ABOARD MY TRAIN OF THOUGHT
Part One Of
The Salvaged Autobiographical Accounts Of Clyde P. Hipwing

1st Trilogy
1. Coming In From Out Of a Brainstorm/ 2. Yesterday's Milk
3. Get The Chip Off Your Shoulder


Copyright 1999
By
Scott C. Endsley
E-Mail Scott@Endsley.com


(Introduction) Looking out of the window aboard my own train of thought, I suddenly realized I was on the wrong track.

"Good Godfrey!" I exclaimed, "Stop this train!"

How could this happen? How could I repeat this tragic mistake, especially after being in the same situation previous to this one?

I kicked open the door to jump ship, landing head first on a large pile of rocks; before I even got the chance to jump! I was then approached by a small Merry Band of Calypso Singers who were caroling the lyrics of "Amazing Grace", to the tune of "Gilligan's Island".

"Have you any water?" I begged in thirst for an answer. But they went about their merry way, not noticing my bleeding pride, or for that matter -- my scraped elbows.

Staggering to my feet, I looked in the distance noticing nothing at all. But, after a lengthy observation, I realized I was mistaken, and moved on.

Tired, thirsty, embarrassed, and in my mid-thirties; I came across a large maple tree. I looked closer and read the carved inscription:

YOU'RE PROBABLY HERE.

What could this mean? How did they know? I became very paranoid while watching my step; then, suspicious of my own two feet, I let my fingers do the walking.

"Pardon me?" a voice said.

"Er... Ah... Yes?" I answered.

"Could you tell me the way to the Grand Entrance to the Gate of the City of the Intellectually Inept?"

"Yes, that's in the first episode of the first story," I told him.

A bit of a strange stranger he was. I couldn't help but notice his golf ball eyes, potato nose, and watermelon smile, even from my own disadvantaged perspective (what ever that means?). But, I gave him a map to Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro, and kicked him in the direction he should go.

Speaking of food, I realized I had a rather deep valley in my stomach.

"I'm hungry!" I yelled.

"And who isn't?!" Echoed the mountains.

Then a large loaf of manna fell on my head; two days later, I came to... and ate it.....

The evening and the morning were the third day, and what a wonderful day it was to be. For on that day, I, Clyde P. Hipwing, was to learn the answer to the question not yet asked by the Gentleman in the Back Row, with the Gray Flannel Suit and Funny Looking Nose.

"Why have you not asked the question yet?" I asked.

"Do what?"

I asked again: "I asked, why have you not asked the QUESTION that you were to ask?"

"You sure are inquisitive for a fellow your age," he sarcastically insulted.

This offended me greatly, so I grabbed the first available QUESTION MARK and struck him right between his optic receivers; and left him for dead.

Running from the scene, I tangled my feet in some railroad tracks as I heard the approaching clickity clacks, and I realized the dilemma I was in....... "How can it be that at the beginning of this great journey I am to partake, I am to be run over by my own abandoned Train of Thought?" I thought.

So I changed the subject -- and went home.
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COMING IN FROM OUT OF A BRAINSTORM

(EPISODE 1)
It was an ordinary Oklahoma Monday morning during the early fall of 1995, in the small south-central town of Mountain Oyster; though I was in a bit of a bad mood after cutting off my nose while shaving. Ah! But what a beautiful day it was; the leaves were falling, the trees were singing; and I was enjoying an action packed game of Ping-Pong with my cat.

"Jolly good for me, Clyde!" she purred enthusiastically, "A perfect 21, how about another?"

Just then the phone rang; and I could tell by the way it was ringing that it was not an ordinary phone call. So I didn't answer, instead, I grabbed my coat and went out for a walk. I came to terms with a fact I couldn't escape-- that I was being followed by a 6 foot, 8 inch, 250 pound, phone booth (that not only was ringing, but ringing loudly). I cut sharp to the right, down a dark alley-- but it was only a dead end. There was no use. I had no choice.

"Okay... okay... I'll answer!" I screamed, "Just stop following me!"

But of all things, it stopped ringing before I could get to it. The very nerve! Angry, I began kicking the blasted phone booth, just as its door opened and swallowed me whole. "Am I going to suffocate and die?... Who's going to feed my cat?" I thought to myself. I panicked....


WE INTERRUPT THIS STORY TO BRING YOU THIS NEWS BULLETIN.... SAM'S DELI, ON THE CORNER OF "I" AND "AM," WAS ROBBED THIS MORNING. MILLIONS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF GOODS WERE REPORTED STOLEN, BUT ACCORDING TO SAM, IT WAS NOTHING MORE THAN JUST A BUNCH OF BALONEY.

POLICE ARE SANDWICHING THE AREA, AND WHEN ASKED IF THEY WERE GOING TO SEARCH FOR THE SUSPECT AROUND THE CLOCK, POTHOLE COUNTY SHERIFF MARSHALL DUMAS, WAS QUOTED AS SAYING: "WELL, WE'VE SEARCHED THE ENTIRE PREMISES, SO I DOUBT HE'S HIDING ANYWHERE AROUND THE CLOCK."

THE MAYOR IS TO CALL A PRESS CONFERENCE AS SOON AS HE CAN GET HIS CLOTHES ON...

IF YOU HAVE ANY INFORMATION ABOUT ANYONE WHO, IN THE LAST FEW WEEKS, HAS DEMONSTRATED AN INSATIABLE APPETITE, YOU ARE TO CALL POLICE SERGEANT HAROLD THIGHMASTER, AT 1-999-GLUTTON, IMMEDIATELY!

OPERATORS ARE STANDING BY!...THE FIRST 3 SECONDS ARE FREE! COME ON...BE THE FIRST ONE TO CALL!!! ......NOW BACK TO YOUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PARAGRAPH, ALREADY IN PROGRESS......


(Meanwhile) .......I got away from that blasted phone booth right before I was about to die! What an impossible situation!...What a cat!... I was never going to make her sleep outside again.

Not noticing where I was going, because of all the excitement; I bumped into the town odd-ball. Quite an outlandish, but lovable old man; he was still wearing the same suit he put on for his wife's funeral, three years ago.

"Good morning, Homer." I bid him.

As predictable, he just tipped his hat and muttered, "Dawn Comes with Rosy fingers."

That was all he would ever say. Nobody knew why... but he was treated lovingly as a novelty in our mundane existence, there in Mountain Oyster. Someone who professed to have witnessed him uttering anything at all, recalled he was convinced he was on a particular sort of odyssey, that supposedly lead to nowhere. I always thought that was just called 'life.' Well, at least he appeared sanguine in his mythical world.

Calculating the morning sun in concordance to the billboard with the half-naked woman on it, I realized it was the 11th hour, and I hadn't eaten a full meal since my last big train ride. I looked west, and spied a Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro, and salivated uncontrollably.

Once inside, I accosted the counter and noticed the strange stranger I had encountered a couple of days ago in the introduction.

"Been waiting for you all morning," the strange stranger in an audible whisper waved me over to his booth in one of the dark 90 degree angles of the restaurant. "Is this the Grand Entrance to the Gate of the City of the Intellectually Inept, or should I look elsewhere?"

"Yes, you're here, but what is the secret verse?" I asked, amusing myself by toying with his obviously displaced reasoning.

Without being forewarned, a waitress who expressed no remorse in regard to interupting our conversation, butted in, "Whad'll it be?"

"Oh, uh, I'll take the Catcher on the Rye, hold the Tartar, please?" the strange stranger drooled, then looked back at me with a double-take when I regained his attention with my former question about the secret verse.

He slumped in his booth, wiped his sweaty brow, then sat up straight again; and cleared his throat while he reached in his coat pocket for a pitch pipe. After rehearsing a series of ear bending, obnoxious and embarrassing renditions of "Mommy made me mash my M&Ms" musical scales, he began: "Where seldom is heard-- a discouraging word.... for what can a buffalo say?"

The entire crowd in the bistro busted out in ovation, as the boisterous waitress barked, "Cute... now whad'll YOU have?"

I realized we couldn't conduct business there, so I ordered a Baby Barf Burger and Bunion Rings to go. "Okay, you're in." I said, as we split from the joint.

As we were scurrying away from autograph seekers, a metallic silver, early model Mercedes, rounded the drive-through on two wheels, then screeched to a halt, landing back on all fours. In my original glance, I failed to witness anyone inside, as the windows were tinted beyond legal standards. But gradually the door creaked open, though all I could see was a cowlick and the crown of what I thought was a juvenile's head. Miniature fingers gradually wrapped around the exterior of the driver's door and abruptly hurled it shut.

"Your cat, or your life?" a one-eyed midget, with a hideous limp, and an equally silly pawn shop discount special aimed just below my knee-caps, imposed as a difficult choice... His finger trembled disturbingly on the trigger.

"NO.. Not my cat! Not my Matilda!" I motioned over at the Strange Stranger, "....over HIS dead body!" I bellowed as I swept her up, fled, and looked back after hearing the firing of his weapon. The Mercedes sped away, and a lone figure in a pool of black gooey substance, resembling ink, laid dead.

"Good Godfrey! The Strange Stranger!" I shivered.
___________________


(Episode 2)
How could I have done it? I caused the loss of an innocent life. Well, at least I still had Matilda, my best friend and Ping-Pong partner. But what was it I was to learn from the Strange Stranger? What was it he wanted? Then it hit me... The maple tree! The inscription!... I had to get back and look again. I went deep into the woods, until I found it:

YOU'RE PROBABLY HERE.

I got out a knife and carved:

YOU"RE PROBABLY RIGHT.

Just as I had crossed the "T", a bolt of lightning struck the tree. After the debris cleared, I couldn't believe my eyes as I read:

YOU COULD HAVE SAVED US BOTH A LOT OF TIME AND TROUBLE, IF YOU HAD DONE THIS TO BEGIN WITH!

Then there was a terrible earthquake! As the ground parted, a black cloud swirled overhead, and I feared for my life. But the ground stopped shaking as the earth belched up a Rand McNally road map, with a note attached:

You're going to Los Banos, California, where you
are to meet a certain fruit picker named
Elmo Pigglesworth.
He will give you further instructions...
Oh by the way --
Don't blow it this time, Clyde!


With no means of transportation, for my car was in the shop, I didn't look forward to the long journey. But walking along Interstate 40, somewhere in the panhandle of Texas a week later, Matilda and I exchanged old war stories. I was amazed at how much I didn't know about my own cat.

Being of some Siamese descent, her great-great-great-great-great- (and then some) grandfather, lived in the royal household of Ghengis Khan. Gramps would often lick Mr. Khan's wounds after he'd return from battle. He faithfully kept the rats out of their dwelling, and even helped Ghengis with hunting prey from time to time. Gramps would strive earnestly to secure his master's fondness, being as faithful as he could. One Saturday afternoon the Mongolian King got real ticked-off with Kublai, his grandson, for leaving the lawn mower out in the rain, despite persistent reminders. Being that Kublai was much bigger than Ghengis, poor Great Grampa Kitty took the brunt of his exasperation, and ended up that evening with a bright red luscious apple stuffed in his mouth on the Khan's dinner platter.

Then there was one of her great-great-great (etc) uncles, who helped Christopher Columbus discover America. Seems Chris stepped on Uncle Tom's tail, who instantaneously belted out a deafening shriek. It alarmed Chris so severely, he turned the ship west and unexpectedly spied a peninsula. Upon returning to Spain, Queen Isabella attempted to knight the potential Sir Tom, but like Chris, she accidentally stood on his rear appendage, resulting in the same consequences. Startled by his loud squall, the queen tumbled over him and, unfortunately, hurled her sword into King Ferdinand's chest. Uncle Tom was immediately sent before the Spanish Inquisition, but was spared being burned at the stake, as long as he agreed to become a court jester. When she needed a good laugh, Isabella would, from time to time, call upon him to remind her of the governing factors surrounding the matter of how the Good King kicked the bucket.

On a couple of Wednesdays later, Matilda and I had walked a good twelve hours before we stopped for the night just east of Santa Rosa, in the barren desert of New Mexico. She caught a couple of rats and I roasted them over some burning tumbleweed. We were delightfully filled for the evening, but boored with my cooking. After successfully panhandling along the way the next day, we aquired a decently adequate amount of change to purchase a few pre-packaged peanut butter sandwiches along the way, for the rest of the journey.


We had just made it to the California border nearly a month later, when Matilda suggested, "You know, this is dumb. We ought to hitch a ride." We had plenty of opportunities to hop a train or two, but after landing head first on a pile of rocks for the umpteenth time, I stayed away from them as much as possible, so we walked on. We had just about made it to the San Joaquin Valley when, coming over a hill, we noticed an armored road block. When we got no more than about 15 feet away, they raised their guns while a short but stocky BATF officer blared on an amplified megaphone, "Clyde P. Hipwing?!"

"Yes....And I can hear just fine without that thing!"

"Oh, uh sorry, drop the knapsack, sir...and walk away slowly," he demanded, aiming his gun nervously. "You and the cat hit the ground, NOW!"

