Honestly, I don't know how I get myself in these situations. There I was, just tryin to be neighborly by helpin a guy carry a package, and I end up passed out. Right now, you may be askin yourself what kind of weird, diabolical situation I woke up in. What kind of trap had McClawenstein laid for me and how would I get out of it? Also, what should you have for lunch? That doesn't go along with the other questions very well, but it's still probably something you're asking yourself right about now. The answer is tuna salad. You should have a tuna salad sandwich for lunch. Maybe even a tuna melt. With fries. Or coleslaw. Whatever you do, though, don't have the meatball sandwich. It's Friday, after all, and you're gonna have to go back to work with sauce stains all over your tie or blouse, and then you'll be sleepy, not so much from the meatball sub, but because you're unable to eat a meatball sub without drinkin a vodka tonic. You've never been sure why this is. Your dad used to always say it was because your family had a mixed heritage. But after some research, you discovered that you were English/German, which has nothing to do with meatball subs OR vodka. So you began to expect it was just an excuse for your dad to knock back a little vodka at lunch, which was totally understandable because he had himself a tough job as taster down at the old vodka and meatball factory. You know the one, Grandma Genoavich's Old Time Vodka and Meatball Combo Meals. They ended up getting shut down, you know. It turns out some people, after two meals, forgot which part to microwave, and they'd chip their teeth on the frozen meatballs, then drink the hot vodka, causing all their teeth to explode and send fragments flying all through their houses and heads. But, despite working at the vodka and meatball factory as a taster, your dad would still wander down to Papi Luiginik's Fresh Meatball Subs and Vodka Tonic Place of Relaxation every day for lunch and dinner. Your mom, at her wit's end, tried to lure him home by making meatball subs and vodka tonics every day for lunch and dinner, but when he didn't show, she would announce, "Well, somebody's gotta eat all this!" And your poor, saint of a mother would hint about her vodka allergy and her vegetarianism and so you, in an attempt to please her, would try to eat and drink it all, just hoping she would smile at you and your dad would come home and you would be a happy family again. But it was not to be. Your poor dad keeled over at his tasting desk one day, face full of meatballs like tiny, sauce covered hamsters devouring his face. Your poor mother, heartbroken and lonely, would turn to pool boy Renaldo to ease her in her time of need. But Renaldo would soon be launched into space because of his secret life as an intergalactic spy. There, he would be bombarded by cosmic radiation and return home able to change his shape at will. He then discovered his parents murdered in their sleep and vow revenge, turning to life as a super hero, for which he would need to move to a large city and take on an innocuous job like reporter or photographer because superheroes, if they're not incredibly rich, always have to work for a newspaper. Finally suffering a break with reality, your mother would would vow to rid the world of vodka, meatball subs and space rays. She apparently planned to do this by bombarding the food and drink with the space rays and then devouring them all. When last you saw her, she weighed eight thousand pounds, was covered in liver spots and parts of her flesh crawled around on their own, looking like two puppies fighting in a sack made out of silly putty. Wait. Wait a minute. I think I've confused you with a person I made up just now. Sorry 'bout that. Still, you should have the tuna salad for lunch.
I spose you'll be wantin those other two questions answered now. Well, the nefarious trap I found myself in, or on, I should say, when I woke up was this: a couch. That's right, I woke up on a couch. It was orange and green plaid with some frilly stuff around the edges and a couple of stains that looked like eggs, but they could have been boogers. I sat up and looked around. It seemed like I was in a grandmother's living room. Everything was wood beads and frills. There was a record player, but no tv anywhere. Over in the corner, was a glass fronted hutch filled with tea sets made of delicate bone china, roses painted all over 'em. There were two oak end tables with brass lamps setting on 'em and, right in front of me, a glass bowl filled with spice drops and ribbon candy.
Then I heard his voice behind me. "Well, look who decided to wake up," chimed Dale. "Good morning sleepy-head."
I looked behind me and there he was, wearing a pink, frilly apron and carrying a tray with what smelled like coffee and looked like fresh cookies. I was utterly lost. This was either a very clever trap or everything had gone topsy-turvy on me.
"You look confused," he said as he sat on a bench, "let me clear things up. Coffee?"
"Yes, please," I murmured. Never turn down a free cup of coffee.
"Would you be willing to tell me what you know?" he asked as he poured.
So I did. I told him I knew about his accident as a kid and how that led to a life of crime, culminating in his being the regional meth distributor for Clan Platypus. I told him about his deadly gas and his network of operatives in the 99 cent stores.
He gasped, "Oh my god, the slugs..."
"That's right," I declared, triumphant, "the slugs! They're working for us now."
"Oh no," he melted in his chair, "I'd forgotten all about the slugs. Oh, this is going to haunt me forever now."
"What do you mean?" I was still suspicious.
"Oh, dear. Oh," he began to fidget. "You...I...you got it mostly right, I have to admit. I'm not proud of it, but there was a very dark time in my life and I'm still dealing with the consequences, it seems. But, you see, Pat," he looked me in the eyes, "I'm retired."
"Retired?"
"Yeah," he went on, "I paid my debt to the Clan, and I've retired. They have a very nice 401(k) plan and it's really set me up for life."
"Wait, what?" I was confused.
"That's how it works with the Clan," he explained, "you pay your debt and they funnel half that money into a 401(k) for you. When you've paid everything off, they turn the investment account over to you. They're very efficient that way."
"Really?!" I was taken aback a bit.
"Really," he said flatly.
"How long ago was this?"
He put a claw to his face, "Let's see...about three years now, I guess."
"But, wait, what about the slugs?"
"Oh Pat," he laughed, "slugs are slow. I sent that group out about, oh, I guess it'd be eight years ago now. I had so many things going on at the time, I guess I plum forgot about them. I hope they're not too mad at me."
I was at a loss for words. for probably the first time in my life, I had nothing to say. So I sat, drank my coffee and listened to McClawenstein explain that he was in Super Villain therapy now, in a group he goes to once a week. It helps him deal with his "issues", whatever that means, and he's working on getting "closure" on his evil deeds. I felt like I was on Oprah or something. Any moment, I expected Tom Cruise to come running out and jump on the furniture. Then he started to cry.
"You don't know what it's like, Pat," he sobbed, "living life as a freak. I never fit in! I was never man and never crustacean. Always living halfway between the two. Wanting the comfort of the sea and yet trying to live a normal life on land. You could never understand that kind of pain. I needed something to dull it. I know, meth was a bad idea. A really, really, bad idea. But what else could I do."
"Well, I dunno about that," I said, scratchin the back of my head, "I may be able to relate a little. I mean, I didn't exactly have a normal childhood, either."
"Unless your half man, half sea creature, I don't think your weird childhood is in the same leagues as mine," he seemed like he was gettin a bit angry.
"Well sir," I explained, "I ain't never told no one but Douggy this, so I'd appreciate it if you'd keep it to yourself. I was raised by harbor seals."
He stopped crying entirely. "What?"
In for a penny, in for a pound, I guess. "Yeah, I was raised by harbor seals. My real parent was down on the boardwalk late at night, out for an evenin stroll, I guess. They didn't see the sign tellin 'em the boardwalk was closed for repairs and I guess they was payin too much attention to the moon or each other or whatnot, and they just musta not seen the giant hole. So they fell in and drowned, but I was rescued by a harbor seal named Ackucucuck. That's seal language, you see. Well, Ackucucuck had just lost her baby to a shark and was a bit broken up about it. She saw my fall as a gift from the great seal in the sky. she took me on her back to seal island where she taught me all about fishing and layin on rocks. Later, I had to learn the seal wrestlin techniques. By then, though, I kinda suspected somethin was wrong. I mean, seals ain't got no thumbs, and I didn't have a protective layer of blubber to keep me warm.
"Then one day, this science boats came along and spotted me. They gibbered somethin at me in their human language, but I could only respond in seal. I guess they decided to tag me and study me with the hope of bringin me slowly back into human society. They'd visit about once a month and bring me stuff like clothes and shoes and whatnot.
"After that, word started to get around about the 'seal boy', as they called me, and more and more boats started comin. The good thing was, it scared off all the sharks, but the bad news was it scared off all the fish, too. The seal elders had a meeting and decided that I had to go with these strange creatures that looked like me so that the hunting would return.
"It was a sad day when I left my adoptive mother Ackucucuck behind. I think about here from time to time, still. Once a year, I go out to the coast and go fishin the old fashioned way, just to keep my skills up in case this whole 'human' thing doesn't work out."
Well, I guess my secret's out now.
Friday, June 5, 2009
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Me and Dale Learn New Things
I got this neighbor named Dale. Me and Dale been neighbors neigh on six years now, but we never talked that much. I been busy doin my thing, and I assume he's been busy doin his thing, too. Of course, he could very well have been sittin over at his house, lookin at my place, his chin tremblin like a newborn Chihuahua puppy, just wantin a little human contact, but too shy to say anything to me. Could be carvin up old ladies, too, for all I know. The long and short of it is, Dale and I ain't done much talkin until today when we happened to meet each other at the mailbox. He was strugglin with a giant package that looked like someone was shippin him fresh elephants, and I offered to help.
We was takin a break on the road when we got to talkin. I inquired about the package, tryin not to sound too nosy, and he told me it was somethin for his job. He said he got a package like that two or three times a week. When I asked him why he was tryin to carry it all on his own, he told me he had some helper up until about two weeks ago, but they left to pursue other opportunities. I told him that was too bad. Then we was quiet for awhile.
I was rootin around in my head for somethin to say, but all I could find was ridiculous stuff about robots wrestlin bears, and I didn't think he'd be interested. Meanwhile, he asked me, "Did you get new glasses or somethin, Pat?"
