So, there I was… deep in the heart of the Amazon, caught-up in a towering struggle of the intellect with a geographically confused polar bear and a bunch of daisies with an attitude, when this dyslexic dog, who thought she knew everything and in fact thought she’d made everything, and was therefore entitled to all sorts of outrageous titles and grants of land in the Yukon, and consequently was free to dig and scratch wherever she wanted to – and who was refereeing the contest from deep within that special state of doggy-ness which I know we all hope to aspire to one day – this dog calls for a recess, see, and so we were all involved in a rousing game of “Thumb Your Nose at the Nearest Tree and Then Run Around in Circles While Cleaning Each Others Bellybuttons With A Complacent Porcupine” when this bag of french fries… (french fries, I ask you!?!) who was only there in the role of an observer, after all, this bag of french fries comes up to me and says “If I wore your glasses, could I see you home?”
So I feel completely justified in the defense of my actions; which of course are by now so well known that I don’t think we need attempt a full recapitulation, at this point.
Do you know what I mean? Do you see where I’m coming from?
Call me irresponsible.
Call me unforgettable.
Call me when you get home from work…
But since when does voting for a nudist colony’s right to erect a giant banana cream pie conflict with the inalienable right of sand fleas to rumba till they rot?
I mean, really… I never!
(You know, actually I have, but it’s been a while and I’ve been sick), and…
Well, you certainly can’t blame the fleas for wanting to do their part for the side of truth, justice and a really nice slice of rhubarb oiled up and smeared with fried banana and wood shavings, can you?
So I introduced the fleas to the polar bear and the dog – such a smirky, yippy little bitch, what with its jumping around and slobbering and drooling and in general salivating type of behavior – which really set the daisies off, let me tell you – as I say, I introduced the fleas and let nature take the rest of the afternoon off and the daisies and I went for a quick dip with the nudists and then on to the big Reagan doing Dylan (“Well… How many roads, mommy? Well…”) cross-dressing retrospective at the local theater and shoe-tying emporium.
While we were there, we ran into an old friend, a pigeon named Walter, and nearly took his tail feathers off in the impact, but that’s the way it’s gonna be when you drive a ‘43 Desoto like you were taking a nap in the middle of a Jell-O thunderstorm on a froggy afternoon.
Hey… it could happen!!!
Especially when you take into account the fact that Johnnie and Dickie were driving towards each other from Springfield and Lincoln, respectively, and Johnnie was driving at the rate of 89 miles an hour and Dickie was driving at the rate of 13 miles an hour, and how long would it take them to reach arbitration on a new contract when Johnnie was busted for speeding just outside Erie and was sentenced to seventy-eleven years of moribund thumb sucking, while Dickie was driving so damned slow that a deranged semi finally just got fundamentally fed-up with the whole spotted owl issue and rear-ended Dickie, and…
Well, you know, he was driving a Pinto at the time… was being the operative word here.
So, there I was, sitting in the theater, minding my own business, (although I’ll admit that having a shower after our visit with the nudists might have been a really good idea), when a platypus, who was playing Gorbechev in the retrospective (for a Australian animal trying on a Russian accent, he made one hell of an Irishman… if you get my drift), this platypus comes up to me and says “Vell, now, and vould ye be mindink if I danzes viz your daisies?”
Okay, so you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a bunch of daisies thrown into a philological frenzy by a steroid-fueled monotreme butchering several different languages at the same time.
When the fur had stopped flying, the PETA people had laid down their cans of spray paint and the deer and the antelope had played that great old jazz standard, The James Watt Preservation Polka, refreshments were served in the lobby – which consisted of Boiled Beer Beetles smothered in Velveeta and Prune Juice, on a bed of crispy Marshmallow Cream, at which point the Alabama Elvis-Love and Vegan Kiwanis Club started a Barroom Brawl and Twister Tournament with the Fraternal Order of Hoboken Hobbits over the contentious issue of sustainable free-range Mallows.
To marsh, or not to marsh.
That is truly the question…!
Accordingly, the self-appointed authority having jurisdiction (in a fabulous full-length formal ensemble from Neiman-Marcus, that will say to any discriminating eye, at what ever social occasion you deign attend, that you are it, you’re a pillar of society, and so VERY chic that everyone can tell you’re an elemental force of nature, and not someone to be messed with), this self-appointed authority, at the ensuing Bail Hearing and Sauerkraut Ball, declared that we wouldn’t be allowed to retain our chosen counsel, but would have to accept Walter.
Walter, it seems, was a betting man, and had decided to declare himself the winner, despite the fact his horse couldn’t put a coherent race together if it’d had training wheels installed – never mind the part about not having actually won anything.
Let the free-fall begin.
Anyway, having solved the greatest mystery of the modern age – that being the question of just exactly what does happen to all the socks that disappear in the dryer, with the startlingly just and merciful theory that they come back as empty hangers in the closet – our hero heads for the only doorway out of this danger and towards that blessed sanctuary of reincarnation instant milk and Hindu fashion.
Exit stage left.
The audience should now begin to applaud wildly, and then throw those little twisty-ties that come in the boxes of oversized garbage bags (which no one ever uses) with reckless abandon.
Film at eleven.
“Well… have a nice day, mommy…”