Laying flat on my face, I observed a small bomb squad of three men, in fully protective clothing, gently putting my knapsack in some sort of sealed heavy metal capsule. "Its just our lunch!" I laughed.

"We know what it is...I'm afraid we're gonna have to take you both in for questioning concerning the Sam's Deli robbery, back in Mountain Oyster, Oklahoma."

We were rushed frantically to the Prune Pit County sheriff's office in a convoy of five squad cars, followed by three FBI vans and two armored trucks, filled with SWAT teams escorting us on either side.


The sheriff was a big beer-bellied type displaced Texan, and was all haughty for having brought us in. "You wanna tell me bout this here robbery in Oklahoma, boy?"

"I'd like to, but I know nothing about it," I answered.

"Well you're writing this story, aren't you? Come on...You did it. You stole all that stuff, didn't you?" he insisted with his face into mine.

"That's baloney!"

"And you stole that baloney, didn't you, boy?"

"I don't even know what you're talking about. I was being swallowed by a telephone booth about the time of the robbery... If you don't believe me, just ask my cat. She's the one who saved me!" I stood up.

Sheriff Bonehead really liked that one. I should have just kept my mouth shut. "Ok, Mr Hipwing...Clyde, why is it you can clearly remember what you were doing at the time of this here robbery over a month ago, but you can't tell me where this half-eaten baloney sandwich, that was found this morning in your knapsack, came from?"

"I don't know! I don't even like baloney. If I remember correctly it was a peanut butter sandwich, but, I'm not really sure."

"Well, boy, sounds to me like your long term memory is purdy doggone good, but as for the short term........"

"Alright," I smarted, "Ask me about that baloney sandwich again...and I'll give you an answer in about three years, Ok?!"

I was locked up overnight with one other prisoner, who snored monstrously. The next morning, I thought I'd get friendly and introduce myself to my cellmate in the top bunk. "Good morning. When do they serve breakfast here?"

There was a long pause. Then suddenly he replied, "Dawn comes with Rosy fingers."

I hit my head as I raised up. "Homer!?"
--------------------


(Episode 3)
I was charged with eight counts on possession of stolen property, four counts on "the intent to distribute" (I guess they meant sharing four sandwiches with my cat), and one count on "not properly packing your lunch like your mother surely taught you!"

I was to stay in jail for two long months without a word from Matilda. Poor cat, they probably put her to sleep, I thought. I was so depressed, I didn't bother to prepare for the trial, which was to be held in California because of all the public rage back home in Mountain Oyster. To top it off, I was assigned a court appointed attorney who rarely came around.


Some time later, the hearing was well into its third hour as the DA was twisting testimony out of his concluding witness.

"Now, you're employed by the only meat packing plant in downtown Helenback, Arkansas. This has already been established for the record. But could you tell those of us who have never been to Helenback, Mr. Kimble, what exactly is the name of that business, trademark or establishment, as registered with the Internal Revenue Service?"

"'The Only Meat Packing Plant In Downtown Helenback, Arkansas', Sir."

"And just what is your job title?" The cocky Prosecutor drilled.

"I'm the Head Meat Inspector!" Mr. Kimble boasted.

"Very well, Mr. Kimble," the DA praised his witness, then confidently approached the bench. "Your Honor, I'd like at this time to introduce Exhibit H to the jury as a momentous segment of consequential evidence in this egregious litigation."

"For heaven's sake, Benson," the Judge harped, "It's just a stupid piece of baloney! This is the eighth exhibit you've introduced today...When are you going to wrap-up all of this baloney, it's getting mighty stale!....Hey, that was pretty witty, wasn't it!?"

"Joking aside, Your Honor.....This isn't just a piece of baloney; but a 'half eaten' piece of baloney!"

"All right, let the record show Exhibit H....another piece of baloney has been submitted into evidence," Judge Thomas grumbled, looking at his watch and thinking about lunch.

"Now, Mr. Kimble, explain to the jury what this is...." Benson commanded, dramatically holding the exibit against the witness' nose.

"Uhhh Yer kiddin', right?" He snickered, insulted. "Why, it looks like a piece of baloney to me, but of course I could be wrong...I ain't an expert; I've just managed to keep my job through the years cause I'm with the union!"

The courtroom broke out in silly laughter, while I noticed my Public Defender looking as if his hopes had been lifted. However, humiliated by his immediate fiasco, and sensing a mockery was at hand, the Prosecuting Attorney bitterly chewed out the jury:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this significant piece of evidence was found on the defendant's person at the time of his arrest by a BATF (Baloney Alchohol Tobacco and Firearms) officer! When this case retires for deliberation, you'd better really strive to consider how seriously damning this is to Mr. Hipwing's alibi. Not only do the bite marks match his dental records, but I've spoken with every lunch meat connoisseur in this state, and all of them concur that...."

"Benson, this is not the time for your closing remarks! This is the fifth time this morning you've tried to manipulate the jury. I won't have anymore of it in my courtroom; and if I should, you won't be released from holding, until you miraculously pull out of your nose $25,000!...Now, direct only questions, exclusively to your Witness! Do you understand Me?!!!!!" His Honor Shouted.

Benson immediately humbly bowed himself apologetically before the Throne, "Yes Sir, it won't happen again, sir!!!!"

"Good.......You may proceed!"

"Thanks...I'm sorry, Sir, Your Honor...Yes, Thanks Again, Sir!... .Now..... Uh, MR. Kimble, just how old would you say this particular, half-eaten scrap of baloney is, just by inspecting it?"

"Hmmm, I wouldn't throw a Barmitzvah any time soon!"

"Mr. Kimble," Judge Thomas spoke softly, but firm, "I'm very serious...Would you like me to hold you in contempt?"

"What? NO, I wouldn't like you to hold me at all!...no matter how serious you are!...Just what exactly are you hinting at with that question?"

"Your Honor, I have no further questions." Benson sighed and rolled his eyes, throwing his notes so as to scatter them all over the table, and sat down.

"Very well, if there is no further questions from the defense, You may step down, Mr. Kimble."

"No further questions, Your Honor," my lawyer declared.

Before stepping down from the witness stand, Mr. Kimble made known his regret for his behavior: "I'm sorry, Your Honor, if I hurt your feelings when I was shocked by your offer. I'm just not into that sort of thing, but if I were in your shoes...uh well, I don't mean to say I wanna be gettin' into your shoes or nothin', uh..but of course, I don't have nothin' against nobody that does!...but uh....." he finally gave up trying to explain and offered a hand of tolerance, praying His Judgeship wouldn't kiss it.

"You Will Step Down, Mr. Kimble!!" Judge Thomas, whose face would have caused confusion on a busy interstate, being that it was as red and illuminating as a traffic light, couldn't believe all that was happening in his courtroom.
---------------------------


(Episode 4)
"At this time, Your Honor, I'd like to call a surprise witness to the stand, a certain Miss Matilda Waudlebaum," my court-appointed counselor announced.

"Very well, let the record show that........A CAT IS GOING TO TESTIFY?!" Justice Administrator Thomas gasped. I started crying tears of joy as my beloved feline approached the bench. I was equally comforted by the judge's facial adoration for such furry cuteness. "Well, I guess I can confirm this morning that I haven't seen everything in these 30 years! You may proceed, Council."

"Thank you, Your Honor. Miss Waudlebaum. You're a cat. Would you say this is true?" my attorney asked.

"I would," she proudly affirmed, though slightly bewildered because the Judge, probably from being over-stressed, forgot to make her swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help her; Saint CATherine! Matilda was a devout CATholic--Never missed one day of CATechism! She always wanted to be a Nun, but she got kicked out of Parochial School for chasing a "Cardinal" up a tree....I know, enough already! Okay, back to the trial............

"And as a cat, you were pretty close to the defendant, were you not?"

"I object!" the DA shouted. "Council is putting words in the witness' mouth."

"Overruled!....Come on, let's hurry this thing through!.....You may answer the question, ma'am," the Judge's stomach spoke up on his behalf, more eager than ever to go to lunch.

"Yes, I know the defendant well... I know the way he thinks... How else could it be that he has yet to beat me in Ping-Pong?"

"I object!.... This is irrelevant to the case... I want to go to the meat of the matter! What about Exhibit H?" the DA huffed.

"Overruled!.. You'll get to cross examine... Now go ahead, precious little kitty you... I mean, please continue, ma'am," said the Judge.

"Thank you, Your Honor," she purred. "There's not a dishonest bone in his body. He's always been good to me. Never once as a kitten did he rub my nose in it when I messed on the carpet... he..."

"I object!. Your Honor, you're falling in love with that cat!"

"Shut up, Benson, or you'll be removed from this courtroom, even if I have to forcibly take you by the hand and lead you outta here myself!!!!!"

"Well ain't that just the cat's pajamas! I'm sure Mr. Kimble would really be fond of that!" the D.A. stomped. "Never in my..."

"Bailiff, take Benson out of here... This case is now dismissed! Now where were you, precious little fuzz ball, hmmmm?" The Judge, like a charmed adolescent school boy, melted as he gave ear in a mesmerized daze for at least 30 more minutes, before shyly begging Matilda to give him the liberty to take her out for lunch.

Once again my beloved cat had saved my life and we were at last reunited. I asked the bailiff if I could go back and say goodbye to Homer and was then led down to his cell.

My few hours of freedom made me take for granted the long black hall, cold and damp as it was, all the way back to the cell we shared. Homer just stood there clutching the bars as if he could inflict pain on them.

"Well, Homer, I don't know what they got you in here for, but when this is all over I'll come back for you," I promised, putting my hand on his shoulder.

He just looked down at his shoes and mumbled his ever familiar line: "Dawn Comes with Rosy Fingers."

I paused and sighed, ".... Yeah, I know,."
--------------------------


(Episode 5)
After all the charges were dropped and my record once again spotless, Matilda and I headed west. After walking a mile or two, Sheriff Bonehead pulled alongside of us.

"You'n yer cat wanna ride, boy?" He asked.

All along the way to Los Banos, Matilda and the sheriff exchanged hidious Star Wars jokes.

"Now let's see if I can say this one right... Hee! Hee!.... Obi-wan Kanobi had a son that was born mute... What was his name?.. Obi Quiet!.. Get it?"

Then Matilda fired back, "What did Obi-wan Kanobi suggest when Luke Skywalker was trying, but failing, to perform the Jedi trick of manipulating a tasty morsel of hamburger with his mind, into his mouth?"

"Hee Hee! Heck, I dunno, tell me?!" the Sheriff asked in anticipation.

"Use the fork, Luke!" Matilda slapped her paw on Bonehead's knee as he swerved out of the wrong lane of the highway, and almost off the road. Luckily for me it was just a 45 minute trip...


We pulled into a Christian-owned 'discount' service station called 'Jesus Saves' in Los Banos, about three o'clock in the afternoon. I went inside to ask for a phone book, to look up Mr. Pigglesworth's address, only to find the entire 'P' section had been ripped out.

"Excuse me, can anyone tell me where I can find an Elmo Pigglesworth?" I asked. Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to study me.

"Who wants to know?" inquired a rather large tough, barely visible in the dark of the garage. I told him my name as two cars just about hit each other trying to split the scene.

"How do I know you are who you say you are?" he squinted.

"Well, let's see,... let's just say... `I'm probably here.`," I sneered.

His face turned as if he were wearing talcum. "`You're probably right`.... Come with me." He lifted a manhole cover and lowered himself in. He then asked me to follow. We must have walked for miles underground until we approached daylight peeking through a crack overhead. "Well this is the place. Climb out of the manhole and knock on the farmhouse door.... But please, Mr Hipwing...... don't tell him who led you here, okay?" he begged.

I gave him my word. I had just about got to the door when an old man came out with a shotgun. "Oh! It's the writer lost in his work." He laughed.

"I beg your pardon...." I said throwing up my hands, "I was told to come and see you. You see I'm on a mission and...."

"Don't need to finish. I already got you figured out... Where's yer side-kick protagonist?" he questioned.

"I don't follow you."

"Where's the strange stranger?" he asked again.

"Oh, he's dead... You see..."

"It was either him or the cat, right?" he laughed, with tobacco juice running down both sides of his chin. I couldn't help but think to myself, "Well, at least he's level headed."

"How did you know?" I queried, puzzled.

"My thoughts are your thoughts," he said, as he spit on the ground. "Come on inside---Oh, I don't allow cats in my house."
-------------------------------


(Episode 6)
Pigglesworth was an eccentric ex-con, who swears to the day of this writing, he'd been wrongly set up. As the story goes; he claimed at one time to have the ability to predict the future. Though it was all bunk, he made quite a lot of money at it. Soon, he became very publicized around his neck of the woods, but in an opposing way.... Word got around among his followers that many of his predictions turned out to be frivolous.

After most of Elmo's clientele quit coming around, he 'fessed-up about being a fraud, as far as having the ability to foretell events, but maintained he still had supernatural abilities. Only, not as most would understand. He took out a giant ad in the Los Angeles Times, claiming not only was he truly clairvoyant, but was blessed with a gift no other has ever claimed... The miraculous ability of 'For-sawing The Past!'

