunk: Why not?

Judy: No - I mean - why?
Why are you not dead, Punch?
What must I do to make you die?

Punch: Nothing!
You need do nothing!
For I am now undead, as sure as unalive!
You verily have killed me, but truly I’ve survived!
Yes I’m a - Zombie!

Urinal: Zombie!

Leaf (falsetto): Zombie!

Judy: You cannot be a zombie!

Chipmunk: Zombie!


Punch: Zombie!

Judy: Because there are no zombies!
[Judy’s Ballad begins - note for composers: this will be track one on the soundtrack. Yes, I want a soundtrack.]
I... once lived in a world with the supernatural
Thought that it was only natural
There was a world beyond the world
But then I grew beyond those childish days
Turned an adult, dropped my childish ways
There are babies to feed, dishes to wash,
Duties to perform - [frustrated, sotto voce] there’s no time for this hogwash...

Urinal: Zombie!

Judy: I saw my friends were different and they wanted to believe!

Chipmunk: Vam - pire - Zombie!

Judy: And it wasn’t just themselves, oh no they wanted to deceive, me!

Punch and Lemmy in bromantic unison: Werewolf... Goblin... Zombie!

Judy: But I will not believe!
Oh no I won’t believe!
You can’t make me believe!
And so you’ll never leave!
Because you are not a zombie, you are dead!

Punch: Oh dear - my only heart - I’ll lose my head!
But do not fret I still will win your bread!
For I shall not listen to my friend!

Judy: Your rhymes are very lazy, and I swear I’ll make you dead
So don’t let your liveliness go to your stupid head!

Remaining cast in unison: Say...

Judy: That gives me an idea...

RCIU: That gives her an idea...

Judy: Surely he can’t survive if...

Punch: I’m right here you know...

Lemmy [staring wild-eyed and disconcertingly into the audience]: PANTRO BACK!!

RCIU: Surely he can’t survive if...

Judy: [Spoken, quickly] I cut his head off!

[At this, Judy walks to the fireplace as slowly as her previous words were quick. She then calmly lifts the machete out of its mount, weighs it a little in her hands, and begins walking towards Punch.]

Punch: I’m still right here, you know...

Judy: I know. That’s the whole point.

Punch: You really have me on edge here...

Judy: Oh. A sharp wit you have.

[Judy rushes at Punch, ready to cut off his head, when suddenly THE GODDESS ISIS materializes.]

ISIS: I won’t let you do that, honey.

[Curtain closes.]

The ignominious end of Mr. Wolf A. Mozza

June, 1964, Manhattan.  12:30 p.m.

     Wolf Alexander Mozza was leaving his Madison Avenue office for lunch when a baby grand piano landed on him, severing most of his arteries in the process and killing him almost instantly.  This only occurred because dozens of section pieces of ornate silver lace trim covered virtually the entire piano.  Mr. Mozza was basically shredded by a giant silver screen falling from 9 stories up.
     If it weren't for the fact that this lace trim was made of silver, Wolf may have been salvaged from his unfortunate predicament.  Unfortunately for him, (or would it be fortunately?) werewolves have a horrible reaction when pierced or sliced with silver.
     The owner of said baby grand, Wladziu Liberace, had been in the process of moving into what would be his fourth flat in 3 years in New York, this time right in the thick of it on Madison Avenue.  He simply couldn't be satisfied with any apartment for very long.  The crane that was lifting the piano had just been inspected a week prior, but due to some corner cutting and not a little bribery, this crane was not very thoroughly looked at, and had some serious wear and tear that resulted in the accident at hand.  It was a terrible loss for Wladziu, who had just spent 3 million dollars on the piano.
     It was all the better for Wolf, however, as he had grown extremely bored and tired of his job as head of jingle writing at Seymour, Woods, and Fowler ad agency.  He was the industry's golden child, an amazing wordsmith and melody composer, who had a special knack for inventing three to six second jingles that were so catchy, they'd get stuck in one's head for not just  hours but days.  He had all he could ever want, his net worth was in the seven digit range, he had a lovely wife and two mistresses, and hung out with all the best people in local society. Yet he had been extremely unhappy for a very long time.
     For Mr. Mozza was really none other than, you guessed it, our old friend Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.  He wouldn't have to endure another miserable day of living this preposterous absurd joke of a life!  After all he'd accomplished!  To live as a jingle jockey for an advertising agency.  As his blood poured out of him all over the sidewalk, all he felt was blessed relief, and mocking spite.  The others would have to go on without him, now.  Oh, how angry and jealous they'd be when they found out he'd escaped.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Intermezzo: In the year 2525, continued...