Every time I'd seen Dale, I'd been wearin the same old glasses. I been told by my nephew that they're old fashioned, bein horn-rimmed, tortoise shell rims on a long chain around my neck, and they may be ugly because they're held together by a combination of duct tape, JB Weld and sheer determination, but they sure worked to keep stuff out of my eyes while I was sanding. I didn't really need glasses, you see, but safety glasses is expensive and I picked these up down at the Goodwill for fifty cents. With the money I had left over, I bought myself a cup of coffee and a Tuesday newspaper. This was on a Thursday, I recall, and I wanted to relive the excitement that I felt before finding out that I, once again, did not win the powerball. I guess the moral of the story is, even if they're very distinct, sometimes people just won't notice you're wearin glasses. I do the same thing, sometimes. I went four whole years without noticin my sister was married and had a baby. Honestly, I don't even know what order the two came in. I tried doin the math on it once, but math ain't my strong suit and, by my calculations, the baby was born 3 1/2 months before my sister was born, but it was certainly born into wedlock. Like I says, I ain't too good at math. Either that or my family has a much more interestin history than I give 'em credit for.
I bring all this up with Dale and we start talkin about how easy it is to miss stuff, even on people you see regularly. It's right about this time I start to notice that Dale ain't got no thumbs. So I ask him, "Did you always have no thumbs, there Dale?"
"I used to have thumbs," he said, "when I was younger. There was an accident."
"Is that the same accident that made you all red?" I was tryin to be tactful, but I don't think I was successful at it.
"Yeah," he responded, "can we talk about somethin else?"
I felt bad for the guy. "Sure, Dale, whatever you say. What line of work are you in?"
"Distribution," he said bluntly.
"That's great," I told him, "what is it you distribute?"
"Can we change the subject?" he asked. He was gettin pretty dodgy and I was runnin out of things to talk about.
So I asked him, "If a robot wrestled a bear, who would you put your money on?"
"Pin or tap-out?"
"I dunno, does it make a difference?"
"It sure does," he said, "bears have large bottoms, so they're very hard to pin, but robots are notoriously good at submission moves. So, if it were a tap-out situation, my money would be on the robot, but if it were a pin situation, my money would be on the bear."
"Huh," I humphed, "I never knew those things. Where'd you learn all that?"
"You see a lot of weird stuff in the carnival, man."
All rested now, we carried the package the rest of the way to his house. As he opened the door, I caught a glimpse of a couple of black light posters hangin on his wall. I started to piece things together.
"Dale," I told him, "we been neighbors six years now, and I don't even know your last name."
"McClawenstein," he said, "Dale McClawenstein." Then he held out a hand to shake and I saw that it was actually a lobster claw. Now, one time, I had a rhino in my livin room for a whole month before I noticed, but I ain't never felt as unobservant as this.
As I shook his hand, he asked me, "You know, Pat, now that you mention it, I've never learned your last name, either."
"O'Neil," I told him, "Pat O'Neil."
"Wait..." he looked wary, "You're THE Pat O'Neil?"
"Well, I wouldn't say 'The' Pat O'Neil. Just google it, and you'll see that I'm really just one of many Pat O'Neils worldwide. It's a pretty popular name. Well, good talkin to ya, Dale, I gotta get going."
"Wait," he gently grabbed my arm with his claw, "we both know what's goin on here. I think we need to talk."
"Well, that's mighty neighborly of ya," I told him, wondering how on earth I was gonna get out of this, "but I got some weldin to do at home and some light paintin, plus, I got that friend I gotta call to ask about the bear/robot fight tonight. He's gettin it on pay-per-view, you should come by..."
He didn't release his claw. He did release a whompin butt bomb, though, and I felt very, very sleepy. Then I blacked out.
We was takin a break on the road when we got to talkin. I inquired about the package, tryin not to sound too nosy, and he told me it was somethin for his job. He said he got a package like that two or three times a week. When I asked him why he was tryin to carry it all on his own, he told me he had some helper up until about two weeks ago, but they left to pursue other opportunities. I told him that was too bad. Then we was quiet for awhile.
I was rootin around in my head for somethin to say, but all I could find was ridiculous stuff about robots wrestlin bears, and I didn't think he'd be interested. Meanwhile, he asked me, "Did you get new glasses or somethin, Pat?"
Every time I'd seen Dale, I'd been wearin the same old glasses. I been told by my nephew that they're old fashioned, bein horn-rimmed, tortoise shell rims on a long chain around my neck, and they may be ugly because they're held together by a combination of duct tape, JB Weld and sheer determination, but they sure worked to keep stuff out of my eyes while I was sanding. I didn't really need glasses, you see, but safety glasses is expensive and I picked these up down at the Goodwill for fifty cents. With the money I had left over, I bought myself a cup of coffee and a Tuesday newspaper. This was on a Thursday, I recall, and I wanted to relive the excitement that I felt before finding out that I, once again, did not win the powerball. I guess the moral of the story is, even if they're very distinct, sometimes people just won't notice you're wearin glasses. I do the same thing, sometimes. I went four whole years without noticin my sister was married and had a baby. Honestly, I don't even know what order the two came in. I tried doin the math on it once, but math ain't my strong suit and, by my calculations, the baby was born 3 1/2 months before my sister was born, but it was certainly born into wedlock. Like I says, I ain't too good at math. Either that or my family has a much more interestin history than I give 'em credit for.
I bring all this up with Dale and we start talkin about how easy it is to miss stuff, even on people you see regularly. It's right about this time I start to notice that Dale ain't got no thumbs. So I ask him, "Did you always have no thumbs, there Dale?"
"I used to have thumbs," he said, "when I was younger. There was an accident."
"Is that the same accident that made you all red?" I was tryin to be tactful, but I don't think I was successful at it.
"Yeah," he responded, "can we talk about somethin else?"
I felt bad for the guy. "Sure, Dale, whatever you say. What line of work are you in?"
"Distribution," he said bluntly.
"That's great," I told him, "what is it you distribute?"
"Can we change the subject?" he asked. He was gettin pretty dodgy and I was runnin out of things to talk about.
So I asked him, "If a robot wrestled a bear, who would you put your money on?"
"Pin or tap-out?"
"I dunno, does it make a difference?"
"It sure does," he said, "bears have large bottoms, so they're very hard to pin, but robots are notoriously good at submission moves. So, if it were a tap-out situation, my money would be on the robot, but if it were a pin situation, my money would be on the bear."
"Huh," I humphed, "I never knew those things. Where'd you learn all that?"
"You see a lot of weird stuff in the carnival, man."
All rested now, we carried the package the rest of the way to his house. As he opened the door, I caught a glimpse of a couple of black light posters hangin on his wall. I started to piece things together.
"Dale," I told him, "we been neighbors six years now, and I don't even know your last name."
"McClawenstein," he said, "Dale McClawenstein." Then he held out a hand to shake and I saw that it was actually a lobster claw. Now, one time, I had a rhino in my livin room for a whole month before I noticed, but I ain't never felt as unobservant as this.
As I shook his hand, he asked me, "You know, Pat, now that you mention it, I've never learned your last name, either."
"O'Neil," I told him, "Pat O'Neil."
"Wait..." he looked wary, "You're THE Pat O'Neil?"
"Well, I wouldn't say 'The' Pat O'Neil. Just google it, and you'll see that I'm really just one of many Pat O'Neils worldwide. It's a pretty popular name. Well, good talkin to ya, Dale, I gotta get going."
"Wait," he gently grabbed my arm with his claw, "we both know what's goin on here. I think we need to talk."
"Well, that's mighty neighborly of ya," I told him, wondering how on earth I was gonna get out of this, "but I got some weldin to do at home and some light paintin, plus, I got that friend I gotta call to ask about the bear/robot fight tonight. He's gettin it on pay-per-view, you should come by..."
He didn't release his claw. He did release a whompin butt bomb, though, and I felt very, very sleepy. Then I blacked out.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
A trip to the fair
It's been a pretty uneventful coupla weeks down at the ol' Body Shop, Refurbished Car Emporium and Donut Eatery. The squimonk've just been lallygaggin around tryin to get the giant slugs to tell them where McClawenstein is. The slugs themselves have been too preoccupied with their new thumbs to say anything. Plus, they was all addled on the drugs when they last saw the guy. All they've really said so far is that he was in a room somewhere with a guy wearin a shirt. There was also a black-light Pink Floyd poster there and another poster with a unicorn on it. Needless to say, that was less than helpful.
So, for the past coupla weeks, we pretty much just been sittin around. Me, I been watchin what happens when a bunch of slugs get thumbs. Turns out, what happens is a lot of thumb wrestlin. Them boys was novices two weeks ago that I coulda beat with one thumb tied behind my back. In fact, I did that on the first day. Here's a little know Pat O'Neil fact: I've got incredibly stretchy and flexible thumbs. The local newspaper once likened my thumbs to a Stretch Armstrong doll, only, and I'm quoting them here, "vomitously disturbing."
Back when I was a boy, there were a couple times having a thumb that could stretch and bend like Silly Putty came in handy. I remember going to the junior rodeo when I was eight. It was a big opportunity for us 4-H kids to get together, talk about animal husbandry, see the latest in denim overall fashions, and sell the young animals we'd been raising with love and care for a year to a nice, loving slaughterhouse. We'd set aside enough to reinvest our money in next years big-eyed, delicious lamb, and then we'd blow the rest on giant pickles, funnel cakes and tilt-a-whirl rides. Most rodeos would end for us when they threw us out after we refused to mop up our sweet, briny vomit. But this rodeo was a little different.