He listed 36 major world events that in fact did happen, including times, dates, years, centuries, decades, and believe it or not, temperatures! He named who won the World Series the previous year, and by what score! People marveled over his 100 percent accuracy so much, that he was paid one million dollars in advance; to write a book on '1000 post-dictions of the 1st millennium.' But the apple cart was soon to turn over (though he couldn't see it coming).

Rumors began to circulate about his authenticity, so much so, that the FBI launched an investigative probe, to determine whether or not he was a fraud. Soon afterward, a librarian claimed to have identified Pigglesworth, in spite of women's panty hose pulled over his face, engaged in incriminating activity.... reading!!!!!!!!. To back up her story, she presented to the authorities a library card with his name and address on it. He supposedly left it behind by accident. That was all they needed to get a search warrant.

Searching his home while he wasn't there, they found over 125 books, 45 magazines, various video tapes, and a complete collection of newspapers dating back to 1962. But what they found that really could have nailed him, what convinced them to bring him in, what left him without anyone willing to vouch on his behalf... was....a.........(GASP!).........TELEVISION!

They interrogated him for five hours, but the evidence was all circumstantial. They had to let him go. But being the likable guy he was, there weren't any hard feelings. He talked motor racing for awhile with some of the cops, traded Vietnam adventures, and bragged about his kids. Out of friendly curiosity, the police chief casually asked him where he bought his solid gold Rolex watch, because he had one at home just like it. Elmo thought for a minute, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "I can't recall.." He got 10 years.


Elmo Pigglesworth enjoyed a peculiar looking dwelling. There were a lot of maps scattered all over the floor, yet some were hanging on the walls with thumbtacks pinned on various strategic locations.

"The thing you need to do is get back on that there Train of Thought," Elmo began, "and reverse the locomotive back to the duration of the time, when you first met the Strange Stranger. Then find out what kind of information he has. Once you find him, commence to lead him to the Grand Entrance to the GATE of the City of the Intellectually Inept, which is Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro. Now you, as the Gate Keeper, are to lead the Strange Stranger to the Intellectually Inept."

I couldn't believe that after traveling 1500 miles on foot, that was all he offered us (besides a rather greasy lunch). Especially since none of it made any since to me At least he was kind enough to point out the nearest railroad tracks to us.

After walking approximately a mile, Matilda and I waited around for about an hour till we abruptly heard the rumble of the approaching train. As it approached, we jumped in one of the boxcars and immediately pulled a lever (that was oddly located on the ceiling) and abruptly threw my Train of Thought in reverse.

--------------------------


(Episode 7)
The long ride from California back to Oklahoma took all of two days. I noticed from the beginning, that the sun rose every morning in the west, and set in evening in the east. From what I gathered we were making a voyage reverse in time (Duh...).

On the second morning, when I got up to stretch, I noticed I was approaching familiar surroundings. Again, I suddenly spied a small Merry Band of Calypso Singers and realized it was time to bail out. Same as before, I landed head first on a large pile of rocks, but this time I rose to my feet to join in with the singers--- I was curious to find out where they were going.

They at once stopped playing and singing, as one of them shouted, "You're not one of us!" and began hitting me over the head with their guitars and bongos. I fled realizing they weren't so friendly after all, and walked on to the large maple tree to wait for the strange stranger; but fell fast asleep.

The wind danced in my hair as the old maple swayed and creaked. Then suddenly, I awoke to the sight of large smelly tennis shoes.

"Pardon me, could you tell me the way to the Grand Entrance to the Gate of the City of the Intellectually Inept?" the Strange Stranger asked.

I got up on my feet and told him to follow me. We strolled into the City of the Intellectually Inept and looked for Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro. When we got there, we found a quiet place in the back of the room. I whispered, "Okay, you're here, what is it you want to tell me, and what do you want to know?"

"Are you the Intellectually Inept?" He stared into my eyes.

I paused thoughtfully, "No, I'm just the Gate Keeper."

"Do you know where I might find him?" He leaned closer.

Fresh out of oblivion, who else but Homer slowly sauntered up to our table like molasses that's been refrigerated for a year. Or a scene in a movie that dragged, and never got to the line that you knew was coming next. Or like a book that pretty much does the same thing while you wonder, why am I reading this? My kids will probably grow into teenagers before he gets to that stupid line that I've been expecting, and waiting on now for 84 words; all for the privilege, at the expense of my bladder, just to once again read Homer mumble, "Dawn Comes with Rosy Fingers."

"And leaves with dishpan hands!" Strange excitedly fired back..

"What color were her eyes?" Homer asked, as I fell out of my booth..

"One was strikingly beautiful, and blue as robins' eggs, the other green with envy!" Strange got some applause from the table behind us with that one.

"And why was she frugally walking the tightrope, while nervously balancing her checkbook on the tip of her nose?"

There was a long meditative pause.... "..........Because it was two days before payday, and she's a lousy juggler!"

"Yes! Yes!... But!... Most importantly, why was she balancing the checkbook on her 'nose?'"

Strange slumped and wiped his sweaty baffled face. He'd been stumped. But being one to never accept being outplayed, he guessed ... "Because there wasn't anything else to write on?"

"Ok Charley, tell Mr. Strange here what wonderful prizes he'll be taking home today!" Homer sarcastically praised... along with everyone else in the joint, and even some in the drive-through, who hoorayed. Streamers and confetti fell. A beer barrel polka band, consisting of World War II vets, marched inside and down the isles playing-- what else but-- The Beer Barrel Polka; as Homer and Strange got out maps and diagrams, conversing amongst themselves in even more ridiculous riddles, while each person stared with great interest.

"Uh, fill me in guys, huh?" I suggested, wanting them to clarify, what in the world was going on.

"Shh!" the Strange Stranger whispered, "Homer here is the Intellectually Inept!"

"You just now figured that out?"

"Don't you understand?" Strange asked elated, "Now the Question can be asked by the Man in the Back Row with the Gray Flannel Suit and Funny Looking Nose!"

"But first we have to go into the Fictional Forest to find him!" Homer announced. "Didn't the 'Anti-Beast' you met in the 5th episode of this story tell you that?"

I wasn't going to even bother trying to figure out 'who' that was. I just gave both Homer and Strange a self-evident, bewilderedly born-brainless, dumbfounded look.

"Don't worry who he is right now," Strange said, tossing me an explanatory life jacket. I swam over to it as he continued, "you'll know about him soon enough, but you'll probably have to wait until you have completed the last story in your upcoming sequel."

"Oh."
-------------------------------


(Episode 8)
We camped by the large maple tree deep in the Fictional Forest. As I was munching on sardines and crackers, Homer was finally explaining to me things I found puzzling. "You see, we're all here cause you brought us here. Without you, we wouldn't exist!" Homer got out a hunting knife and pricked his thumb. "You see that, that ain't blood... that's ink...your ink.... our life support. Everything that's here is only here cause you wanted it to be."

I was beginning to understand, I thought. "You mean I've dreamed up the whole adventure and we're not really here?" I grabbed Homer's knife and pricked my thumb. "INK!.... Oh great, even I'm a figment of my own imagination!" I surmised, flipping the knife to the ground.

Homer put his hand on my shoulder, "You'll understand later, just enjoy the ride until then."
-----------------------------


(Episode 9)

It was the break of morn as I rolled over and studied Homer, ungracefully waking. He sure was an ugly sort that time of day. It appeared as though he had combed his hair with an electric mixer, and without his dentures, looked like a wide-mouthed bass. One undeniable trait about ol' Homer though, was that he had plenty of hindsight. I was told he used it quite a bit in his spare time, sitting on park benchs observing the pretty ladies that went by.

"Dawn Comes with Rosy Fingers," I laughed. He just threw his drool-soaked pillow at me as I darted from its path..

Strange was snoring away, sounding like a hog with asthma, till I got up and yelled, "We're hungry!"

The mountains echoed back, "Hold on a second, will ya?" Seconds later, it began raining manna as Homer and I began gathering it..

"Manna's gettin' hot, and the coffee's gettin' cold," I informed Strange as he finally threw back his covers, with a "I can hardly wait" look.

Just then, there came a loud MEOW out of the maple tree. I stopped to realize I hadn't seen or heard from my cat in awhile. "Matilda... is that you?"

"Yeah, I didn't want to disturb you all when I came back from the convenience store to get some beer and pretzels... So I passed the time away with 'The Wall Street Journal,'" she answered, folding the paper and hopping down.

"Homer, Strange, this is Matilda," I announced. "As you can see she's not an ordinary cat."

"I'm so hungry, she'd make a mighty fine omelet, if you'd ask me," yawned Strange, refusing a manna loaf because he was watching his cholesterol.

"So what's the plan?" questioned Matilda. I began filling her in on everything as she was batting at some moth or something. "Have you met with the Man in the Back Row with the Gray Flannel Suit and the Funny Looking Nose, yet?" she asked.

"No," I answered. "That's why we're camped here for the evening... we..."

Just as I almost completed the sentence, the one-eyed midget in his Mercedes swerved up to us. He slowly got out of his car, limped over to our campsite and pulled out his small revolver. "Your cat or your life, which is it?"

Out of nowhere popped a 6 foot 8 inch, 250 pound ringing phone booth.

"Wait just a minute." I demanded, "I've got a phone call.... Hello..."

"Yes this is your editor calling. I tried to call some months ago, but you refused to answer. I just wanted to let you know this is YOUR story, and YOU shouldn't fear the one eyed midget... He's at your mercy. All you have to do is erase him, if he gives you any more trouble..." (Click)

"Well,... well,... well," I sneered, hanging up the phone, "Seems you think you can intimidate me. I think I'll just erase you." The one eyed midget's eye got real big as he dropped his gun and ran for his car -- but I erased it.

"Who sent you and why do you want my cat?" I yelled.

"Please, Sir, I ... I'm the Man. The Man in the Back Row with the Gray Flannel Suit and Funny Looking Nose..." he tearfully answered. "It's just, well, I got a family... and I never get any good parts... you see, because I'm divorced from my wife, my kids, they don't think much of me... I..."

"Oh knock it off..." I growled in disgust. "Look, I promise you, in my next story you can play the one-eyed midget, okay? But we're wasting a lot of ink right now. So I wish you'd just ask the BIG QUESTION that you're supposed to ask."

"Well,... ah... Okay. Here goes... What if anything is the meaning of this story?" he asked.

"That's it? ... Why didn't you ask me that in the very beginning like I asked you to?"

"Sir, my time had not yet come, and for that matter, your thoughts are my thoughts," he shrugged.

"Homer, what is he talking about?"

"Well, Clyde, best as I can figure, he's trying to tell you that had you wanted him to ask that question in the first place, your felt-tip pen would have put the words in his mouth."

"All right, here is the answer to the quiz... All I have created is meaningless... as meaningless as your very life. You're nothing without the stroke of my pen." I could almost feel his heart sink as the one-eyed midget picked up his own gun, and with a pull of the trigger.... spilled his own ink.
-------------------------------------


(Episode 10)
We buried the one-eyed midget's remains in a sardine can, after cremating him over the fire we set the night before to roast marshmallows, said a quick prayer... then told the Creator he could go back to whatever he was doing.

"Well what now, Homer?" I asked.

"Well, before all this was goin' on, we figured a way to get you back to your physical reality," Homer smiled.

"Look, Homer and I have devised a plan. Read it carefully, study, then eat it," Strange added.

"Eat it?" I questioned in puzzlement.

"Yes, if you don't, some character might find it and follow you back into your physical existence," Homer spoke up. I didn't want to go, life was so much more interesting in their world, but I knew if I didn't return now, I'd never be able to do so later.

Homer, Strange, and Matilda walked with me to the tracks. We all shared a tearful farewell. "I'll think about you guys often, and maybe from time to time, visit you. It's been a most enjoyable three months," I expressed with tears pouring, and snot-rag in hand.

In the nick of time, prior to the moment I would have drowned in my own swimming hole of grief, I heard the train whistle blow. Matilda and I started running to gain momentum to leap aboard. Just as it approached, we clung on to the engine and climbed in. I looked back and waved to Homer and Strange. I gazed ahead and saw the many characters I had fabricated, waving as the train went by. Then I passed by the Calypso Singers and yelled out the window at the top of my lungs, with all the sincerity I could muster, "Get a job!"

I suddenly felt uneasy as I had no I idea what lay ahead. I reached in my pocket and pulled out the plan that Strange gave me. It read:


"It's not very often a writer and his characters become the best of friends, and now as your friends, we ask you to leave this Fictional Forest.. The only way for our world to rest in peace is for you to leave. Homer and I have theorized a way to return you to your physical reality. You must die a fictitious death. It's risky, but you must try it.
Strange and Homer"


I stuffed it in my mouth, swallowed and began looking around at all the unfamiliar scenery, while pondering to myself as to how I should die. I was scared, so I decided to put it off for awhile, and succumbed to a snooze. Two hours or so afterward, I awoke and looked out the window, noticing in the distance there stood a mountain range. It was then that I chose my death.