Punch:  I'll sing a pack of six pence, a jolly full of why!

Marchel Duchamp's Urinal:  I'll show to you a story, sad tale of goodbye.
                                                   O Jeepers what a weeper, a tale of woe tis true,
                                                  About a mad puppet, O Punch, my friend it's you...!!
Punch: (speaking) Piss off, really, old pal, now stop it.

Leaf: Is it yet time for lunch?

Judy:  Punch?  Puh-unnnnch!!

Punch: (in a whisper) Oh, FUCK...


(Judy enters stage right)

Judy: THERE you are, you worthless drunk loser!!!!

Chipmunk:  Fair to par, a purseless punk boozer!

Marchel Duchamp's Urinal:  Figaro!  Figaro! He's a Schmoh!!!

Punch: Honey...(Punch proceeds to reveal a styrofoam cricket bat, which he turns and immediately starts pummeling Judy on the head with.)...I am BUSY.

Judy:  My head hurts.  And you are just a pain in my neck.

Marcel Duchamp's Urinal:  You should see what he does to me!!

Punch:  Quiet, you cum dumpster!

Marcel Duchamp's Urinal:  Sorry.

Punch:  I was talking to HER!!(gesturing towards Judy)

Leaf: Is it lunchtime, Sir?

Judy: (removing a revolver from her purse) I have tried.  And tried.  I have been patient.

Punch:  Go ahead and shoot me.  Put me out of my fucking misery.

Judy:  You are a lazy, pathetic, flabby loser.  When is the last time you picked up your lute and tried to write a new song?

Punch:  Yeah, well.  Working yourself to death all the time for love and then getting no play out of it is painful.  Drinking and toking to kill the pain has its side effects.

Judy:  (firing the revolver at Punch)  Are you talking about sex!?  HA!  I haven't wanted to have sex with you for years!!  Die, sperm donor!

Chipmunk: (pulling out a submarine sandwich twice his size):  Let's EAT!

Marcel Duchamp's Urinal:  (Flush!)

Monday, January 12, 2015

Intermezzo: In the Year 2525

It was the year 2525, and Joe Eawest (rightly) expected he still had approximately one billion years left to wait before he would have any interesting people... real people, not like him... to talk to. He had already taken up many hobbies, and he expected he would take up many more in the countless hectomillenia to come. One of his hobbies was writing comic intermezza playing on the Italian originals, but working with themes, artistic trends (above all absurdism), and events from the centuries that had passed since the glory days of Italian comic opera. His latest work, which he had just begun penning, was called In the Year 2525, and concerned a hilarious altercation between a chipmunk and a leaf. He was counting on Yoshimi and Khamisi to create fitting music... he hoped they’d agree. It seemed to fit their vibe, but you really never knew. They were all so... random. They all were. Joe himself was. He couldn’t fault them.

The first lines of the libretto read:

Chipmunk: I... CAN’T... STOP... THINKING!

Leaf: That doesn’t mean you have to think so loudly. You’ve been keeping me up all winter!

Punch: I know a solution that will cut your accordions right in the knot!

Punch punches Chipmunk as a 1920’s slapstick sound plays.

Punch then punches Leaf, and a car horn honks.

Marchel Duchamp’s Urinal: Ouch! Stop That!


“I was just a baby but I think it was like this. It’s weird to see a murder in a graveyard. And I already knew Dad was mean, but it was really bad to watch him start beating a man ’til he died. And he seemed to love it! That’s why when I saw you going into the dark and then running, I followed.”

“You’ve been a right brat all these years, you know that,” Jens... replied? It was half-relevant to Joe’s words, but it was more an improvisation on the overall atmosphere of parting that marked even this last moment of relaxation before final preparations.

“I’m just a normal boy! That’s mean! You’re mean!”