I'd been feeding my sheep her final bottle that morning and she mistook my thumb for the nipple, sucking it to a length of about two feet before wising up to the fact that there was no milk forthcoming. My parents were pretty poor at the time, so we didn't have a car. All we had was a drawing of a car. My pa used to sit behind that drawing for hours and make "vroom-vroom" noises. He drank a lot, my dad. He once got a DUI in that car, but that's a different story for a different time. Since we only had a drawing of a car, I had to hitch a ride to the fair grounds if I was gonna sell my sheep.
I stood on the side of that road for two hours with my distended thumb tryin to get a ride. Every time a car would drive by, I would flail my thumb wildly, surely lookin like an epileptic spaghetti maker. Not shockingly, no one stopped. Well, that is, until that one guy stopped. He pulled up in a dusty blue International pickup; the old kind with the bubbled hood that looks like the engine sneezed. He leaned out his window, cheek bulging with tobacco, spit casually on the ground and asked me, "Where you headed, son?"
"I'm headed for the fairgrounds, sir, to sell my sheep," I told him in my child-like way.
"Well, I'm headed there too," he told me, "so you might as well hop on in. You can put your sheep in the back."
After I'd settled in, he took off down the road and we got to chattin. "What's yer name, son?"
"Patrick," I said, "Patrick O'Neil, sir."
"Well Pat," he drawled, "my name's Will, Will Frankfurt. But you can call me Sam."
To this day, that still doesn't make any sense to me, but I was young, so I told him, "Yessir."
During the half hour ride to the fairgrounds, we spoke about all sortsa stuff. He told me he used to be a farmer around here, but he left that for a life of excitement and adventure. He was on his way to see his last rodeo before going on the biggest adventure of them all; he was goin to the moon. He was plannin on launchin his rocket, which he'd stored under the fairground, just as soon as us 4-H kids were done with our fair.
"I imagine it could get mighty lonely in space, mister," I theorized.
He nodded slowly, "Well, that may be true, Pat, that may be true. You wanna come with me?"
"I would," I explained, "but I got a big math test next week, and if I skip it, my mom's gonna kill me."
"That's too bad, you may have learned somethin more than math up there. Maybe when you get older."
We were both satisfied with this.
When we got to the fairgrounds, Sam wandered off and I took my sheep to get it registered for the auction. I got up to the counter where a bored old lady with her glasses on a pearl string told me, "Sheep auction's at 2. You're number's 37 and OH MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR THUMBS!?!"
I tried to play it off with a little humor, floppin 'em over and sayin, "Ayyyyyyy" in what I now realize was a grotesque parody of a beloved hero; Arthur Fonzerelli, the Fonz. I think she threw up a little in her mouth, either that or she picked that moment to work on her bullfrog impression. Regardless, I was hustled away quickly and given unlimited ride and game tickets so I would not come back to the auction tent, "until absolutely necessary."
There's nothing like bein eight years old at a fair with a pocket full of tickets. The midway was a garish, flashing paradise smelling like fried food and corn farmers. Wandering around, I ran into Douggy and we made big plans for my unlimited tickets. We rode a couple rides, had ourselves a good old fashioned corn-dog-fried-in-funnel-cake-batter eating contest, then an old fashioned who-can-throw-up-the-farthest contest and finally, when the spinning, flashing, powdered sugar coated day was over, we found ourselves at the top of the Ferris wheel just as a kid fell out of his seat.
Everyone was running around panicked. There were screams from the ground, from the Ferris wheel and especially from the kid. He was hanging on by one hand and that was slipping fast.
I turned to Douggy. "Pull my thumbs," I told him.
"This is no time for fart jokes," he explained with a wisdom most eight year olds don't show.
"Just do it!" And he did. He pulled and pulled until my thumbs were long enough to reach the boy. I flung my rubbery digits down to him. "Grab on!" I yelled. He didn't want to at first. It's not easy to pull away in revulsion when you're hanging onto a Ferris wheel by one hand, but he managed. The act, though, caused his had to slip off entirely. In his wild flailing, he did catch my thumb, which extended like taffy on a hot day, lowering him safely to the ground.
Everyone gathered around and cheered as the Ferris wheel was brought around to let everyone off. They all patted me on the back and offered to buy me corn dogs, an offer I had to refuse. The rest of the day was magical. I was a minor celebrity. People would walk by and give me a thumbs up. My sheep sold for the highest price ever recorded at the 4-H. Later, I found out Sam had bought it. I s'pose it gets cold in space, too, so he may need it for the wool.
I left the fair that day feelin 10 feet tall. I didn't even realize until I was half way home that my thumbs had gotten entangled in the Ferris wheel axle. They got it all fixed and, after a week, my thumbs were back to their normal length.
I guess the long and short of the story is that I dominated those slugs at thumb wrestling. They're gettin better, though. I hope the squimonk find McClawenstein soon so that we can distract the slugs and I can remain champion.
So, for the past coupla weeks, we pretty much just been sittin around. Me, I been watchin what happens when a bunch of slugs get thumbs. Turns out, what happens is a lot of thumb wrestlin. Them boys was novices two weeks ago that I coulda beat with one thumb tied behind my back. In fact, I did that on the first day. Here's a little know Pat O'Neil fact: I've got incredibly stretchy and flexible thumbs. The local newspaper once likened my thumbs to a Stretch Armstrong doll, only, and I'm quoting them here, "vomitously disturbing."
Back when I was a boy, there were a couple times having a thumb that could stretch and bend like Silly Putty came in handy. I remember going to the junior rodeo when I was eight. It was a big opportunity for us 4-H kids to get together, talk about animal husbandry, see the latest in denim overall fashions, and sell the young animals we'd been raising with love and care for a year to a nice, loving slaughterhouse. We'd set aside enough to reinvest our money in next years big-eyed, delicious lamb, and then we'd blow the rest on giant pickles, funnel cakes and tilt-a-whirl rides. Most rodeos would end for us when they threw us out after we refused to mop up our sweet, briny vomit. But this rodeo was a little different.
I'd been feeding my sheep her final bottle that morning and she mistook my thumb for the nipple, sucking it to a length of about two feet before wising up to the fact that there was no milk forthcoming. My parents were pretty poor at the time, so we didn't have a car. All we had was a drawing of a car. My pa used to sit behind that drawing for hours and make "vroom-vroom" noises. He drank a lot, my dad. He once got a DUI in that car, but that's a different story for a different time. Since we only had a drawing of a car, I had to hitch a ride to the fair grounds if I was gonna sell my sheep.
I stood on the side of that road for two hours with my distended thumb tryin to get a ride. Every time a car would drive by, I would flail my thumb wildly, surely lookin like an epileptic spaghetti maker. Not shockingly, no one stopped. Well, that is, until that one guy stopped. He pulled up in a dusty blue International pickup; the old kind with the bubbled hood that looks like the engine sneezed. He leaned out his window, cheek bulging with tobacco, spit casually on the ground and asked me, "Where you headed, son?"
"I'm headed for the fairgrounds, sir, to sell my sheep," I told him in my child-like way.
"Well, I'm headed there too," he told me, "so you might as well hop on in. You can put your sheep in the back."
After I'd settled in, he took off down the road and we got to chattin. "What's yer name, son?"
"Patrick," I said, "Patrick O'Neil, sir."
"Well Pat," he drawled, "my name's Will, Will Frankfurt. But you can call me Sam."
To this day, that still doesn't make any sense to me, but I was young, so I told him, "Yessir."
During the half hour ride to the fairgrounds, we spoke about all sortsa stuff. He told me he used to be a farmer around here, but he left that for a life of excitement and adventure. He was on his way to see his last rodeo before going on the biggest adventure of them all; he was goin to the moon. He was plannin on launchin his rocket, which he'd stored under the fairground, just as soon as us 4-H kids were done with our fair.
"I imagine it could get mighty lonely in space, mister," I theorized.
He nodded slowly, "Well, that may be true, Pat, that may be true. You wanna come with me?"
"I would," I explained, "but I got a big math test next week, and if I skip it, my mom's gonna kill me."
"That's too bad, you may have learned somethin more than math up there. Maybe when you get older."
We were both satisfied with this.
When we got to the fairgrounds, Sam wandered off and I took my sheep to get it registered for the auction. I got up to the counter where a bored old lady with her glasses on a pearl string told me, "Sheep auction's at 2. You're number's 37 and OH MY GOD, WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR THUMBS!?!"
I tried to play it off with a little humor, floppin 'em over and sayin, "Ayyyyyyy" in what I now realize was a grotesque parody of a beloved hero; Arthur Fonzerelli, the Fonz. I think she threw up a little in her mouth, either that or she picked that moment to work on her bullfrog impression. Regardless, I was hustled away quickly and given unlimited ride and game tickets so I would not come back to the auction tent, "until absolutely necessary."
There's nothing like bein eight years old at a fair with a pocket full of tickets. The midway was a garish, flashing paradise smelling like fried food and corn farmers. Wandering around, I ran into Douggy and we made big plans for my unlimited tickets. We rode a couple rides, had ourselves a good old fashioned corn-dog-fried-in-funnel-cake-batter eating contest, then an old fashioned who-can-throw-up-the-farthest contest and finally, when the spinning, flashing, powdered sugar coated day was over, we found ourselves at the top of the Ferris wheel just as a kid fell out of his seat.
Everyone was running around panicked. There were screams from the ground, from the Ferris wheel and especially from the kid. He was hanging on by one hand and that was slipping fast.
I turned to Douggy. "Pull my thumbs," I told him.
"This is no time for fart jokes," he explained with a wisdom most eight year olds don't show.