The track veered off into the mountains, then it divided in two different routes. One track remained unfinished over a half-built bridge. This was the one I elected to use. My Train of Thought gained speed as it swerved to the right and proceeded straight for a downhill plunge. The rocky embankment approached at a high rate of speed. I closed my eyes as I heard the loud split-second flash and visioned the iron shrapnel exploding all around Matlilda and I. Then I felt...... nothing?.....


I opened my eyes. I was at my writing desk and the half-written story was scribbled on paper. It had in fact been fantasy. I sat there for a minute, then got up to get something cold to drink. Without realizing she was there, I stepped on Matilda's tail as she let out a loud squall.

"Oh Matilda, I'm sorry. I didn't see you...Are you all right little kitty, hmmm? I sure didn't mean to do that," I apologized.

She just rubbed her side against my pants leg. "Think nothing of it, Luv, I know you didn't," she replied.
-------------------------------------


YESTERDAYS MILK
(Episode 1)

December 27, 1995

My dearly beloved diary:
It's a little past 3 am and all is hell.... as I'm sitting in a rather large pit being stoned to death by my peers, while hitting myself repeatedly over the head with a monstrous sized boulder. Sometimes I'd just like to dunk my face in the toilet bowl, slam the lid on it; and commit sewercide!

You're brought into this world cause 'someone' screwed around... and, you leave it cause 'you've' simply screwed up. But, it's not you holding the screwdriver. Rather, a large- bellied maintenance man on the third floor and seventh door to the right. "How do you know all this?" you ask. Well the answer would come automatically in most cases were it not for the fact that most brains come in standard models, and prices may vary depending on what circumstances you're willing to pay for attaining such knowledge.

Oh pardon me, the dog wants out. She's been quite patient really. Yes, Maggie's quite a Lady. I found her half-starved, and begging me for my fries in the parking lot beneath the golden arches, one fine day.... Introduced herself as Maggie McMutt. And both of us being of Scottish descent, get along well, the lass and I. Well, that's it till tomorrow....
Sincereley, last time I checked, still Clyde P. Hipwing


As I opened the door to let her out, I noticed it was a lovely full moon.... OOPS, well I was wrong. It was only Mrs. McPherson bending over to pick up her morning paper. "Morning, Mrs. McPherson!" I called out, scaring the dickens out of her. Which probably came as a surprise to her, not being related to the Dickens' who lived next door to her and all.

Then there was my other neighbor, George Birthington. Rumor had it old George did his clothes only once a year. Everyone around here referred to it as George Birthington's Washday. All of my neighbors were a bit strange.

Well, it was a bit early, but I was in the mood for a morning stroll. As I was walking, I noticed a milk truck parked next to the curb. It was Marty the Mysterious Milkman! He was making his morning rounds.

"Mornin', Marty!"

"Um... Mornin'..." He replied.

"How's the milk business?" I asked.

He thought wisely to himself, "Well as Louis Pasteur once said: "Yesterday's milk is tomorrow's curds! "

We were both left in an awkward silence before going on with our business. "Pardon me," he excused himself, "but there's milk to be delivered."

Marty was kind of a born loser. Always wanted to be a dentist. He went to Dental School and graduated with honors. Yet, he failed to make any 'impressions.' Marty always felt his calling for notoriety-- his new aspirations were to become the next sheriff of Pothole county. He ran a massive campaign, but he was up against stiff competition as Deputy Doodah lead in all the polls, inspite of the fact he had little chance to prove his authority, being under the tight reign of incumbent, Sheriff Marshall Dumas. They were constantly at each other's throats, especially since Doodah often refered to him as "Doofus".

"It's Dumas! How many times do I have to remind you? It's Dumas!" The frustrated Sheriff often replied.

He wasn't a bright sort to say the least; he was constantly being reprimanded for chasing Indians on horseback, as there wasn't a Bingo parlor around that didn't get busted up occasionally. And today was no exception as I observed our lame duck Sheriff galloping off into the sunrise of another day of Bingo busting.
---------------------------------


(Episode 2)
The morning sun illuminated the darkly desolate hopes of the general populous of Mountain Oyster, as our latest mortal of admirable exploits -- Deputy Doodah -- was at the front of a line, in a local department store, picking his nose... "Yes, Um... I'll take the one with the large nostrils and thinned out bridge......."

"Oh, that one? I'm so sorry Sir, that's the display model...We don't have anymore in that particular style and size on stock..." The sales lady, syrupy sweet with much concern as if his mother had died, said.

"That's Ok, I'll just take the display model." Doodah mumbled.

"Oh, I'm sssssssso sorry, but..."

"Look lady, I called down here 20 minutes before I took the time to drive up here, and the assistant manager told me that he had five of them in stock; so I'll pick whatever nose I want to pick! Man, the service stinks here!!"

As the cashier was about to inject Doodah with a lethal dose of saccharine, there was a tumultuous thunder of breaking glass that woke even the sleepy floor sweeper. A large Good Humor truck had smashed non-stop through the exterior windowpane, knocking over cash registers, destroying merchandise, and scattering panty hose, merging with ice cream sandwiches, far and wide. DooDah loosened himself out of the rubble, removed a popsickle from his ear, and discovered the truck lying upside down.

"Fudge!" He exclaimed.

Slowly, a rather dwarfed, shady and eccentric character emerged out of the passenger's side door. "What in tarnation are you doin' and who are you!" Doodah demanded from what appeared to be a one-eyed midget shaking broken glass out of his hair.

"Sorry bout the mess," he began. "My name's Emilio Esparanza Mucho Gusto Julio Big John... Um... My friends call me Mr Big, for short."

"Okay, Mr. Big..." Doodah snapped back, "what's the BIG idea crashin' into this here department store, scarin' children and old ladies, and just why were you in such a hurry?"

"Well sir, I couldn't reach the brake. Aside from that, as to how I got here... it's a long story," Mr. Big explained, "but to make it shorter, you don't have to read the whole thing, just revert about 2 or 3 pages back in this book!"

Subsequent to reading a few paragraphs, Doodah, in a brief span of minutes, understood that the one-eyed midget had been brought into physical existence after dying a fictitious death, in the previous story (Hint, Hint).

"Do you know where I might find a certain Mr Clyde P. Hipwing?.... We have some unfinished business to take care of," Mr. Big sneered.

Doodah, in spite of the immediate pandemonium, was happy to help. He put his hand on Mr Big's shoulder and vigorously lead him to a window with an exceptional panoramic view.

"Well, if you take that there road up ahead, and turn right; you'll eventully come to a red light. Take a left and then you'll see Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro...Behind it, there is a gravel alley way. Now, if you're not careful, you'll miss the south turn around the corner hidden behind Mrs Betcher's rose bushes. Go all the way till you come to Mike's Mattress Mart on the corner of Rabid Skunk Blvd and 5th...You'll see the Lee West addition entrance, but don't turn there, go 4 blocks further. His is the first house on the second block, two miles up on the right.....

"Oh no, come to think of it...that route is closed off cause of all the construction work....I guess you'll have to take the detour down that street over there... Mr Hipwing lives in the only pink house on the right after the left turn. Sorry to have to inconvenience ya, fella," Doodah said, patting Mr Big on the top of his head, when, all at once, the floor began splintering where he and the one-eyed midget were standing inside the emporium.

Isles scattered, as several of the surviving, terrified patrons from the previous calamity, were now being physically abused by, foaming at the mouth panty hose, boxer shorts and bras, while the least fortunate were forced to involuntarily break-dance across sadistically slick fudge-sickles. Concrete was instantaneously strewn barbariously in all points of an imagined compass, as an enormous flame-spewing Rumpusaurous Rex lurched upon Mr. Big, who darted out from beneath him with swiftness he in no way knew he had.

Doodah observed the beast's feline-similar, whiskers and brutish face, outdone only by his enormously, hairy derriere, which made up three fourths of his physique. "Who in tarnation...?!" Doodah trembled.

"Permit me to introduce myself," he beseeched, offering Doodah his forepaw, making evident his saber-toothed abundant grin...for which he offered heartfelt thanks to his orthodontist. "My name is Chairman Meow. I exemplify the one-eyed midget's persecuting conscience as self-punishment for all the tribulation he will be trying to bestow on a Miss Matilda Wattlebaum. This after all, is going to be Mr. Big's story, and every good short story, deserves an antagonist."

Doodah scratched his head in disbelief and reached for his talkie. "Dufas! We've got a 10 Sumpthin'er-other down here at the department store, on the corner of "I" and "Am", across the street from Sam's Deli. You'd better get down here, NOW!"
------------------------------


(Episode 3)
While waiting for the Sheriff to arrive, Doodah listened to the entire narrative Chairman Meow told concerning the one-eyed midget and his evil intent; who by then was very probably approaching my front porch, in want to banish me back into the Fictional Forest or The City of The Intellectually Inept; while he himself, sought to find his own train of thought (man, this is getting wordy!).

All the while I was watching The Patti Peptalk Hour on television, with Matilda and Maggie:


"...........And it's scums like you, who call this show, wasting my time with your petty, narcissistic concerns; that don't go beyond your own precious nose!!!!!(SLAM) .......I'm sorry about that, ladies and gentlemen, but there's some things I just don't put up with on this show...Omaha, Nebraska, thank you for calling The Patti Peptalk Hour, I'm Patti, can I help you?"

"Yeah, uh, Patti, Im just uh.....well, what I....."

"You're just nervous, honey. Go ahead, I'm listening!" Patti sweetly assured him.

"Patti, I ..I'm at my wit's end. My wife of 30 years just told me that the kids aren't really mine....I'm holding in my hand a 110 volt AC electrical cord, cut in half; and I might just plug it in, stick the wires in my ears, and fry myself! I hope I burn to a crisp! I could care less if this whole place, that I sweated, scrimped and saved for, for 20 years, burns down!!!"

"What's your name, honey?"

"Uh, Bill...My name's Bill."

"Ok, Bill, don't be hasty...You want to do the right thing....And I want you to do the right thing, Ok, Bill...honey!?"

Bill answered, tearfully, "Oh..Ok, I really don't want to burn this place down, with all the money I put in it over the years. I made sure that if I ever ceased to be around, that she'd be able to make it on her own without me to look after her. But I'm desperate, Patti, what's the right thing to do?"

"Ok, Bill, honey, here's a solution..........FRY YOURSELF IN THE BATHTUB WITH THE WATER RUNNING; SO YOUR LITTLE BRAINLESS WIDOW CAN STILL GET ALL THAT MONEY YOU SCRIMPED AND SAVED, FOR THAT DOGGONE STUPID HOUSE!!! (Slam!!!!!).. ............LET'S GO TO A COMMERCIAL, FOR THE LOVE OF MOUNT SAINT HELEN!!!!!"

"If you live in the Los Angeles area, the number to call Patti for the next 2 weeks, is, 1-999-767-8463, that's 1-999-PMS-TIME. If you don't live in the Los Angeles area, don't you DARE call collect!!!...For tickets to the upcoming, annual Patti Peptalk Pity Party, call, 1-9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 9 SOMEBODY HAD BETTER FIX THIS SON OF A (CRASH!!!!!!!!!)8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8 8"


"Oh dear," I do believe Patti's hair's a bit dreadful these days," Matilda sighed.

"Oh the lass has bloody well lost it since the divorce, ya know.... What might you think, Clyde?" Maggie asked.

But I wasn't listening. Instead I was day dreaming as to how to reconstruct my demolished train of thought. "If only I could get back on track," I mumbled.

"Huh...?" Matilda meowed, as Maggie looked a bit concerned.

"Oh nothing, Just thinking."

At that instant came a rapping on the unlocked front door, as Maggie barked. This was not a traditional knock. No! This was a very cunning knock. I hesitated, then glanced through the peep hole, perceiving no one. My shaking, sweaty palm smothered the knob as I swung open the door. Ah, whew! It was just the paper boy collecting his week's wages, "Oh by the way, here's your paper," he innocently beamed.

Glancing down at the front page, I caught the photograph of a Ice Cream Truck on its back, on the floor of the downtown department store, resembling a desert-sun-baked carcass, and laughed to myself. "Thanks a lot, Sonny," I said, handing him a couple of bucks.

Just as I shut off the doorway, unbeknownst to me, the paper boy peeled a sticky rubber like, synthetic mask from his face. He was, in fact, Mr. Big -- the one-eyed midget. "At last, I find him," he grinned. "This is gonna be easy, all I have to do is retire Mr. Hipwing to the Fictional Forest, grab his cat, and I'm off to Vegas!" As he grasped at the doorknob, he was at once tapped on the shoulder. "What?!!!!! Who?!!!" Mr. Big gasped.

Deputy DooDah, who had just been alerted of his wicked endeavors, was lost for breath from running several blocks; but managed to encounter the hoodlum with bodily force, and wrestle him to the ground.

I wondered what the commotion was about, so I threw open the door and was immediately outraged by the perception of the burly Deputy whooping up on the clearly inferior, size challenged, paper boy. "Oh good golly!" Matilda exclaimed, "it's the one-eyed midget!"