Joe preferred talking — and backtalking his guardian — to staring at the lackluster letters on the rack in front of him: EEEDOMS. At the tender age of 9 he had already developed quite a talent for Scrabble, but he just didn’t see any answers here. Jens was in the lead and so to protect his lead he had closed up the board right good.

“I am mean, it’s true. Meaner than you know. Mean in so many ways.” Jens suddenly looked so strangely sad, like he had some many times before since that fateful night. “And not just because I’m going to give you back to your father. Oh, and you know I don’t like this solution any better than you do.”

“Oh, I know all about best solutions for bad problems, Vatti!” Joe crooned, with all the self-assurance of a coddled, precocious 9-year-old. Seconds later, visibly having just seen the words, he shouted “Look at this!” Weaving among Jens’ words, he laid down REMODELERS on the board, for well near a hundred points.

“Wolfgang would have been proud of you,” smiled Jens, patting Joe on the head. “Answers... answers.”

An adult watching would have seen something seemed to click in Jens’ head, some cards in a virtual bad hand seem to slip into place. Joe did not, for he was not quite as smart as he thought he was — a trait that he would never shake in his future years.

“May I resign?” Jens then continued. “We have lots of packing to do, and many tracks to cover — thankfully I have experience with that — and many lines for you rehearse. I’m sorry I’ll be teaching you to lie to your father. But... if you knew what I know about evil...” he trailed off.

“It’s OK! He’s mean!”

“Yes. He’s mean... Come, really, come. This might be called child slavery, but with what all’s in store for us... I can’t do it alone. And you’re bright enough to help.” Jens smiled sadly again.

“OK Vatti!”

Suicide by Wormhole

Jens sat alone on the park bench, hands thrust into the thin pockets of his second hand trenchcoat.  Before him lay the understated view of the Yenisei River and central Krasnoyarsk, the view he had seen so many times before.  He thought again about the "meteorite" of 1749, and about what (who?) had been discovered "onboard".

That had all been so long ago.  How tired he had become.  He looked at his watch.  He wasn't showing.  Jens rose from the park bench, dropped the handful of birdseed from inside his pocket on the ground, and walked.

It was then that he had decided.  It could be done.

It was just that simple.  The thing is, the thing that none else knew.  Kirchoff didn't die in the 'accident'.  Jens knew where he was.  And how to get to him.

Remove the cause, and cure the disease.  The only way Jens could ever hope to die.  He would time travel to 209 B.C. and kill the monster that had bitten and infected him so long ago.

He just had to find Glenn first.

Sunday, January 11, 2015

Intermezzo With Mr. Jasny

Yitzchak Jasny tossed and turned on his futon, in the grip of a curiously real dream.

Some space rock band dressed like Viking Gods, Hawkwind maybe, was performing at a festival or something.  Yitzchak was standing in the crowd, dozens of strangers close pressed in around him, and the air was electric as the singer walked up to the mic.  His voice, richly laden with delay and other effects, emitted from the huge stacks of tall speakers everywhere.

Robert Calvert:  

"The wheels of the spoke are only a joke to me! (me, me, me, me)

 The peal of the stroke of twelve just doesn't sound reeeeal! (real, real, real)

The spokes of time aren't like a spiral staircase!

The Waves are not ones science surfers should chase,

These simple oversights reveal

that we'll all be erased!!!!

The wheels of the spoke are only a joke to me! (me, me, me, meeee...)

Don't you mess with the spokes of time,

Phases Stages Rages Crime!

You cannot unwrite the backwards rhyme!

The wheels of the spoke are only a joke to me!(me me me me meeeee)
The wheels of the spoke are only a joke to me!(me me me me meeee)
To meeeeeeeeeeeeeeee......"

Mr. Jasny awoke, sat up, eyes wide.  He got up and got dressed quickly and packed a small overnight satchel.  Then, looking around his apartment briefly to make sure all was snug and secure, he left for the airport.  They would be expecting him.

Saturday, January 10, 2015

Moves Rod

"Now that the adults are to bed we can continue," Amadeus giggled. "Come, come! You simply must see this little spy! And a pretty penny I paid for him too."

Mozart slid an expensive-but-tacky painting to the side and pulled a rod to open up the false wall in his reception chamber. "I know it's wrong of me to keep him in here, but I just don't know where else to do it."