"Just do it!" And he did. He pulled and pulled until my thumbs were long enough to reach the boy. I flung my rubbery digits down to him. "Grab on!" I yelled. He didn't want to at first. It's not easy to pull away in revulsion when you're hanging onto a Ferris wheel by one hand, but he managed. The act, though, caused his had to slip off entirely. In his wild flailing, he did catch my thumb, which extended like taffy on a hot day, lowering him safely to the ground.
Everyone gathered around and cheered as the Ferris wheel was brought around to let everyone off. They all patted me on the back and offered to buy me corn dogs, an offer I had to refuse. The rest of the day was magical. I was a minor celebrity. People would walk by and give me a thumbs up. My sheep sold for the highest price ever recorded at the 4-H. Later, I found out Sam had bought it. I s'pose it gets cold in space, too, so he may need it for the wool.
I left the fair that day feelin 10 feet tall. I didn't even realize until I was half way home that my thumbs had gotten entangled in the Ferris wheel axle. They got it all fixed and, after a week, my thumbs were back to their normal length.
I guess the long and short of the story is that I dominated those slugs at thumb wrestling. They're gettin better, though. I hope the squimonk find McClawenstein soon so that we can distract the slugs and I can remain champion.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Slug Thumbs
There's really only one person I would turn to when a giant slug asked me to give it and its brood thumbs. I know, your first response is going to be Crazy Charley down at Crazy Charley's Thumb House and Various Prosthetic Limbs Discount Emporium, but what you have forgotten, my friend, is that Crazy Charlie was actually crazy and was trying to build a new Tower of Babel out of thumbs and plastic legs in back of the emporium. You must have seen it on the news. Anyway, I followed that story pretty closely and he ended up havin to go to court for buildin without a permit. He sunk all his money into that court case and went bankrupt. He moved away after that. I heard a couple stories about where he might be; either he's in a mental institution in Tuskegee or he's a famous avaunt guard artist in New York. No matter which of those is true, I can't really see me gettin a way to get the keys to the now run down and creepy CCTHVPLDE building so I can get in there and get myself some thumbs. So I definitely thought about gettin them thumbs from Charlie, but it just wasn't gonna work, so I went for the next best thing, I pulled out the old cellular phone and called up Charles Lindbergh.
The phone rang three times and then he answered in his usual way, "This is most certainly NOT Charles Lindbergh. Who's calling please?" He liked to keep his identity secret, you see.
"Mr...uh...Smith?" I thought I'd play along. "This here's Pat O'Neil and I got a request for you."
"Mr. Smith?!" He sounded scared. "Who's this Mr. Smith? I don't know no Mr. Smith!"
I guess I played along too well. "You're Mr. Smith, Mr. Definitely-Not-Charles-Lindbergh."
"Wait, back up a second. Who are you calling Mr. Smith and who are you calling Mr. Definitely-Not-Charles-Lindbergh? Is this a conference call? Did you put me on a conference call without telling me? Wrong number! Prank Caller! Prank Caller!" And then he hung up.
I turned to Alistair. "What was that?"
"Yeah," he said slowly, "that happens all the time. Just call him back. When he says 'who's calling', just answer the question."
So I did as instructed. He picked up again after three rings. Who consistently picks up after three rings, I ask you. I was always under the impression that two rings was the universally correct number of rings to allow before pickin up the phone. By the time you're on the third ring, you're pretty sure they ain't gonna pick up. Either that, or they been cuttin up some onions in the kitchen and your call made them slip and nick their thumb, not too bad, though. So they been spendin the first two rings runnin around yellin, "I'm comin, I'm comin, hold your horses!" while they wash their hand off and try to root though the junk drawer for a band aid. Then they grab the phone with one hand while they're openin the band-aid with their other hand and their teeth. That's why, when someone answers on the third ring, they almost always sound out of breath and like they have somethin in their mouth. But Lindbergh sounded like he'd just been sittin there listenin to the phone ring three times before pickin it up. Talk about a whacko.
But answer he did, "This is most certainly NOT Charles Lindbergh. Who's calling please?"
I was ready this time. "Pat O'Neil," I stated perfunctorily.
"Ahhh, Pat. It seems like ages since I've heard from you. How long has it been?"
"About 4 seconds, sir."
"Is that all? It seems longer than that."
"Yeah," I wasn't as prepared for this as I would have liked to be, "time sure flies."
"It sure does, son," he seemed ebullient, "it sure does."
"Yep," I concurred.
"Yes," he concurred.
Then there was an uncomfortable silence. I didn't know if I should continue the chit chat or if I should just jump right in to what I was asking him for. Luckily, he solved it for me.
"What can I do you for, there, Pat?" he asked.
"Well, sir," I stammered, "I'm standing here with some giant slugs who can lead us to McClawenstein."
"That's great news!" he belted out.
"Yes, it sure is," I agreed. "But they're requesting we do something for them first."
"Oh yeah?" he asked. "And what would that be."
"Well, you see sir, they want thumbs."
"Thumbs, huh?" he asked suspiciously.
"Yes, sir," I explained, "they would like someone to give them thumbs."
"Well, that's easy," he explained, "just take them down to Crazy Charley's."
"Yeah, I thought of that, but they're out of business."
"Right!" he bellowed, "The Babel thing, if I'm not mistaken."
"That's correct, sir," I affirmed.
"That's a shame. I loved that place. What was that slogan they had? It was very clever..."
I remembered it well, "You can get an arm and a leg without spending an arm and a leg."
"That's it!" he confirmed. "Well, I guess I could rig something up for them. Do they want hands, too? Arms? Laser cannons?"
I covered the phone with my hand and addressed the slugs. "Would you like hands or arms to go with those thumbs?"
"No, thank you," they responded, "just the thumbs will be fine."
I returned to the phone, "No hands or arms, sir, just the thumbs."
"What about the laser cannons? Did you ask them that?"
I sighed and rolled my eyes a bit, "Hold on." Then I covered the phone again. "He wants me to ask if you want laser cannons."
"No..." the slug trailed off. "What kind of laser cannon?"
I asked this to Charles. He told me, "Pointer."
"Pointer?"
"Well, yeah, you don't think I'd give a total stranger my death ray laser cannon, do you? We can start them off with the pointer laser and then, as they show more responsibility, we can work them up."
When I made this offer to the slugs, they consulted for a bit. "No, thank you," they finally answered, "just the thumbs will be sufficient."
I relayed this to Charles. He agreed to see what he could do. We had to clear out of the 99 Cent store because they were closin. Sheriff Tom got the law to back off a bit by tellin them I was drunk and he'd given me a stern talkin to and I'd promised never to visit the 99 Cent store again, which was just fine by me. He made sure all the cops cleared out before Douggy and I loaded them slugs up on the back of the tow truck and took them back to the shop. They hung out for a few days in the body shop, during which time we found out their slime made a fantastic car polish. We started bottlin it and got ourselves a couple sales, which all went into a find for the slugs. We didn't know what the fund would be for, but we figured we should have some money set aside, you know, just in case.
About a week later, a box arrived at the shop. Jared was the first to see it, so he brought it in and opened it up, thinking it was cleaning supplies or something. Instead, there were several belts stitched together into a harness. On the back of the harness was a battery pack and a solar panel and on the sides were two perfectly formed little robotic thumbs. These thumbs were connected to baseball caps that shot out wires like a an explosion at Radio Shack. I took it into the body shop to show the slugs and they got very excited about it. Douggy and I spent the next 10 minutes strapping the thumb harnesses on and adjusting everything. When we were done, we stood back and looked at our handiwork. There stood 5 slugs wrapped around with leather belts, giant solar panels on their backs and wired baseball caps on their heads. On their sides, their robotic thumbs were wigglin away like worms on a hook while they presumably adjusted to the brainwaves of their wearers. Finally, they stopped flopping and whirling around. And I swear, the slugs smiled. I don't know how I recognized it as such, but it was definitely a smile.
"So," I asked, "what do you think." And, of course, they gave me a thumbs up.
The phone rang three times and then he answered in his usual way, "This is most certainly NOT Charles Lindbergh. Who's calling please?" He liked to keep his identity secret, you see.
"Mr...uh...Smith?" I thought I'd play along. "This here's Pat O'Neil and I got a request for you."
"Mr. Smith?!" He sounded scared. "Who's this Mr. Smith? I don't know no Mr. Smith!"
I guess I played along too well. "You're Mr. Smith, Mr. Definitely-Not-Charles-Lindbergh."
"Wait, back up a second. Who are you calling Mr. Smith and who are you calling Mr. Definitely-Not-Charles-Lindbergh? Is this a conference call? Did you put me on a conference call without telling me? Wrong number! Prank Caller! Prank Caller!" And then he hung up.
I turned to Alistair. "What was that?"
"Yeah," he said slowly, "that happens all the time. Just call him back. When he says 'who's calling', just answer the question."
So I did as instructed. He picked up again after three rings. Who consistently picks up after three rings, I ask you. I was always under the impression that two rings was the universally correct number of rings to allow before pickin up the phone. By the time you're on the third ring, you're pretty sure they ain't gonna pick up. Either that, or they been cuttin up some onions in the kitchen and your call made them slip and nick their thumb, not too bad, though. So they been spendin the first two rings runnin around yellin, "I'm comin, I'm comin, hold your horses!" while they wash their hand off and try to root though the junk drawer for a band aid. Then they grab the phone with one hand while they're openin the band-aid with their other hand and their teeth. That's why, when someone answers on the third ring, they almost always sound out of breath and like they have somethin in their mouth. But Lindbergh sounded like he'd just been sittin there listenin to the phone ring three times before pickin it up. Talk about a whacko.
But answer he did, "This is most certainly NOT Charles Lindbergh. Who's calling please?"