Just as the words departed from her whiskers, Mr. Big slipped under the Deputy's dukes, barging his way inside and darted in the direction of my word processor, that I had just recently purchased to make my work more effortless. "So Clyde, who's at whose mercy now?" He, basking in the glow of his triumph, questioned.

"How did you come back to life, you spilt your own ink in the last story!?" I gasped as Mr. Big's only eye widened in even more amazement of his conquest.

"You forgot the rules, Clyde! Like you I died a fictitious death, therefore I've now entered your reality," he grimaced.

He therewith began counting down from five, and on each digit, descended his index finger closer to the delete button. "Four!"

"Just WHAT IS all this stuff about dying a fictional death?" Doodah scratched his head.

"No, Mr Big, get a hold of your senses!" I begged.

"Two!"

"Is there anything, besides my cat, that I..I could give you? You know, we..we could be friends!"

"Say," Doodah spoke louder, "I asked a question!"

"ONE!" Mr Big's brow emphatically expressed the thrill of the moment.

"Look, Mr Big, I've got a good part for you in my next story. See..we could make you a good guy, yeah...You could....Oh, Good Godfrey! Just go ahead and do it!"

"ZERO!...Bye guys!" Mr. Big at that moment pressed delete as all existing mortality, excluding Matilda, was eliminated. "It worked! I've actually got my own creative powers!" Mr. Big rejoiced.

With myself, his adversary, no longer an obstacle, it was now Mr. Big's tale. Grasping Matilda by her esophagus, he swiftly approached the nearest tracks and anticipated his next move.

"You're not going to get away with this!" Matilda vowed.

"Shut up, cat!" He snarled as his Train of Thought accelerated upon its approach.
-------------------------------------


(Episode 4)
On the outskirts of the Fictional Forest as MY Train of Thought swiftly passed, I discovered myself, once again, on a large pile of rocks. This time as the Merry Band of Calypso Singers neared, I tried desperately to get their attention. "Hold it guys!... I need your help!"

A bit agitated, they stopped as the apparent leader yelled "Yesterday's Milk is Tomorrow's Curds!" I was instantly atomized with large quantities of what appeared to be cottage cheese spurting from a fire extinguisher. Consumed in Curds, I made a breakneck retreat, slipping all over myself.

"What's with this yesterday's milk business? Where have I heard that before? It must be the secret phrase to this story.... Ah the large maple tree!!!" I strode up to the standing timber, finding no inscription, shrugged my shoulders and carved:

I'M PROBABLY HERE

But nothing happened. A moment later, to my astonishment, a sheet of lightning flashed and bit the bark. I waited in anticipation as the vapor from the combustion cleared. Hacking heavily and waving smoke away, I made out the assertion:

"Sorry, this isn't your story, sucker!..... Tough luck!"

Feeling desperately forsaken, I remembered my friend the Strange Stranger. With Strange nowhere to be found after a lengthy search, I buried my face in my hands and cried aloud. "Woe is me! For what reason was I born? My life is but a cruel joke to which their laughter is like a slick dagger, twisting and turning, purging me of any reason or desire to go on...Woe is me!"

Again I buried my face and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed, until I was doing the backstroke in my own lamentations. Then what sounded like tennis shoes swishing through shallow water...(I never had the courage to swim in water more than a foot deep)... startled me.

"Pardon me, but do you know where I might find the Grand Entrance to the Gate of the City of The Intellectually Inept?" Strange quizzed.

"Strange !!!" I delighted.

"Strange? What's strange?" Strange asked.

"You're Strange, of course!"

"I beg your pardon, but, you're not so ordinary looking yourself!" Strange protested.

"No, Strange, I know who's the Intellectually Inept!... It's Homer!" I exclaimed, grabbing Strange by the shoulders.

"Homer?... Now that's strange." Strange nearly sprained his brain as his mind almost tripped over its own confusion.

I gave up trying to clarify myself and grabbed him by his bewilderment, and hastened him to Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger's Bistro. Upon arrival, Strange looked around, closed his eyes and pondered deeply, "Yeah it's vaguely clear...I think it's all coming back...I ate here once!!! Yeah I had a Spam Slam. Yeah, it was...."

"No Strange. You've got to think real hard. Don't you remember the phrase...Dawn Comes With Rosy Fingers!" I frantically queried.

"Oh! So you're the Intellectually Inept... that explains everything!"

"Yeah!...No!...Yeah! Wait a minute...No, it's Homer. I'm just the Gate Keeper, remember?!!" I attempted to clarify in frustration.

Slowly, a white haired man, who resembled Homer, though I thought it couldn't have been-- on account of he was sporting a mature Van Dyke-- strolled up to where we were waiting in line for a vacant table. "Dawn Comes With Rosy Fingers," he spoke in a hoarse whispery voice.

Strange drew a revolver from a holster I hadn't noticed, strapped to his right knee, and pulled the trigger, aiming for Homer's chest.

"Whadja do that for?!!!" I shouted.

"Well, I figured he was this 'strange' character you've been warning me about."

"No Strange!" I attempted to forcefully assist him to remember what I was trying to drive into his thick skull by slapping the top of his head. "You've just shot Homer, the Intellectually Inept!"

"Oh, now I get it!" Strange remarked, shrugging his shoulders as I stooped down to Homer who lay dying.

"Homer, you got to think real hard; this isn't my story, and I have no inkling as to what the answering phrase to Yesterday's milk is tomorrow's curds, is."

Homer gasped for breath, but managed to declare "I'm not the... the... milkman...uh (cough cough)..." Then breathed his final breath.

I closed Homer's eyes as Strange crossed himself. "What did he mean, the milkman?" I sighed..
-------------------------------


(Episode 5)
As Strange was gobbling down his lunch while sitting on Homer's corpse, for the lack of empty seats, I was trying to put the pieces together in my mind. A couple of rows up sat a face I was well-aquainted with. Could it be? Yes, it was Marty! Of course! Marty is the Milkman! "Marty, how did you get here?" I hooted kind of puzzled.

He looked up in surprise with a piece of lettuce from his buffalo burger hanging from his mouth. "I was out deliverin' milk in yer neighborhood early this mornin', when all the sudden, this one-eyed midget holdn' a cat in one arm and runnin' outta yer house, holdin' a word processor under the other. Next thing I knew I'd landed on a large pile of rocks... head first!"

"So, Marty," I whispered closely, "what's the answering phrase to Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds?!"

Startled by my intrigue of a seemingly meaningless lyric, he almost choked on a Bunion Ring. "It ain't nothin', Clyde. Just a stupid poem I made up."

"Stupid or not," I said grabbing his hand as it was about to once more feed his face, "it's probably our only hope of getting out of this fictional muddle we're in!"

He stopped and took a big slurp of his Fermented Brussels Sprout Soda, and belched politely with his face imbedded in his napkin. "Ok, Ok...Yesterday's Milk is Tomorrows Curds; But Cow Patties Burn Better Than Buffalo Turds...I told you it ain't nothin'."

Marty informed me that there were others deep in the Fictional Forest, hiding in a cave. I instructed him that we'd have to assemble the entire group together and search for The Merry Calypso Singers, they were undoubtedly our only covert connection in this whole matter.

Upon departing from The City Of The Intellectually Inept, we entered deep into The Fictional Forrest on a drawn-out quest for everyone else. Nearing the underground shelter deep-set into the fringe of a humble foothill, Maggie came running toward us. "Mag, is that you?" I asked, blocking the sun from my eyes.

"Aye Clyde, I'm sure you know me good friend Deputy Doodah!"

Doodah appeared out from behind some bushes then recognized us. "Clyde, I have some very important information for you..."


(We'll return to Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds, after this brief public service announcement).
If you smoke....Stop!!!!!!!!
(We now return to Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds, starring Clyde P. Hipwing!)


"Now what in tarnation was that all about?" Doodah scratched his head. "Now I've lost my train of thought..."

"YOU TOO?!?!" I asked surprised.

"Oh yeah," Doodah remembered, "There's a unusual fella inside with some big news for ya about the one-eyed midget!"

Upon entering the small but spacious cavern, I spied a middle aged hooligan looking fellow with an effortless-to-behold-in-the-dusk 5 o'clock shaddow. "Hello Clyde." He somberly spoke.

"Mr Pigglesworth, is that you?"

Elmo cleared his throat. "I've got some information concerning Mr Big, the one-eyed midget. Now, I haven't been able to maintain contact with my collegues as to whether Chairman Meow, the Rumpusaurous Rex, has in fact completed his task in devouring him as of yet, but if not, your job once you return from the Fictional Forest is to, in essence, blackmail the one-eyed midget to return, or face public disgrace in light of the following info. Listen carefully:

"As a young sprout, he financed his college tuition 25 years ago with a money making scam, targeting the old and senile, making a killing by posing as a 'Professional Door To Door Toilet Flusher,' charging $10 a flush!

"He's been twice abducted by Europan Moon Women, and is known to have fathered as many as a dozen half human/half Europan children; thus contracting an extremely rare skin disease called, The Bacteria Poop Syndrome (BPS). Bacteria from the inner body work their way up to the outer layer of the epidermis and defecate in large quantities, turning the flesh into Cheddar, Mozzarella, Swiss, Colby, Monterey Jack, Parmesan or Cottage Cheese, depending on your ethnic background. Every month the victim sheds about a pound of cheese that's sold to your unsuspecting neighborhood Mom and Pop grocery store; to help pay medical costs and earn a little profit for the grocer.

"Mr Big is now suffering from the far more advanced stages of the disease; and his feet are gradually succumbing to the final, most decisively horrifying manifestation due to the affliction; Limburger cheese. For that very reason, he belongs to a highly, secretive support group, called 'Odor Eaters Anonymous.' The group gets together two times a week, wearing paper bags over their heads so as to not recognize each other. Everyone is to participate in an hour long session of foot washing; to share in each other's misery and shame.

"You present the warning to Mr Big, and he'll have no choice but to return to the Fictional Forest." Pigglesworth announced.

"Wow, where did you get all of this?" I whispered, being very deeply struck that a simple cherry picker would have the resources to gather such sensitive information. But, how stupid of me, he could For-saw the past!.

Then He leaned closer... "It's all in The X-Wife Files!"
----------------------------


(Episode 6)
After a near complete fortnight while surviving on wild berries, nuts and maple sap; we woke on the 13th morning, eyeing the The Merry Calypso Singers approaching our encampment. "Go ahead Marty, you know what to do!" I prodded.

Marty swaggered toward the obvious chieftain of the gleeful bunch. "Are you the Milkman?" The band leader demanded.

"I am!" Marty boasted.

"Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds!...." the leader prompted.

"...And Cowpatties Burn Better Than Buffalo Turds!" Marty heralded with his chin held towering high.

I, with much ado, darted at the leader who subsequently reared back and hurled a blazing cowpattie, just missing my right shoulder, after I approached to greet him. "Why do you guys keep doing this to me?!" I whimpered..

"We don't want you! We want the Milkman!" The headman insisted.

Marty advanced forward as the Merry Men picked him up over their heads, hailing "God save the Milkman!"... and marched on.

We tarried along for miles, and still more miles, until we fell upon a massive pile of mangled wreckage..."My demolished Train of Thought!" I cried.
----------------------------


(Episode 7)
"I hope you know, though I don't need to assist you much... I'm going to do everything I can to make a fool of you!" Matilda clawed at Mr. Big.

"Shut up, pretty pussy cat, you're gonna make me rich!"

"And now, live from the Sands Motel, in Las Vegas, Nevada.... Ladies and Gentlemen, it is my privilege to introduce to you this evening...Emilio Esparanza Muchco Gusto Julio Bigjohn, i.e. Mr. Big, and the world's only talking cat!"

After about five minutes of thunderous applause, Mr. Big started his gigantic leap into world fame. "Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen .... What I'm going to demonstrate to you this evening, took years of hard work in exhaustive efforts to teach a rather dumb feline to master the English language. No one else in all the world can take credit for my fantastic feat. She holds a PhD, has dined with 3 US presidents, 14 different world ambassadors; and knows 23 different languages from many different nations."

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" The audience sighed in adoration.

And now! .... Ladies and Gentlemen," Mr Big proudly announced, "I shall ask Miss Matilda Waudlebaum the following Question: In all the years of my exhaustive genius efforts, as concerns your education, how be it that you of all dumb... er um...uneducated species can express your innermost thoughts in the English dialect?"

Matilda replied quite profoundly....... "Meow."

The crowd dotingly chuckled as she rubbed up next to the microphone, purring for all to hear.

"I'm gonna have violin strings made from your entrails, if you don't co-operate, cat!" Mr. Big whispered, covering the mic. "She's just kidding, aren't you, Matilda?"

"That's right, Ladies and Gentlemen, I was left at an orphanage at 3 months of age, until my humble Mr. Big rescued me. I never had to sleep outside, ate the most nutritious of food; and after he taught me to speak, he enrolled me in the finest Ivy League school in the nation!"