Beethoven was just 17 - you know what I mean - and was intrigued by this crazy middle-aged guy and honored by his attention, but it was all a bit much sometimes. He sighed, ducked, and stepped into the small secret chamber.

Meh, nothing but a bi -

"Just listen to him, the little... thief!" Come to think of it, the bird was singing. Familiar, yes - oh oh course - that would be Wolfgang's Concerto in G Major from three years before?

"Of course he had nothing better do in that merchant's stall all day than to memorize my piano poundings! Of course the merchant could have memorized them too, if he weren't so thick-headed. But he really was for the birds - he sold the fellow for a pittance!"

"But this must have been three years ago - why crow of it now?"

"I didn't know you three years ago... but no, it's not that. It's a triumphant... a sad, triumphant reminiscence. Ludwig, I can see he's dying. I liked writing that, playing with that... it was like a duet. Of course you can hear that his song is not quite the same. It never was. I'm not sure which of us is wrong, you know!" Amadeus laughed.

"This is so... random!" Ludwig chuckled despite himself, echoing generations upon generations of future teenagers.

"You don't say! I love... well I don't want to talk about such lighthearted things because I'm quite depressed by this really - I think I'll give the little fellow a hearty funeral full of sadness and pomp - but I love, love randomness! Ahh, let's forget sadness for a while." He stooped and exited, Ludwig following behind. "Come, come to the parlor. I have a musical game for randomness! We'll write music with dice! And we must talk about anagrams! There is one lady visiting with so much to say about them - and pretty, too!"

"You don't say!" Ludwig mock-echoed.

It was to be a merry evening indeed, for all of the night's guests... but not one for the public record. No-one involved wanted our two friends to go down in history as friends.

Dor Pam Tsol Serutnevda

 "    BEEEEEP!!!

"Hello? Are we on another message?" said Bob.

  "Yeah." replied Erik.  (feedback in background...)


  "I wish there was some way to keep it from doing that." preens Erik, annoyed.  Bob immediately continues.

      "Okay-- now that the adults are to bed we can continue. . . :

    Rosie Rial walked in to hear her husband yell:
'Gosh! Darn! Heck Crap! Frick, Frig! Offal Deth!'

     A turtle climbed out of a box, got picked up by an Israeli spy, got sent to India, mistaken for an ancient God, and got shot.  Super-Pup had to call Safety-Pup to wake up Son-of-A-Pup to bellydance in private.

So he did!  But then the world ended!  So they traveled to Alpha Centuri to start a new life.  But they all died, except for Son-of-A-Pup, who hid in a canister of tuna to a Swahili Paradise. (feedback)

The improbability never ends at Joe Co.  (More feedback)

Big Boys had Itchy Penises.  Son-of-A-Pup were  (feedback!)  disgusts!!  Bad grammar comes in Big Packages!  Safety-Pup, just before he died, opened a Big Package.  Donald, almost after she ate, created a beautiful masterpiece. (feedback)  BobbenAirick refer to an earlier work, thus creating a logical wormhole in the reality of all Agatha Christie novels!  Insect-Man smiled at a toddler.

     "Welcome to Gay and Lesbian Choice Hour!" said his best friend.

An N.P.R. agent jumped out of the bushes, killing them both!  But he showed his identification first, describing himself as a member of the Albanian branch of Sidd Feit.  The closet Irish Geophysicist Army (I.G.A.) agent took notes while applying a dime store moustache.  He then shook hands with Maora Brie Yoka, the Albanian, concealing a joy-buzzer in his other hand because he forgot which hand to use.

'Shut up.'
 'SHUT UP? It looks like a bad word but it isn't!'


"I'd like to welcome you to the King's Island Eiffel Tower, which stands 1,733 feet high, or 33 stories high.  As we ascend to the platform at fifty feet per second, or seven miles per hour, I'd like to remind you that it is forbidden by Ohio state law to drop or spit anything from the tower.  When the elevator comes to a complete stop, you can exit out the door to my right, and we hope you enjoy your day here at King's Island," said a black teenage boy.  He glared at the passengers, hate glaring in his eyes, with a pre-paid smile plastered on his cracking lips."    "