I was ready this time. "Pat O'Neil," I stated perfunctorily.
"Ahhh, Pat. It seems like ages since I've heard from you. How long has it been?"
"About 4 seconds, sir."
"Is that all? It seems longer than that."
"Yeah," I wasn't as prepared for this as I would have liked to be, "time sure flies."
"It sure does, son," he seemed ebullient, "it sure does."
"Yep," I concurred.
"Yes," he concurred.
Then there was an uncomfortable silence. I didn't know if I should continue the chit chat or if I should just jump right in to what I was asking him for. Luckily, he solved it for me.
"What can I do you for, there, Pat?" he asked.
"Well, sir," I stammered, "I'm standing here with some giant slugs who can lead us to McClawenstein."
"That's great news!" he belted out.
"Yes, it sure is," I agreed. "But they're requesting we do something for them first."
"Oh yeah?" he asked. "And what would that be."
"Well, you see sir, they want thumbs."
"Thumbs, huh?" he asked suspiciously.
"Yes, sir," I explained, "they would like someone to give them thumbs."
"Well, that's easy," he explained, "just take them down to Crazy Charley's."
"Yeah, I thought of that, but they're out of business."
"Right!" he bellowed, "The Babel thing, if I'm not mistaken."
"That's correct, sir," I affirmed.
"That's a shame. I loved that place. What was that slogan they had? It was very clever..."
I remembered it well, "You can get an arm and a leg without spending an arm and a leg."
"That's it!" he confirmed. "Well, I guess I could rig something up for them. Do they want hands, too? Arms? Laser cannons?"
I covered the phone with my hand and addressed the slugs. "Would you like hands or arms to go with those thumbs?"
"No, thank you," they responded, "just the thumbs will be fine."
I returned to the phone, "No hands or arms, sir, just the thumbs."
"What about the laser cannons? Did you ask them that?"
I sighed and rolled my eyes a bit, "Hold on." Then I covered the phone again. "He wants me to ask if you want laser cannons."
"No..." the slug trailed off. "What kind of laser cannon?"
I asked this to Charles. He told me, "Pointer."
"Pointer?"
"Well, yeah, you don't think I'd give a total stranger my death ray laser cannon, do you? We can start them off with the pointer laser and then, as they show more responsibility, we can work them up."
When I made this offer to the slugs, they consulted for a bit. "No, thank you," they finally answered, "just the thumbs will be sufficient."
I relayed this to Charles. He agreed to see what he could do. We had to clear out of the 99 Cent store because they were closin. Sheriff Tom got the law to back off a bit by tellin them I was drunk and he'd given me a stern talkin to and I'd promised never to visit the 99 Cent store again, which was just fine by me. He made sure all the cops cleared out before Douggy and I loaded them slugs up on the back of the tow truck and took them back to the shop. They hung out for a few days in the body shop, during which time we found out their slime made a fantastic car polish. We started bottlin it and got ourselves a couple sales, which all went into a find for the slugs. We didn't know what the fund would be for, but we figured we should have some money set aside, you know, just in case.
About a week later, a box arrived at the shop. Jared was the first to see it, so he brought it in and opened it up, thinking it was cleaning supplies or something. Instead, there were several belts stitched together into a harness. On the back of the harness was a battery pack and a solar panel and on the sides were two perfectly formed little robotic thumbs. These thumbs were connected to baseball caps that shot out wires like a an explosion at Radio Shack. I took it into the body shop to show the slugs and they got very excited about it. Douggy and I spent the next 10 minutes strapping the thumb harnesses on and adjusting everything. When we were done, we stood back and looked at our handiwork. There stood 5 slugs wrapped around with leather belts, giant solar panels on their backs and wired baseball caps on their heads. On their sides, their robotic thumbs were wigglin away like worms on a hook while they presumably adjusted to the brainwaves of their wearers. Finally, they stopped flopping and whirling around. And I swear, the slugs smiled. I don't know how I recognized it as such, but it was definitely a smile.
"So," I asked, "what do you think." And, of course, they gave me a thumbs up.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Finally, a conclusion to the slug story!
Well after me and Douggy got ourselves some honest pants from the dollar store across the street and a little coffee to refill our bladders, you know, just in case we needed to escape again, we was ready to settle down and hear the rest of this slug's story. I'm sure as heck glad we had that coffee, because these slugs, in addition to bein bags full of slime, also turned out to be bags of hot air. By the time it was over, I was ready to pee myself again if that's what it took to get him to stop talkin. I figure you may be tired of hearin them drone on about how hard their life livin on a giant lobster-man who sold meth for a bunch of ninjas was, so I thought I'd give you the short version. If you wanna hear the long version, I could prolly get them to record it or somethin and send it to ya, if you got about a hundred straight hours to dedicate to it, that is. The long and the short of it goes something like this: McClawenstein was broke and desperate so he had to expand his customer base. Me, I just turned to sellin shirts, and that worked out decently. This was the days before the internet did anything useful for anyone who did not go to MIT or Princeton or one of them other fancy schmancy schools that's buildin some sorta technical whirlygig that'll destroy all of mankind some day, so he didn't even think of makin shirts. Instead, he figured that, to get more people hooked on his stuff, he'd start mixin meth into the carnival food. He started by dustin the funnel cakes with it, since that didn't require no work. Then, he mixed it in with the cotton candy. After that, he performed his coup de grace and discovered a way to mix the meth in with the corn dog batter without it gettin all used up in the fryer. Course, no one knew they was eatin meth, all they knew is that carnival was the most excitin carnival they'd ever attended and they just had to go back.
McClawenstein started pullin in the money again. This time, he didn't blow it all on fancy livin. He blew it all on meth. He was apparently doin up to a pound of the stuff a day. The slugs say he was gettin more and more paranoid. Finally, one day, he snapped. He blamed the slugs for his condition and said they wasn't bein supportive of his needs. They'd just had enough and so they left. He was pretty broken up about losin all his friends in the world and tried to get them back. He checked himself into a recovery program and, after six months, walked out clean. But Clan Platypus wasn't about to let him go. They demanded their money and threatened him with death if he didn't obey. The pressure drove him back on the meth and began eating away at his brain. He started to blame all his problems on the slugs leaving, so he decided to punish them. Seein as how they was slugs, all this rigamorale had given them time to get almost to the door of his tent. They'd been discussin the issue for quite some time and had decided that they'd slam it on the way out. Sure, it may take them a couple months work, but their point would be made.
Before they reached the door, though, McClawenstein got his revenge. He tried to murder them by throwin salt on them, but, in his drug addled state, he forgot that he'd filled all his salt shakers with meth. I done somethin similar once when I put sugar in the salt shaker on accident. I wasn't sure how to handle it at first, but, before I could switch it, I found I sorta liked the taste of sweetened mashed potatoes. It took me about two months before I used up the whole shaker and, by then, it became so ingrained in me that salt was sweet that I started saltin my pancakes. Now, I'm all mixed up and I never know what I'm gonna get when I turn that shaker upside down. Last time, and I got no idea why this happened, it was flour. I guess, now that I've heard this story, I should be glad it wasn't meth. I ain't sure how meth would get in there, but funny things have been known to happen.
Blinded by drugs and murderous rage, McClawenstein dumped the whole shark onto the slugs. They started bubblin and boilin like your feet on the asphalt on a hot June day. They was smokin like that, too, but I'll bet they didn't smell nothin like bacon. McClawenstein laughed and laughed as they melted and spread out. But, unexpectedly, the puddles of goo they'd become just kept spreading...and spreading...and spreading. Soon, his tent had a giant slime carpet. This wasn't nothin like that big ol' slime carpet in the new Ikea catalog, either. First, it sure as heck wasn't Swedish. Second, it wasn't wrapped in a smooth, comforting, foot massaging space age material. And finally, it was slowly congealing into an army of giant slugs that were turning on their maker. As they moved, McClawenstein saw a mouth full of razor teeth concealed under their pseudopods. I just looked that word up, by the way. The meth had performed some sort of alchemy, turning the rug into an army druggy slugs.
Well, I don't know about you, but I panic when faced with an army of giant carnivorous slugs. That's the one thing me and McClawenstein have in common. Well, that and a traumatic childhood experience at the aquarium. I don't wanna talk about it right now, though. Let's just say me and that turtle still got issues to settle and his time will come soon enough. One of the things me and McClawenstein do not have in common is that I was never given the pager number for a member of Clan Platypus. If I had, it would make this whole find-the-clan-and-stop-them thing I been goin through a whole heck of a lot easier, I tell ya. McClawenstein used that pager number to call himself a ninja to come in and rescue him from the slugs.
When we got to this point, there was this whole big long description of helicopters and ninja fights and something to do with chains and I think there was somethin in there about a guy riding a dinosaur and then Jennifer Love Hewitt showed up and played poker or somethin like that. I gotta be honest, I sorta nodded of there, and I may have dreamed some of that up. The only things I'm certain about are the thing with Jennifer Love Hewitt and that the slugs got themselves wrangled, shipped off to Japan and trained. The Clan worked to find out the right amount of meth to give them in order to keep them docile but still aggressive enough to eat people. It took them many months, and a couple of arms, to get the formula just right. In the end, they became just stable enough for McClawenstein to use as laborers.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us to the raid. Apparently, when we busted in to the 99 store and started firin off donuts, the knockout gas countered the meth in the slugs' systems and gave them their thought back. They didn't want revenge on McClawenstein or anything, but they did tell us they'd help us stop this plague of meth in exchange for one thing.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Thumbs."
I didn't quite know what to make of that. "Thumbs?"
"Yeah," the big slug told me calmly, "opposable thumbs."
I couldn't help but ask, "Why do you want opposable thumbs?"