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" The audience melted as Mr. Big smiled and winked his only eye to the camera.

"But, if you think I'M fascinating," Matilda purred, "I'd like to introduce you all to someone who REALLY has a lot to say!"

"WHO?!" Mr. Big nervously inquired.

"Let's give a big hand for Mrs. Nelly Big, who is sure to entertain us with a fun-filled evening of fascinating tales of her estranged husband, come on out, Nelly!"

"But, but, but there is no Mrs......"

"Hi, dumplings," Nelly winked, "as soon as Miss Waudlebaum informed me of this occasion, I cancelled all my prior promised appointments just to speak on your behalf. Now, where do I begin? Oh yes, let's talk about all the troubles in the bedroom..."

"Woooooooooooooooh!" The crowd lit up.

"Oh, I'm gonna kill you, cat!!!!" Mr. Big yelled, while in pursuit of Matilda as the crowd became indignant -- throwing chairs, shoes, the four basic food groups, and whatever else was available, on to the stage. Just as you'd think there absolutely wasn't anything left to throw, a brawny gentleman in the first row leaped onto the stage and clobbered Mr. Big with a 60 pound kitchen sink over his oversized head, knocking him senselessly comatose. BONK!!!!!!!

"Woooooooooooooooooh! Ouchhhhhhh!!!!!!!!"

Then, there was a sudden hush on the crowd as the floor rumbled and the fire breathing Rumpasourous Rex, Chairman Meow, exploded like a ruptured appendix... and pounced on Mr. Big, rump first, over his entire face; then loosed an enormous 300 decibel hunk of cheese, shattering Mr. Big's every bone... not to mention bringing down all the fancy portraits hanging on the walls. He arose triumphantly and swallowed the One-Eyed Midget whole, as the audience begged for more.

Nelly, not having good hearing or eyesight, figured they wanted more of HER and lectured for another half hour before she was escorted off stage. A book publisher quickly approached her with a gigantic book offer, and a $10,000 check as an advance. "I was married once to an old fart just like him," she whispered, grabbing her elbow and escorted her to her van to sign contracts.

Matilda, meanwhile, had made a mad dash out a side door, not realizing what was going on while jumping into the backseat of a waiting cab. "To the airport please! Do hurry!"

The sleepy cab driver nodded without looking in the rearview mirror. Matilda was frantic as to what to do next. No more than fifteen minutes later, the taxi screeched to a halt. "Ah, dattle be five bucks, ma'am."

Matilda answered nervously. "I don't have any money, but,...."

"Hey look, ma'am, I ...." The driver realized he was conversing with a cat as Matilda gave him a cute but dumb animal look, and left him in a CATatonic trance (sorry, couldn't help myself).

She ran past the indoor crowd, looked up at the flight schedule. She noticed that 'Tragedy Airlines, Flight 13,' had a plane headed for Oklahoma City, boarding passengers in 5 minutes. "How am I going to board a plane? Oh! In the luggage compartment, naturally."

She sneaked past the gate and noticed the loading attendant not paying attention, apathetically loading luggage, then she prowled behind and noticed he was about to sneeze. With his eyes shut and nose itching, he didn't see her jump inside, just before he shut the compartment and locked it tight.
-----------------------------


(Episode 8)
Meanwhile deep in the fictional forest I was trying to piece my Train of Thought back together.
"All I have to do is gather my scattered thoughts and reconstruct my story line."

This was going to prove taxing, creating a story within a story, but I had it settled in my mind it could be done. Of course, I dreaded the chore of using a pen once again, but, I had no choice; the one-eyed midget ran off with my word processor and hocked it.

As I began my introduction, my locomotion of ideas were starting to be put back on track (corny, huh?). Gradually my Train of Thought was beginning to piece together. I excitedly got into the engine.

"Good Godfrey! No fuel! Where am I going to get the ink? The life blood of my story?!!" I asked myself aloud.

"Why don't we jest push it till it gets uphill and then let'er rip?!" Doodah suggested.

"Okay, just push it till she starts goin' down. Then everyone jump on."

Doodah and Marty pushed as Maggie held a megaphone in one paw, giving directions. We were having a difficult laborious time till the Merry Band of Calypso Singers joined in pushing, and singing "We Shall Overcome."

Once the train reached the top it began to speed up. Marty and DooDah jumped aboard just as steam erupted from the spout. I looked down at the front panel. "Ink! We've got ink... a full tank!" The entire group was elated with enthusiasm. We did it!

As I looked out the window I noticed my exact 'Fictional Likeness,' that the One-Eyed Midget had created, waving farewell to me. I returned the gesture, realizing I was no more subjected to Mr Big's imagination, for I was leaving my fictional self behind and would again enter my own reality... by again dying a fictitious death. Something I hadn't informed the others about.

"Shouldn't I tell them? Or just do it?" I thought to myself. But there wasn't much time to explain as the unfinished track was fast approaching. Upon its advance, Marty immediately passed out

"Where in tarnation are you goin'?! Look out!" and..."We're gonna bloody die!" were Doodah and Maggie's inquisitions and proclamations concerning their inevitable --inescapable demise.

"Hold on! It's gonna be all right!" I shouted, holding on to Doodah's arm as he thinks about jumping. The train gathered momentum, going faster and faster, approaching the same fall as before. Then as everyone gasped it plunged into the rocks and exploded.

We opened our eyes, still screaming--- and realized we were back in our physical reality. We were also in the middle of the intersection on the corner of "I" and "Am" and everyone was honking, demanding we get out of the road as Doodah began making threats to arrest the next horn blower.

We had all just shaken the dust off ourselves when the ground began to tremble and the fire breathing, feline looking, Rumpasaurous Rex came ripping up through the ground in the middle of the intersection, scattering concrete fragments in all directions... "Hey, yer gonna have to stop doing that, buddy!" Doodah demanded.

"Yeah, yeah, okay." Chairman Meow shrugged. "The-one eyed midget and all his mischief are no more!" he proudly affirmed.

"Where is he?" Doodah asked, needing reassurance.

"Consumed in kitty litter.(hee hee)" the cat-like Rumpasaurous joked, though no one laughed, instead everyone headed home, each one of us going in separate directions.

Just as Maggie and I were about a block away, Matilda observed us from the topmost of her favorite shade tree and came running. "Oh dear luvs, I worried so much about you! You'll just never believe what I've been through." She excitedly rapped on and on.

"Well," Maggie replied, "while the lad and me-self had been risking our lives, you got to go Vegas."

"Oh my, aren't we in a bitchy mood today?" Matilda purred.

"Oh you sissy little pussy willow!" Mag growled. The two of them battled similar to cats and dogs, all the way to our humble abode.
---------------------------------


(Episode 9)
Meanwhile, Next Monday Night At The Bid For Sheriff Debate

... And as the next sheriff of Pothole County," Marty promised, "I'll make sure we don't have nothin' like that again."

"Would you like a rebuttal, Doodah? You have one minute." The Debate Judge asked.

"Yeah, I'd like to say that my opponent is an arrogant S.O.B.!"

Immediately fists began to swing as the band started up, and a singer stepped up to the microphone to lead those in attendance with a cheerful campaign chorus--- with the melody of Camptown Races;

Who's the man who'll cut your grass?
Doodah Doodah...
Even carry out your trash
And meet your every whim.
He'll even wash your car
Or treat you at the bar
He'll go so far as kiss your butt--
If you'll vote for him!


All cheered as Doodah and Marty were tumbling all over the platform, still punching it out. Everyone except the little neighbor lady, Mrs. McPherson, who paced up to the mic. "Will everyone please just shut-up and listen? Neither one of these heathens deserve our votes. I say let's draft Sheriff Marshall Dumas for another term in office!"

Everyone, but Doodah and Marty, who were still rolling on the floor, catcalled her off of her soapbox. The whole community wanted to see more blood, gore, and guts. After the judge broke up the battle and calmed the crowd, he demanded that the debate resume peacefully. Doodah was the first to get up, bloody nose and all, surprisingly sportsmanlike though... as he lent a hand to Marty, who now was adorned with a plaque-stricken bicuspid, lodged in his left earlobe.

"You boys oughta be ashamed of ur-selves." the Judge harped. "Now Doodah, if you can't say anything respectable about your opponent, then don't say nothin' at all! You hear?"

"Ah yes sir.... Ma opponent wants to be easy on first time offenders. He wants to have readin' and rithmatic books in the jail cells. My opponent has a big heart... a real big heart... a really, real big heart.. but there's still plenty of room in it for his really, really, real big mouth... and... I still say he's an arrogant S.O.B.!!"

Following fifteen more minutes of knuckles soaring, Marty ascended up to the microphone to secure the platform. "I'd just like to say... I know my opponent don't like me much. But I've always looked up to him as my big brother...er somethin', and I've just decided that if this here election is gonna divide everyone, I'd just as soon go back to deliverin' milk. I don't want your vote. I want my old buddy, Doodah, back!"

All the people booing and hissing began leaving in disgust as Doodah rose to his feet to bear-hug Marty, and let loose on his shoulder. "When I said Marty was an S.O.B, I was right." A stillness fell on those who stuck around as he continued, "He's a full fledged Son of a Boy Scout! And I demand that you vote for Marty, tomorrow!"

"No no no, Doodah, YOU deserve it, my friend!" Marty replied.

"Nope, I'm takin' over yer milk business, Heh Heh." Doodah snickered.

"What's so funny 'bout the milk business? Think you could do it better?" Marty boiled.

"Why no, Marty, Heh Heh! Unlike you, milk and I aren't in the same league, Heh Heh!"

Before long, the entire affair started up again. The debate judge took charge of the festivity as Doodah and Marty, more vicious than before, rumbled about, throwing punches. "Thank you, everyone, for comin' to the debate. Votin' time starts tomorrow at 7 A.M. Should there be a problem with the electricity tonight an yer clocks should stop 'cause of the up-coming blizzard.... that's around the time Frank Jones lets the chickens out, and the cock crows thrice."
-----------------------------------------


(Episode 10)
And, In The Middle Of The News The Following Day.

"....................Concerning the situation in the former Soviet Union, 'all hope for Russia is lost, cause Vladimir's Pootin'!' said an up and coming......... Oh, I'm sorry, I read that wrong..... "All hope, for Russia, is a lost cause!" Vladimir Putin said.... An up and coming member of the Duma, who's seriously considering the Prime Minister-ship, if offered. More details on that later, as they arrive.

"In National news today........From Los Angeles, California, we've just recieved word that popular television show host, Patti Peptalk, from The Patti Peptalk Hour, is being held in the Los Angeles City Jail on 2nd degree murder charges of 61 people, and attempted murder of 12 others who were all attending the annual Patti Peptalk Pitty Party.

"Her defense lawyers are trying to negotiate a deal, that if she pleads guilty, the charges would be lowered to 1st degree manslaughter. But, the DA's office is not budging and wouldn't release any details, other than the apparent incident occurred when a sweet, grandmotherly like woman in the front row kindly advised Mrs Peptalk that her dress didn't quite match her eyes.

"Oh, I've just been handed a late breaking story..... Vladimir Putin just called... I don't understand Russian, but he sounded pissed!...The boss told me to tell you to clean out your lock.....er...........Uh

"............In local news: so far, there is a low voter turnout in the efforts of electing a new sheriff in Mountain Oyster and the surrounding area. Everyone is either watching the noon parade, taking their kids to the park for the big picnic; or playing bingo since it's once again legal in Pothole County. Tonight there's supposed to be a big fireworks display, and the newly elected sheriff is to make a big speech. But of course this celebration has nothing to do with election day..... it's George Birthington's Washday!!!!!!!!"


GET THE CHIP OFF YOUR SHOULDER

(Episode 1)

Analyzing the Analyst

DR: Well how did we do this week, Clyde?

ME: You just wouldn't believe! My world has been turned upside down ever since I started writing this book. A one-eyed midget followed me home, but sent me to the Fictional Forest, while he took my cat to Vegas. My dog and I..........

DR: There you go again! Are you still having a problem with reality?

ME: Oh no.... I don't have a problem with reality, the question is, does reality have a problem with me?

DR: You know we talked about hospitalization last week... Have you considered it?

ME: Oh no way, man! I've already been stuck in a strait jacket for the past 3 months, and I was hoping you'd be the right person to pull it off. I've just been under a lot of stress. That's all. But, sometimes I do wonder, when this personality finally splits.....Who's gonna get custody of my mind?

DR: Uh, Clyde, have you thought about doing something with yourself...like finishing college?

ME: No, I'm currently attending my latter sophomore years in the great school of life. And I hope, in spite of a few suspensions for misbehaving in class, to graduate with honors in the hereafter; thanks to my wonderful, compassionate school counsellor, who promises to speak up on my behalf that day...Why, just this morning I realized I had been doing a lot of laying around and feeling sorry for myself. So, I took that great textbook of life, closed my eyes, and asked the almighty professor to guide my finger on where it should land...he took me to the book of Matthew...

DR: What did it say?