"We've been discussing it," he replied, "and we've decided what set humans apart from slugs are an ability to reason and opposable thumbs. We would like to be more human, and so we need thumbs."
"You...I....ummm..." I turned to Alistair, who just raised his eyebrows. "I guess I'll see what I can do...."
McClawenstein started pullin in the money again. This time, he didn't blow it all on fancy livin. He blew it all on meth. He was apparently doin up to a pound of the stuff a day. The slugs say he was gettin more and more paranoid. Finally, one day, he snapped. He blamed the slugs for his condition and said they wasn't bein supportive of his needs. They'd just had enough and so they left. He was pretty broken up about losin all his friends in the world and tried to get them back. He checked himself into a recovery program and, after six months, walked out clean. But Clan Platypus wasn't about to let him go. They demanded their money and threatened him with death if he didn't obey. The pressure drove him back on the meth and began eating away at his brain. He started to blame all his problems on the slugs leaving, so he decided to punish them. Seein as how they was slugs, all this rigamorale had given them time to get almost to the door of his tent. They'd been discussin the issue for quite some time and had decided that they'd slam it on the way out. Sure, it may take them a couple months work, but their point would be made.
Before they reached the door, though, McClawenstein got his revenge. He tried to murder them by throwin salt on them, but, in his drug addled state, he forgot that he'd filled all his salt shakers with meth. I done somethin similar once when I put sugar in the salt shaker on accident. I wasn't sure how to handle it at first, but, before I could switch it, I found I sorta liked the taste of sweetened mashed potatoes. It took me about two months before I used up the whole shaker and, by then, it became so ingrained in me that salt was sweet that I started saltin my pancakes. Now, I'm all mixed up and I never know what I'm gonna get when I turn that shaker upside down. Last time, and I got no idea why this happened, it was flour. I guess, now that I've heard this story, I should be glad it wasn't meth. I ain't sure how meth would get in there, but funny things have been known to happen.
Blinded by drugs and murderous rage, McClawenstein dumped the whole shark onto the slugs. They started bubblin and boilin like your feet on the asphalt on a hot June day. They was smokin like that, too, but I'll bet they didn't smell nothin like bacon. McClawenstein laughed and laughed as they melted and spread out. But, unexpectedly, the puddles of goo they'd become just kept spreading...and spreading...and spreading. Soon, his tent had a giant slime carpet. This wasn't nothin like that big ol' slime carpet in the new Ikea catalog, either. First, it sure as heck wasn't Swedish. Second, it wasn't wrapped in a smooth, comforting, foot massaging space age material. And finally, it was slowly congealing into an army of giant slugs that were turning on their maker. As they moved, McClawenstein saw a mouth full of razor teeth concealed under their pseudopods. I just looked that word up, by the way. The meth had performed some sort of alchemy, turning the rug into an army druggy slugs.
Well, I don't know about you, but I panic when faced with an army of giant carnivorous slugs. That's the one thing me and McClawenstein have in common. Well, that and a traumatic childhood experience at the aquarium. I don't wanna talk about it right now, though. Let's just say me and that turtle still got issues to settle and his time will come soon enough. One of the things me and McClawenstein do not have in common is that I was never given the pager number for a member of Clan Platypus. If I had, it would make this whole find-the-clan-and-stop-them thing I been goin through a whole heck of a lot easier, I tell ya. McClawenstein used that pager number to call himself a ninja to come in and rescue him from the slugs.
When we got to this point, there was this whole big long description of helicopters and ninja fights and something to do with chains and I think there was somethin in there about a guy riding a dinosaur and then Jennifer Love Hewitt showed up and played poker or somethin like that. I gotta be honest, I sorta nodded of there, and I may have dreamed some of that up. The only things I'm certain about are the thing with Jennifer Love Hewitt and that the slugs got themselves wrangled, shipped off to Japan and trained. The Clan worked to find out the right amount of meth to give them in order to keep them docile but still aggressive enough to eat people. It took them many months, and a couple of arms, to get the formula just right. In the end, they became just stable enough for McClawenstein to use as laborers.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, brings us to the raid. Apparently, when we busted in to the 99 store and started firin off donuts, the knockout gas countered the meth in the slugs' systems and gave them their thought back. They didn't want revenge on McClawenstein or anything, but they did tell us they'd help us stop this plague of meth in exchange for one thing.
"What's that?" I asked.
"Thumbs."
I didn't quite know what to make of that. "Thumbs?"
"Yeah," the big slug told me calmly, "opposable thumbs."
I couldn't help but ask, "Why do you want opposable thumbs?"
"We've been discussing it," he replied, "and we've decided what set humans apart from slugs are an ability to reason and opposable thumbs. We would like to be more human, and so we need thumbs."
"You...I....ummm..." I turned to Alistair, who just raised his eyebrows. "I guess I'll see what I can do...."
Sunday, April 19, 2009
How to escape when stuck to a wall by giant, meth-addled slugs
"When you say the beginning of the end," I asked from my slimy nest on the wall, "does that mean this thing is gonna wrap up soon? Cause I gotta be honest, here, I gotta urinate and I don't wanna do it in my pants. I am still wearin pants, right?"
"Yes," confirmed the slug, "you are still wearing pants."
"Well, I guess that's a good thing, you know, compared to the rest of all this that's goin on."
He appeared to think about this for a time. "Yes, I would say that's good for the both of us."
"Look, sir," I tried explainin, "the pants ain't the point. The point is I gotta pee here, and I don't wanna do it all over myself. So, either this story ends with me gettin unhooked from this here wall, or that happens now and I promise to come back and finish this story."
"Is there a third option?" he asked.
I pondered for a bit. "I guess the only third option would be me stayin here and peein myself."
"Um...yeah..." he nodded his eye stalks, "why don't you go ahead and do that one?"
"What?" I was, needless to say, a bit surprised. Now, like I says, I had myself a number of youthful indiscretions, and I may have, once or twice, been too tired or too moonshiney to get up and find myself a proper toilet. And I may have, in my corn liquor haze, relieved myself in a sink or two. And I might have, one time, accidentally peed on Douggy's bed. And it could be that Douggy was occupying said bed with a young lady. And it very well might be the case that that particular young lady had been makin googly eyes at Douggy all night and he was on leave from the marines and had had a crush on this young lady since we was all in 7th grade and this was his one chance to show her how he felt before he went off to who knows where for who knows how long. And, you know, theoretically speakin, she just might have been allergic to urine and broken out with hives all over and had to go to the hospital. But the whole story coulda had a happy endin when they were brought closer together by this tragedy and they eventually got married. On a side note, for any of y'all expectin to be best man at a weddin, if you need some advice on your speech, here's some: it's best you don't begin your toast with, "These two prolly woulda never got together if I hadn't peed on 'em." In my experience, at least, that doesn't set too well with the parents. Point bein, it's not like I hadn't wet myself once or twice in the past, but now didn't seem like the time. For one, I didn't know if this slime was water soluble or if I'd just be swimmin in my own pool. For two, it seemed like this story still had legs to it and I might be in for a long haul. And for three, There was all sortsa people around there; Douggy, Sheriff Tom, Aliastair, not to mention 3 of them giant slugs. The only way I could get myself to go with that many people and/or genetic mutants around would be if we was at a game or a concert and we was all lined up against the trough. This was sorta the opposite of that situation.
"No, I ain't peein myself here," I hollered, "so you might as well cut me down so I don't fill up with pee and shoot it out my nose at you. And hurry up, there, my back teeth are floatin."
He looked sheepish. If he were a person, he woulda leaned his head forward and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. As it was, he leaned one eye stalk down and rubbed the back of it with the other stalk. I wondered what the world looked like when he did that, but then I stopped because I got dizzy. "That's the thing..." he began, "we don't know how to get you down."
"Whaddya mean you don't know how to get me down?" I barked. "Is this your first time trapping someone with slime or somethin?"
"Well, no..." he trailed off.
"So then it ain't your first time gettin someone outta this." I was proud of my reasoning. "Just do what you did to get them others down."
"That's where we hit the problem..." he was lookin as uncomfortable as a butcher's kid about to tell his dad he's vegetarian. "Keep in mind that we've been hopped up on meth this whole time. Not by choice, mind you, but I was just getting to that. But, you see..." he looked around.
"Oh, just get to it, would you?" My bladder hurt and I wanted out.
"Well..." then he mumbled something.
"What was that?" I asked.
"We ate them all." The secret was finally out. "It's not like we'd really planned to. We were all hopped up, like I said, and under the mind control of McClawenstein. It was the only way we knew to deal with intruders. But now, well, we don't want to eat you. We want to set you free, but we don't know how."
Right then, it became too much. I got to that point where you've been clenching your muscles too long and they relax for just one second and you really hope not too much escaped because you think you can make it that extra minute it would normally take to do the run to the bathroom and you know that if someone's in there already, you're gonna kick that durned door in and pee on them. But in this case, I didn't have nowhere to run and I didn't know how long I'd have to hold it. then I heard this bubbling, sizzling sound. I looked down and there was a pinhole burned through the slime casing. Alistair and the slug noticed, too.
"Whatever you did, do it again," said Alistair.
"No!" I was maybe more defensive than was warranted.
"Come on, Pat," he cajoled, "just do it again."
"No!" I yelled again. "Absolutely not!"
"It's the only way," said Alistair.
The slug looked me in the eye and told me, bluntly, "If you prefer, I could just eat you."
"Oh, fine!" I gave up. But one of y'all is gonna have to get me some extra pants.
"There are some out there," Alistair pointed to the door.
"Nu-uh," I shook my head, "I ain't wearin no 99 cent store pants, the pockets on them things is full of lies and deceit. Get someone to go over to the dollar store to get me some pants. Over there, the pockets are filled with integrity."
"Fine," said Alistair. He called some squimonk together. They put on their person costume and went across the street to get me some pants. That costume ain't very convincin, but the people at the dollar store tend not to ask many questions.
Once that was settled, I told the slug, "You! Turn your eyes away, I don't want you watchin this!"
Surprisingly, he obeyed without another word. Now that I was in semi-privacy, I was ready. Weird thing is, it's hard to pee your pants, even when you try. I guess it's been so worked in that you don't urinate when you're clothed that it's hard to get around. I tried closin my eyes and imaginin I was at the toilet. When that didn't work, I imagined that I was writin my name in the snow. Finally, I tried thinkin I was on a high cliff, whizzin into the river below. I covered all the classifications of peein' in my mind; that's in, on and off. You see, that's one of the joys of peein standin up, you get to pee in things and make music while you're doin it, or you get to pee on things and feel like you're markin your territory, and you get to pee off of things like cliffs and couches, watchin your stream arc through the air like a coffee scented rainbow. I finally had to pull out the big guns and imagine I was peein at angel falls and I could see my whole stream at once. That did it. I let go in a flood of warm relief and shame. The bubblin and sizzlin told me that it was workin and soon I came crashin to the ground. Fortunately, the squimonk came back with their newly purchased dollar pants, which I carried with me to the bathroom and donned as soon as I'd washed up.
I come outta that restroom feelin like all the blood in my body had rushed to my face. This wasn't one of them situations where I could just tie a sweater around my waist and hide what I did. Everyone there knew and I knew that they knew and they knew I knew they knew. We just stared each other down like a group of gunfighters, no one sure who was gonna break the silence. In the end, it was Douggy wakin up that did it.
"Hey!" he yelled, groggily, "what the heck is goin on here? Get me down!" He started thrashin about.
"Douggy," I put my hands on his shoulders, "it's gonna be alright. You're gonna get down from there, but you're gonna have to get yourself down."
"How?"
"Well," I explained, "you ain't gonna like this, but..."
"Yes," confirmed the slug, "you are still wearing pants."
"Well, I guess that's a good thing, you know, compared to the rest of all this that's goin on."
He appeared to think about this for a time. "Yes, I would say that's good for the both of us."
"Look, sir," I tried explainin, "the pants ain't the point. The point is I gotta pee here, and I don't wanna do it all over myself. So, either this story ends with me gettin unhooked from this here wall, or that happens now and I promise to come back and finish this story."
"Is there a third option?" he asked.
I pondered for a bit. "I guess the only third option would be me stayin here and peein myself."
"Um...yeah..." he nodded his eye stalks, "why don't you go ahead and do that one?"
"What?" I was, needless to say, a bit surprised. Now, like I says, I had myself a number of youthful indiscretions, and I may have, once or twice, been too tired or too moonshiney to get up and find myself a proper toilet. And I may have, in my corn liquor haze, relieved myself in a sink or two. And I might have, one time, accidentally peed on Douggy's bed. And it could be that Douggy was occupying said bed with a young lady. And it very well might be the case that that particular young lady had been makin googly eyes at Douggy all night and he was on leave from the marines and had had a crush on this young lady since we was all in 7th grade and this was his one chance to show her how he felt before he went off to who knows where for who knows how long. And, you know, theoretically speakin, she just might have been allergic to urine and broken out with hives all over and had to go to the hospital. But the whole story coulda had a happy endin when they were brought closer together by this tragedy and they eventually got married. On a side note, for any of y'all expectin to be best man at a weddin, if you need some advice on your speech, here's some: it's best you don't begin your toast with, "These two prolly woulda never got together if I hadn't peed on 'em." In my experience, at least, that doesn't set too well with the parents. Point bein, it's not like I hadn't wet myself once or twice in the past, but now didn't seem like the time. For one, I didn't know if this slime was water soluble or if I'd just be swimmin in my own pool. For two, it seemed like this story still had legs to it and I might be in for a long haul. And for three, There was all sortsa people around there; Douggy, Sheriff Tom, Aliastair, not to mention 3 of them giant slugs. The only way I could get myself to go with that many people and/or genetic mutants around would be if we was at a game or a concert and we was all lined up against the trough. This was sorta the opposite of that situation.
"No, I ain't peein myself here," I hollered, "so you might as well cut me down so I don't fill up with pee and shoot it out my nose at you. And hurry up, there, my back teeth are floatin."
He looked sheepish. If he were a person, he woulda leaned his head forward and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. As it was, he leaned one eye stalk down and rubbed the back of it with the other stalk. I wondered what the world looked like when he did that, but then I stopped because I got dizzy. "That's the thing..." he began, "we don't know how to get you down."
"Whaddya mean you don't know how to get me down?" I barked. "Is this your first time trapping someone with slime or somethin?"
"Well, no..." he trailed off.
"So then it ain't your first time gettin someone outta this." I was proud of my reasoning. "Just do what you did to get them others down."
"That's where we hit the problem..." he was lookin as uncomfortable as a butcher's kid about to tell his dad he's vegetarian. "Keep in mind that we've been hopped up on meth this whole time. Not by choice, mind you, but I was just getting to that. But, you see..." he looked around.
"Oh, just get to it, would you?" My bladder hurt and I wanted out.
"Well..." then he mumbled something.
"What was that?" I asked.
"We ate them all." The secret was finally out. "It's not like we'd really planned to. We were all hopped up, like I said, and under the mind control of McClawenstein. It was the only way we knew to deal with intruders. But now, well, we don't want to eat you. We want to set you free, but we don't know how."
Right then, it became too much. I got to that point where you've been clenching your muscles too long and they relax for just one second and you really hope not too much escaped because you think you can make it that extra minute it would normally take to do the run to the bathroom and you know that if someone's in there already, you're gonna kick that durned door in and pee on them. But in this case, I didn't have nowhere to run and I didn't know how long I'd have to hold it. then I heard this bubbling, sizzling sound. I looked down and there was a pinhole burned through the slime casing. Alistair and the slug noticed, too.
"Whatever you did, do it again," said Alistair.
"No!" I was maybe more defensive than was warranted.
"Come on, Pat," he cajoled, "just do it again."
"No!" I yelled again. "Absolutely not!"
"It's the only way," said Alistair.
The slug looked me in the eye and told me, bluntly, "If you prefer, I could just eat you."
"Oh, fine!" I gave up. But one of y'all is gonna have to get me some extra pants.
"There are some out there," Alistair pointed to the door.
"Nu-uh," I shook my head, "I ain't wearin no 99 cent store pants, the pockets on them things is full of lies and deceit. Get someone to go over to the dollar store to get me some pants. Over there, the pockets are filled with integrity."
"Fine," said Alistair. He called some squimonk together. They put on their person costume and went across the street to get me some pants. That costume ain't very convincin, but the people at the dollar store tend not to ask many questions.
Once that was settled, I told the slug, "You! Turn your eyes away, I don't want you watchin this!"
Surprisingly, he obeyed without another word. Now that I was in semi-privacy, I was ready. Weird thing is, it's hard to pee your pants, even when you try. I guess it's been so worked in that you don't urinate when you're clothed that it's hard to get around. I tried closin my eyes and imaginin I was at the toilet. When that didn't work, I imagined that I was writin my name in the snow. Finally, I tried thinkin I was on a high cliff, whizzin into the river below. I covered all the classifications of peein' in my mind; that's in, on and off. You see, that's one of the joys of peein standin up, you get to pee in things and make music while you're doin it, or you get to pee on things and feel like you're markin your territory, and you get to pee off of things like cliffs and couches, watchin your stream arc through the air like a coffee scented rainbow. I finally had to pull out the big guns and imagine I was peein at angel falls and I could see my whole stream at once. That did it. I let go in a flood of warm relief and shame. The bubblin and sizzlin told me that it was workin and soon I came crashin to the ground. Fortunately, the squimonk came back with their newly purchased dollar pants, which I carried with me to the bathroom and donned as soon as I'd washed up.
I come outta that restroom feelin like all the blood in my body had rushed to my face. This wasn't one of them situations where I could just tie a sweater around my waist and hide what I did. Everyone there knew and I knew that they knew and they knew I knew they knew. We just stared each other down like a group of gunfighters, no one sure who was gonna break the silence. In the end, it was Douggy wakin up that did it.
"Hey!" he yelled, groggily, "what the heck is goin on here? Get me down!" He started thrashin about.
"Douggy," I put my hands on his shoulders, "it's gonna be alright. You're gonna get down from there, but you're gonna have to get yourself down."
"How?"
"Well," I explained, "you ain't gonna like this, but..."