ME: "Take up thy bed and walk!"

DR: Oh yes, speaking of the spiritual, have you ever looked into the great Gautama Buddah? Buddah was a man who, 500 years before Christ, set out to find ultimate wisdom by sitting under a tree, and...

ME: Oh yeah, it fell on his head during a violent thunderstorm one night, I remember!

DR: Uh, well no...how did we get off on religion anyway? What you need is a social life. Have you considered dating? You never know, you might just find a compatible friend, and who knows, Clyde, you might even get married!

ME: Naw, marriage is just for married people. And besides, I just recently read that life evolved out of bacteria. So, I figure, if I continue to let the trash build up in my bachelor pad, that sooner or later, I'll have a new roommate!!!... I just hope she's female.

DR: Huh?...well, lets talk about your mother.

ME: What's my mother got to do with anything?

DR: Okay, okay.... what's your earliest childhood memory?

ME: Well Um... I was breech birthed! Yep! Came into this world making a ass of myself, as usual. My parents were taking a cruise when mom went into early labor. It was May 1st, and when the doctor caught a glimpes of the first thing that popped out, which he assumed was my face, he cried, "Mayday! Mayday! Abandon ship!"

DR: Do I sense a bit of cynicism?

ME: I don't know!... DO YOU?

DR: You're making this very difficult for me.

ME: I'm just getting my money's worth.

DR: You seem so easily irritated, are you aware of that?

ME: Yeah well... Maybe that has something to do with my mother.

DR: I'm really trying to help you, Clyde. Do you not trust me?

ME: Well, as some narcissistic writer once wrote:

Drop another dollar
in the pocket of my coat.
My bank of trust had just gone bust
in other words it's broke.

DR: Did you write that?

ME: Yeah I did, but I'm no longer that person.

DR: I see... and why is that?

ME: Well the old man, who's dead now, used to ask a lot of questions....

DR: And you being the new man, don't of course.

ME: Nope! I question nothing?

DR: That's a contradiction!

ME: What is?

DR: You said you question nothing, yet you ended it with a question mark.

ME: And you think I need help!

DR: I think I need a drink!

ME: Oh yeah, eat, drink and be Mary, or whoever else you want to be... Is that the way you handle your problems? You know, that's what I don't like about you people! Someone like me gets sucked into thinking there's something wrong with them, when everything is really quite external. When someone's lost their job, wife, kids, the house has been repossessed and their best friend (which happens to be a dog) leaves home - when that person comes to you, you say, Oh my! You're depressed, why, by golly that's not normal; you should learn to be happy all by yourself. You give pills at the drop of a hat, cause you can't accept people where they're at. No! They have to be changed into thinking like everyone else. Well I happen to think in four opposite abstractions of 13 different dimensions of mundane logic.... Can YOU boast that claim?!

DR: What did you just say!?

ME: I said; "Oh yeah, eat, drink and be Mary, or whoever else you...

DR: No, I mean what did you say at the last?

ME: Last doesn't matter, man! First comes before whatever is, and nothing is whatever isn't. Don't you get it? This is was!!!

DR: Go on! go on! I think we're finally getting somewhere!

ME: My life lately has been just like that annoying coffee commercial jingle, except my version goes: "The best part of cracking up... is Martians in your cup!" And I keep hearing this voice inside my head saying, "It's been you all this time and we both know it, don't I?" Why just yesterday, I thought I was the 16th century humanist theologian Desiderius Erasmas; until the tidy bowl man popped out of my toaster, singing a microwave version of, "Mary had a little lamb, and he weighed a healthy 5 pounds and 10 ounces."

Then Winter, who was also also inside my head and on the same O.B. unit of the hospital; screamed out in labor pains, gave birth to Spring, and sighed, "Ah isn't she beautiful! -- I think I'll call her Summer!"

But, you know doc, everything is just a cliché! There are no new thoughts, just old ones that get twisted around trees bearing the fruits of discontent. I could declare, "I stink therefore I am," and everyone would begin holding their nose pondering my poignant utterance. But, I'm a nobody!....You're a nobody!!!!..We're all just one big nobody!! Somebody!......let me out from myself!!!! AGHHH! CRASH! CRUNCH! SMASH!

DR: That's right! Get in touch with that primal inner child wanting to escape! Let him out!! Here, here's an ashtray!!

ME: SMASH! BAM! HA! HA! HA! HE! BOOM! OUCH!

DR: Here, take this! It's a telephone, but this is not an ordinary phone. This one is your father! And you've never dealt with your Oedipus Complex.... take this phone and castrate the impostor!!

ME: I'm gonna kill you, Dad!!! AGHHH! BOOM! RING ! LING! DING! Whew!

DR: Now lets sit back down and talk about what you were feeling.

ME: Well UH... Whew!... UH... you were wrong... um, it hasn't been my mother...it hasn't been my father. It's... it's me! It's been me all this time!

DR: Oh no, no, no! You're having delusions of grandeur! I'll have to increase your dosage to prevent the psychosis from getting worse!... Well, ah, our time is up. I'd like you to think about our session today, and pick up where we left off next week... Um you do have insurance don't you?

ME: Yes, my policy number is right there in your charts.

DR: Oh, okay, lets see... Ashtray; $150.00...it's been in the family for years, I'm sure they'll understand.....Telephone; $300.00... Ceiling Damage....Golf clubs.... and, uh, office visit... $130. Well I'd like you to sign an agreement that you won't do anything foolish between now and next week........


(Episode 2)
As I was driving off, I felt I was mighty lucky to have such a friend, for only $130 an hour! Hah! I didn't need no shrink! Just didn't have any drive anymore and I hadn't been writing as it was too risky. What was I gonna do with my life, I wondered. I was almost 40! Heck, someone who was as old as I was, when I was born, is either dead or mighty old! Well, at least I had a mortgage, and I figured... in 11 years I'd have a little cash saved and could go into a retirement home. Yippee!

As I pulled into the driveway, I noticed the mailbox was loaded and a sudden surge of relevance flowed throughout my entire being. Ah a couple of political magazines. "Wow! Look at this! A letter from a bill collector, but, hey! It says I'm a preferred customer! This must mean my life has meaning after all! Surely they wont mind waiting a couple more months to recieve a payment... since I'm such a wonderful patron!"

Creaking open the door, I threw my fan mail on my ever faithful sofa who received my aching body. "Why did I ever start going to that shrink anyway! Now I've got a diagnosis!" I asked myself aloud.

I slithered, like a snake, crosswise on the rug towards my personal library. "Schizo Affective Disorder, huh?" I mumbled, looking up its definition in my DSM3 from my, only semester in college days. Through all the medical jargon, all I could tell was that's it's a disease indistinguishably centered between Bipolar Disorder, and Schizophrenia, brought about by chemicals in the brain, reacting to stress.

"Great," I sighed with a satirical overtone, "Now I'll never be able to be the President of the United States."

Well, the last few months to say the least, had been quite stressful. Funny thing, ever since I'd been on medication--- Matilda and Maggie had quit talking to me, or anyone for that matter. I couldn't figure out what I'd done to give rise to their resentment. I couldn't tell my Psychiatrist about it, Doc would've just figured that I needed to be on more meds.

"I think I'll just" (click) "watch some TV..." I yawned, "Hmm, C-Spam aaay?...."


"Will the congressman from Connecticut yield for the Gentleman from California?"

"No I Won't!" the Congressman responded.

"Whatdya' mean no I won't?"

"I mean No I Won't! Dats wa'a mean! Cause I'm not finished yet, Mr. Speaker!"

"Will the Gentle Lady from Utah remove the Gentleman from Connecticut off the floor, please," the Speaker requested.

"Why me?" the Utah congresswoman asked.

"Cause he's carrying on like a buffoon... and you're bigger than both of us put together..."


(Click)Hmmm, what else is on TV?(Click)(Click)


".........And now, for the best in innovative Chinese Cuisine, here's the host of Chiang Kai Chef; Wae Tu Long Dum Naim!!!... Over to you, Master Naim."

"Thank you, Seoul-Vehs..mmm..Seoul....ohhhhhh...how you say?..."

"Sylvester, Sir." The announcer muttered lowly.

"Oh yes yes, thank you Seoul-Vehs-Tah-Sir. Today we talk about tasty dish my son Xing make...I call him Xing after sign I saw at busy intersection. So funny yes? ha ha ha!.... No seriously, I talk today, Lady and Gentlemen, about popular ancient Ming Dynasty dish, and show you how to Wok Your Dog. First get fresh snow-peas...."(Click)


"I can't stand it. I've got to write some more in this book, but I'm afraid of what else might happen. My life is so meaningless, without expression, and these pills just keep my brain anesthetized. That's it! No more! I'm gonna flush em down the toilet. That's what I'm gonna do. Matilda, I'm not gonna take these pills anymore... have you got anything to say about it?"

She just stared back at me. She knew what I was saying, she was just acting dumb that's all. I've got it all figured out: Man destroys and rearranges this world in his waking hours, but while he sleeps, the animals communicate with one another devising ways to keep the planet from being blown apart. They're just faking their witlessness, why I bet they're thoroughly amused by us simpletons. They don't fool me!

"Let's see what's on C-Spam again."(click)(click)(click)(click-click)


"NO, I am not out of order, Sir!!!" Congressman Learhart insisted while hurling the podium into a section of, all at once, vacated seats. "If you'd check your Constitution, you'd find the 10th Amendment concurs with my assertions! And I'm surefire ready as Helena Montana to behave as a no good Son of a rich man's mother sucking lemons where the ship got damaged, to take........"

"Mr. Learhart, watch your language!!!" the Speaker interrupted, red faced, as he stood up and hammered his gavel.

"Well, like I was saying before Speaker Rutlidge rudely, and shall I say, verbally passed gas in the middle of my dissertation," Learhart continued, "I'm ready to take this directly to the Ethics Committee and rub it into the Speaker's hideously parsimonious, bureaucratic career! He doesn't want to implement this proposal...do you Mr. Speaker? You've been determined ever since I proposed it, to kill it! So, unless this bill has passed through the House by 5 O'clock this afternoon; NO ONE GETS OUT OF HERE ALIVE!!!!!!"

".... We will return later to the House floor debate on whether the butter knife goes on the right or left side of the plate when entertaining foreign dignitaries; but now we bring you an update on happenings in the West Wing of the White House this afternoon. It appears a lone gunman snuck into the presidential palace about noon while the president was taking a bath --- Oh we now have word -- Uh, go ahead Ralph Chambers at the scene.....

"Charley, we've just received word... that... the President is dead!... The gunman apparently threw Mr. Plimpton's AM/FM/CD/TAPE player into his bath water, as he was bathing. Luckily the President probably didn't realize much as he was instantly electrocuted, and not to mention, because he had soap in his eyes at the moment...."

"Ralph? Do they yet know what the gunman's motive was?... Was this a conspiracy? Do they know anything?" Charley asked.

"Well Charley, they're keeping all possibilities in mind. An unnamed source reported to us that a certain cashier and sales clerk in the White House gift shop, last January made verbal threats to the President for failing to give her a Christmas bonus, because of budget cuts; and on the same payday, received a five dollar citation for parking in a handicapped parking zone behind the South lawn. She's certainly being held in custody for questioning.
" But, I'm sure the more they look into the matter, more questions will arise. Of all Presidential scandals, none have ever fully been solved. 'Watergate' and 'Whitewater' are good examples; and now, of course, they have a new one which, if there IS a conspiracy, it will, in all likelihood be dubbed; Bathwater. They DO know this though; the gunman is an elderly, Caucasian white haired man, with a clumsily trimmed Van Dyke, calling himself Homer. He's about five feet tall and...."


"Good Godfrey! Homer?... How?" I murmured aloud. "That's right, Strange fictitiously killed him in the last story! How am I going to get out of this one? I've got to do something before this gets way out of hand. How can I get to him? I can't just tell the whole world about all of this, they'd think I was crazy... If someone could only read my thoughts, they'd know I wasn't just making everything up....Boy, I could sure use the help of someone who had the ability to look into the future and tell me what to do," I sighed to myself, just as the phone rang.

"Hello?" I answered.

"Hello, this is the Psychic Family Hot-line. Please hold, and an available Psychic Family member will be with you shortly." After the recording, they began punishing me with about 10 minutes worth of Dione Warwick music.

"Hello, is this Mr. Clyde P. Hipwing?"

"Ah, yeah, whadja want?" I answered.

"Sir, I first need to know what sign you were born under... for our records."

"Well, I dunno," I him-hawd, "Seems to me it was something like Maternity Ward."

"Sir, you need us, we don't need you! Now, if you want our help...."

"Yes, yes I need your help, or anybody's help actually. I'm sorry, I believe my sign is something like....Jim and I!"

"Yes, OK, Gemini...All I can tell you is... you are to meet your personal psychic in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, next Wednesday morning at the 'Tee Time In The Tetons Country Club Golf Course,' about 7 A.M.."

"How will I find him or her" I verbally wondered.