Thursday, April 16, 2009
McClawenstein Gets a Distributorship (or: I can't believe I'm still stuck to a wall listening to a slug)
"It was a cold November day in Omaha when McClawenstein met with the ninja," continued the slug. "There had been some overtures previously. It began with an exchange of letters. Clan Platypus wrote that they'd been following McClawenstein's career since his accident, thinking he had potential. They went on to say they were impressed by his recent developments in the fields of ruthlessness and cunning. They offered to contact him further, to which he assented in the way of carnival folk; by sending them a corn dog covered with nacho cheese. Then, having concluded formalities, they began to communicate by text message. I remember the frantic idiocy of it well. The ninjas would write "Got 2 kill dis guy" and McClawenstein would respond, "ZOMG! Cl@w mks txt hrd! Defenstr8 him 4 me!" And it would continue like this well into the night. It seemed every four minutes the ninja would update McClawenstein on his assassinations and training while McClawenstein would respond with his experiments and shorts bursts about life in the circus, like "Oh noes! Frs Whll Brke! 8 dead. Lol :)" This time was a bit like a teenage relationship. When McClawenstein spoke to the ninja on the phone, they would always end with the "You hang up, no you hang up" bit. They weren't really concerned with speaking to each other longer, but they were both recording the conversation and neither wanted the other to hear the tell-tale click that the bug would make when the phone was finally disconnected. McClawenstein was especially sensitive about this issue because he had been cheap about buying his spy equipment and, in order to get a better deal, he agreed to carry advertising on his bug. Every time he disconnected a recorded conversation, his phone would proudly announce, "Thank you for choosing Record-O-Dyne Industries' Spy-O-Matic 4000 to fulfil your eavesdropping needs. We realize you have a choice in top-secret spy equipment and ask that, next time you need to secretly records a phone conversation, you will think of Record-O-Dyne and our Spy-O-Matic 4000." And that may have been acceptable but it would play a horribly annoying and catchy jingle afterwards that would get stuck in McClawenstein's head, slowly driving him mad.
"In a short time, the combination of jingle madness and sheer greed caused McClawenstein to ask Clan Platypus for a meeting. The wind blew scattered snow across the desolate Nebraskan landscape. All parties were bundled up well, so I didn't see any faces. Even us slugs were wearing the tiny sweaters and matching scarves made for us by the conjoined twins. They may have been hopeless drunks, but it didn't stop them from knitting tiny snowflakes and reindeer into our sweaters. In that field, shivering despite our tiny sweaters, we slugs were well aware of the horror to come. We watched the entire deal happen. Clan Platypus offered McClawenstein a distributorship. He would sell meth anywhere along his route he pleased. If he ran into trouble, he would have a ninja army on call to take care of it. He would start out with a 15% of all that he sold, with increases in that percentage based on performance. In exchange, he would have to meet certain quotas every quarter.
'It's funny,' said McClawenstein as they finished signing the contract in blood, 'my parents spent all their lives as teachers. They scraped and struggled every day to provide for me. But now that I've killed people and agreed to sell drugs, I'm going to make more in a week than they would make in a year.'
'What's funny about that?' asked the ninja.
'Well, it's just funny to me that it's more profitable to corrupt kids than to help them.'
'More money for you' replied the ninja.
'F'in A right, more money for me!' Then McClawenstein whooped and dragged his tail back to the carnival to soak in a tub of cast-off funnel cake grease, which he did on special occasions to loosen his tail joints and make himself shiny.
"As he fell asleep in the tub, we slugs decided on our course of action. We understood that McClawenstein was becoming more evil by the day. We held out hope that he would return to the halcyon days following the accident when he was happy to have people look at him and he tried to be helpful by opening jars and various other hard-to-open storage devices for old ladies. We longed for a return to the time when he would dream of playing the castanets; when he would walk into Red Lobster just to mess with the staff a little and then leave behind a $20 tip because he felt guilty. We needed him to be good again, and we felt we could change him.
"We began with a heavy slime-writing campaign. We started that night with Don't Do It! It took us 8 full hours to write. We learned from that we should not include serifs on the letters nor should we attempt to disconnect our trails in order to make the crosses on the ts look better. Really, by strictly adhering to the stylistic aesthetics of type makers, we were just making more work for ourselves. At the time, we thought the writing would me more convincing if it were shaped like dragons chasing butterflies and surrounded with a lush forest. Instead, McClawenstein got up in the morning, wandered into the bathroom, lifted his leg to release his morning gas, saw our writing, nodded slyly, called Susan, the ticket girl, into the tent, told her 'Susan, your cash drawer was 87 cents short last night' to which Susan responded with tears and begging, and then he grabbed her head in his claws, shoved it between his legs, expelled his gas with enough force to blow Susan's hair straight back like she just stuck it out of the window of a flying airplane. As Susan vomited all over herself, McClawenstein just laughed and told us, 'Good thing you didn't let me do that in private'.
"The next day, we tried reminding him of his childhood by writing Some Pig inside of a cobweb on his shell, hoping he would connect that to the tears he cried at the end of Charlotte's Web. Instead, it just prompted him to eat a sausage, bacon and ham sandwich. Then we tried Drugs Bad, Ninjas Bad after which he listened to Run DMC's Peter Piper in which the big bad wolf is, and I quote, 'not bad meaning bad but bad meaning good'.
"We tried every message we could think of, but nothing got through to McClawenstein. At every carnival stop, he would be approached by itchy, unkempt men and women that looked like they had replaced their bones with popsicle sticks. Every one of them was wearing a rock t-shirt of some kind or another and, in eight states of stops, I swear I only saw four teeth. He would sell these people anything from giant white bricks to small white vials. The more he sold for Platypus, the more he made for himself.
"He began to run out of things to spend all his money on. He ordered a whole new tent for himself made entirely out of gold cloth and sable fur. When that was delivered, he had it filled with gold coins, in which he would spend his days swimming. When the novelty of that wore off, he had his entire shell crusted with rubies. In fits of madness, he would stand under the noon sun shouting 'Who's shinier now, Helios, you douche!?' He drank the finest wines, ate the finest caviar and slept with the highest class of prostitute that would hire themselves out to a half-man, half-lobster with deadly gas; which is a surprisingly high class of prostitute. When the life of material goods brought by wealth became boring to him, McClawenstwein dipped into his own meth supply, and that was the beginning of the end for him."
"In a short time, the combination of jingle madness and sheer greed caused McClawenstein to ask Clan Platypus for a meeting. The wind blew scattered snow across the desolate Nebraskan landscape. All parties were bundled up well, so I didn't see any faces. Even us slugs were wearing the tiny sweaters and matching scarves made for us by the conjoined twins. They may have been hopeless drunks, but it didn't stop them from knitting tiny snowflakes and reindeer into our sweaters. In that field, shivering despite our tiny sweaters, we slugs were well aware of the horror to come. We watched the entire deal happen. Clan Platypus offered McClawenstein a distributorship. He would sell meth anywhere along his route he pleased. If he ran into trouble, he would have a ninja army on call to take care of it. He would start out with a 15% of all that he sold, with increases in that percentage based on performance. In exchange, he would have to meet certain quotas every quarter.
'It's funny,' said McClawenstein as they finished signing the contract in blood, 'my parents spent all their lives as teachers. They scraped and struggled every day to provide for me. But now that I've killed people and agreed to sell drugs, I'm going to make more in a week than they would make in a year.'
'What's funny about that?' asked the ninja.
'Well, it's just funny to me that it's more profitable to corrupt kids than to help them.'
'More money for you' replied the ninja.
'F'in A right, more money for me!' Then McClawenstein whooped and dragged his tail back to the carnival to soak in a tub of cast-off funnel cake grease, which he did on special occasions to loosen his tail joints and make himself shiny.
"As he fell asleep in the tub, we slugs decided on our course of action. We understood that McClawenstein was becoming more evil by the day. We held out hope that he would return to the halcyon days following the accident when he was happy to have people look at him and he tried to be helpful by opening jars and various other hard-to-open storage devices for old ladies. We longed for a return to the time when he would dream of playing the castanets; when he would walk into Red Lobster just to mess with the staff a little and then leave behind a $20 tip because he felt guilty. We needed him to be good again, and we felt we could change him.
"We began with a heavy slime-writing campaign. We started that night with Don't Do It! It took us 8 full hours to write. We learned from that we should not include serifs on the letters nor should we attempt to disconnect our trails in order to make the crosses on the ts look better. Really, by strictly adhering to the stylistic aesthetics of type makers, we were just making more work for ourselves. At the time, we thought the writing would me more convincing if it were shaped like dragons chasing butterflies and surrounded with a lush forest. Instead, McClawenstein got up in the morning, wandered into the bathroom, lifted his leg to release his morning gas, saw our writing, nodded slyly, called Susan, the ticket girl, into the tent, told her 'Susan, your cash drawer was 87 cents short last night' to which Susan responded with tears and begging, and then he grabbed her head in his claws, shoved it between his legs, expelled his gas with enough force to blow Susan's hair straight back like she just stuck it out of the window of a flying airplane. As Susan vomited all over herself, McClawenstein just laughed and told us, 'Good thing you didn't let me do that in private'.
"The next day, we tried reminding him of his childhood by writing Some Pig inside of a cobweb on his shell, hoping he would connect that to the tears he cried at the end of Charlotte's Web. Instead, it just prompted him to eat a sausage, bacon and ham sandwich. Then we tried Drugs Bad, Ninjas Bad after which he listened to Run DMC's Peter Piper in which the big bad wolf is, and I quote, 'not bad meaning bad but bad meaning good'.
"We tried every message we could think of, but nothing got through to McClawenstein. At every carnival stop, he would be approached by itchy, unkempt men and women that looked like they had replaced their bones with popsicle sticks. Every one of them was wearing a rock t-shirt of some kind or another and, in eight states of stops, I swear I only saw four teeth. He would sell these people anything from giant white bricks to small white vials. The more he sold for Platypus, the more he made for himself.
"He began to run out of things to spend all his money on. He ordered a whole new tent for himself made entirely out of gold cloth and sable fur. When that was delivered, he had it filled with gold coins, in which he would spend his days swimming. When the novelty of that wore off, he had his entire shell crusted with rubies. In fits of madness, he would stand under the noon sun shouting 'Who's shinier now, Helios, you douche!?' He drank the finest wines, ate the finest caviar and slept with the highest class of prostitute that would hire themselves out to a half-man, half-lobster with deadly gas; which is a surprisingly high class of prostitute. When the life of material goods brought by wealth became boring to him, McClawenstwein dipped into his own meth supply, and that was the beginning of the end for him."
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