"She'll find you... bye." (click)

I thought, wow that was impressive! Oh, but wait a moment, I'm flat broke till payday! "What am I going to do?" I asked myself aloud as the phone again rang. "Hello?"

"Yes, we'll be happy to take a postdated check!" (Click)

"This is unbelievable! How in the world?...Oh no, my car!..(Ring!)..Uh..yes, hello..is that you again?"

"Yes, it's me...I've just telepathically changed your oil and rebuilt your carburetor. Now, is there anything else before I hang up? If you happen to think about it later, I'm afraid I'll have no choice but to call collect!! Oh, by the way, I handed your file to your case worker and she informed me that you're a Taurus; your dad was the Gemini."(Click)
------------------------------


(Episode 3)
I left early the next morning about 6 A.M. The weather was good up until I hit a couple of passes in Colorado. Most highways and roads were closed where snow drifts avalanched at least six feet deep, so I took a southern route through Utah, then up north to Idaho and back east into Wyoming. The drive took all of two days.

When I reached Jackson Hole, there was a blizzard falling as I drove all around looking for the 'Tee Time In The Tetons Country Club and Golfcourse.' Too tired to look anymore, I checked into a 'Buzzard Inn,' hoping to get an early morning snooze.

I buckled my seatbelt and put the bed in automatic pilot; but as I was getting close to drifting away, I was awakened by the unmistakable sound of someone cooking, and smelled the lure of frying bacon seeping in from the kitchenette. I blindly reached for the light above the bed. A 60 or 70ish aged woman was hovering over the stove. I got a better look. "Julia Child!?.... The famous cook?!"

"'Tee Time In The Tetons' was snowed in, so I put my new gift into action and predicted you'd show up here," Julia chuckled.

"You're my psychic?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"Well, only two weeks on the job... I'm still learning. I know you're wondering why I took up the psychic bit... microwave cooking finally ran me out of business! I'm afraid according to your household income, I'm all you can afford."

"Well I dunno, I....."

"Don't worry, I know the whole story. First thing we've got to do is tape all the windows and doors shut, and get it plenty dark in here. Then add a pinch of incense, let it burn slowly, but you don't want it to burn too much," Julia explained, grabbing my hands and calling out into the spiritual wilderness. She closed her eyes then began shaking all over, wobbling like Jello, lurching onto the table. "Yes, don't be afraid to come, we welcome you," she pleaded; "Come....Come...Come......Come... COME!.... COME!!.... COME ON, DOGGONE IT ALL, WE'RE ON A SHOESTRING BUDGET, HERE!!!"

There was a sudden clap of thunder as the room became fully illuminated in a deep mysterious olive green. Then a voice that sounded distant, outlying and removed, began; Julia. Julia!.... JULIA!!!..."

"What?" she answered quite irritated.

"How ya doin' babe?" the familiar voice enquired.

"Is... is that you, Richard?.... Richard Nixon, is that you?" Julia stood up with eyes shut.

"Oh Julia... You come to me for advice from afar, but I, Richard M. Nixon, seek your counsel as well."

"Oh Richard, though distant from this world, yet, here with us in spirit... What might your request be?" Julia answered with another question.

"Oh, Julia...." Richard begged, "teach me to cook! When making a chicken and rice dish, do you boil the rice first, or do you broil them together? Let me make this perfectly clear... I am not a cook!...The food sucks here in the afterlife! Oh, about that incense, could you please for my sake snuff out that harrowing stench?! It reminds me of when little Julie was into that 'Make Love Not War,' thing!"

"Later Richard, but first, what might your council be concerning Mr. Hipwing's dilemma?" Julia giggled.

"My answer to him is in the form of a clue, listen carefully: 'Flush away your enigma with the pursuit of excellence.'"

"That's it!?" I protested, "I've come all this way for just a clue as stupid as that?... Why?"

Mr. Nixon replied, "Because it's more fun that way and less boring to your readers. And besides, you only get what you pay for...that's why... HA HA!... Now Julia, you promised me... teach me how to cook!"

"Oh Richard! All right... first you take a little bit of butter...."
-------------------------------------


(Episode 4)
I left for Oklahoma shortly after noon and determined to turn the Psychic Family Hot-line over to the Better Business Bureau. Steaming enough to melt my frosted windows, I turned on the radio to catch some news...(Click)


"...Republican Congressman Berry, and his one time counterpart, Democratic Congressman Dingle, are pushing hard to get the unpartisan bill passed through both houses of congress. If it's ratified in the Senate by next February like they predict, the bill will be called the Dingle-Berry act of 1996.

"In international news, Russian scientist and Nobel Prize winner, Yuri Bzezhchirvrezhehinovetezinov, announced that he artificially produced a living embryo, by taking human sperm and injecting its DNA into an infertile egg from a dairy cow. Once the early stage of gestation became apparent, other testing indicated that it was probably a male. The scientist then destroyed it, claiming that if it were allowed to live and mature, it would drastically alter the beliefs, morals and traditions that mesh the world community together, and most of all, radically, as Russian physicist Bzezhchirvrezhehinovetezinov says; '...bring about a whole new definition to The Milkman!'

"The mysterious gunman holding the White House hostage, says he'll blow up the Presidential Palace, unless he's given all sovereign power; including executive, judicial, and legislative. He's already managed, somehow, to take control of the armed forces. General Higgenbottham has sworn allegiance to whom he now considers to be adequately fit to lead the New World Order.

"CO-chairperson of Torment, Beat, And Brainwash the Children, Hillary Rottwiler Plimton, says she's willing and ready to give the new national headman her assisting expertise. Yes, you heard that right! But, UN Secretary General Boutros Boutros Goodgoshallmighty, is asking all member states to come together with an embargo pact against the US, until civil goverment is restored.

"No one really knows much about the so-called new leader, who calls himself the Honorable Homer. It is said that he appears to be book-wise, smooth-talking, and very appealing. Well, we shall see and hear, as he is to make a public address to the nation on Thursday afternoon, 12pm, Eastern Standard Time.

"On the stock exchange, the Dow Jones fell in early trading this morning. So far, 15 bodies have been recovered, but several stock brokers have yet to be accounted for. Investers are frantically sifting through the rubble, hoping to find any survivors in time for the stock market to reopen tomorrow...

"Currently, the weather conditions in the greater Southeast part of Wyoming is as follows: The temperature is up to 23 degrees Fahrenheit, the barometer is broken; and the winds are today up to 49 knots. That's lower than the average of 55 knots per day for this whole week... But, a telephone company spokesman says that they're on top of the situation; and local phone service should be restored by morning, after they get all of them untangled... pending wind conditions tonight.

"That's the news and weather at this hour...I'm Bob Burford...Stay tuned for the Flush Limbo Show, already in progress..." (click)


"What's happening?" I voiced after turning off the radio and watching all the cars speeding by in an all-out panic. "I've never seen people in such a rush!" I added, striking a thought as my memory lit. "Rush... Rush...Rush... Flush...Flush away your enigma with the pursuit of excellence? Flush... Flush...Fl....Flush Limbo!" I scrambled for the on/off switch as the morning glare hit my eyes.


(Click!)"... As we here are always in pursuit of excellence as well as
the truth... Now for you liberals!..." Flush began to scold.


"That's it! The clue!" But what was I supposed to do? I couldn't call Flush on his nationwide show and tell him, as well as the whole world, that Homer was a figment of my imagination. I had to get hold of him somehow, though. So I figured when I got back home in Oklahoma I'd send him my manuscript and a follow-up letter.
----------------------


(Episode 5)
A night's drive ended in the morning, obviously, as the main highway on my route was snowed in. I stopped for the day in Stutterton, Colorado, where I checked into an economical and dilapidating motor inn. Gazing at my 70's vintage Tricky-Dicky pocket-watch, I noticed it was almost half a minute till Dicky's nose grows, Mountain Time. So I aimed the remote, as I laid snug in bed, to watch Homer's address to the nation. The tube slowly illuminated in the middle of a program announcement:


".....She was born to a poor family in the Ozarks. At age 15, she heard the voice of God commanding her to lead the Confederate Army, against the North. Just who was Joan of Arkansas? Find out tonight, on Historical Biographies, at10pm, Mountain Standard Time, on NBS!"


"This is an NBS news special presentation. Remember...There's no BS on NBS! Now over to NBS news correspondent, Peter Waylon Jennings."

"Thanks, Joe. The Honorable Homer, as he now calls himself, is about to address the nation, live from the White house. His first such speech since seizing power a week ago... And everyone must be wondering what he's going to say. After the speech, we'll have comments from our guest tonight, William F. Bucktooth. But now, let's go live to the Oval Office as His Honorableness is ready to speak...."


"My dearly beloved friends and comrades in the struggle for unified harmony, I come to you tonight, to usher in the dawning of a new dream. A dream that will awaken the aspirations of millions, hoping for equal opportunity.

"Until now, equal opportunity held no special promise. But now, it will mean equal outcome, everyone reaching the goal at the same time and cheering each other on. All you have to do is give me your allegiance, and I'll give you peace, harmony, security and promise. Promise of a prosperous future. There are those of course who won't share our dream. They... must be exterminated!

"I've brought with me technology never imagined by mankind before. A silicone wafer will be implanted on everyone's right shoulder. This chip will send cybernetic messenger cells to the brain, by way of the jugular vain, generating its power from the individual's pulse. This is to help you always think politically correct thoughts; in accordance with my authority.

"Everyone will go to their county health department this afternoon, to have one implanted. Anyone caught without a Chip on their shoulder by morning, will be dealt with, by me.

"Democrat, Republican, Liberal or Conservative will all become by-words for failures of the past irresponsible leadership; who only cared about partisan politics. There will only be one party, now. The Unified Thought Co-operative Party. The transformation of reforms will be slow and painful, but we must start now! I, the Honorable Homer, thank you, and may the newly enhanced New World Order reign supreme...... Good day."


"Well, that was the Honorable Homer," Peter announced as if we didn't know, "and we'll be back with our guest this afternoon to anatomize his dissertation after our affiliate stations around the globe take this time for station identification. We'll be back shortly."

"This is an NBS news presentation...Remember...there's no BS on NBS!" Joe excitedly heralded.

Uh, th this is K...K..KKK..KK..KKKK, ch channel thirrrrrrrrteen in S..Stutter..Stutterton, Coloraaaad Colorado............whew!

"And now, here's NBS news anchorman, Peter Waylon Jennings....

"Thanks Joe, we have....."

"And remember......There's no BS on NBS!" Joe, with a big stupid grin, idiotically interupted, akwardly emphasizing each syllable.

"Uh, Ok Joe, thanks. We have with us.........."

"YOU"RE WELCOME, PETER!!!" Joe smiled even goofier, giving Jennings two thumbs up.

"Joe!!.....Uh, never mind.... We have with us this afternoon, columnist, editorialist, and owner of the 'National Review Of Intimidating Intellectualism And Other Boring Stuff' magazine, William F. Bucktooth. Now Bill, what did you think about the Honorable Homer's.....I guess, Presidential address?"

Mr. Bucktooth wisely rubbed his chin. "Well, I was expectant for an unscrupulous cessation, nevertheless he radically coddled the promulgation to denote his impetus synopses; being evasively aversive, while honking his own horn."

"Yes, I noticed that too," Peter affirmed. "His fortitude, this eventide, was empathetically comparable to, and grievously analogous of, quartering outward exertion to deposit his right foot in his left hand, only to become aware of it later in his mouth; if I may subsist at liberty to utilize suchlike jocularity. But, Bill, don't you agree Homer was bequesting his effervescence with kid gloves on?"

"Oh, without fail," he agreed "but, that doesn't propose that his unbefitting deportments were indispensably disfigured. I mean, unquestionable verities arduously sometimes usher in stentorian rumors. Above all, inadvertently as it may imply, his culpability was quite replete to transpire from his domicile."

"So then, what you're saying is," Jennings assumed, "had he emphatically ascertained his fishing rod, he would have apprehended aggrandized denizen of the deep?"

"Right, Right." Bucktooth answered, wisely chewing on the end of his intellectually enhancing bifocals. "But, all throughout his discourse, he procured axiomatic comportment behavior, opting in precedence of pending ballet lessons, though lacking a tutu! "

"Oh?" asked Peter quite surprised, "I must have missed that."

Bucktooth continued, "I surmise though, Homer, for his immense individual betterment, will fathom his tenet, stipulate the acidic meritorious dismay that badgers our intendment... if he avows the whet fortitude transversely alighted over the horizon... and will abate an excursion of the poignant plight of the inevitable status quo."

"...And might he prevail... may he bestow, a quid pro quo!" Peter rhymed with goose-bumps breaking out on his forehead and traveling down his spine.

"Here! Here!" Bucktooth concurred, profoundly reaching for a glass of water to cool off his tongue after it had been subjected to a lengthy, over abundance of hot air.

"For you stupid people at home watching, the Honorable Homer addressed the nation with a very poignant speech this afternoon, and we'll try to break it down into the simplest of terms. Mr Bucktooth, would you mind summarizing what we discussed earlier about the speech, for the 'little people' who aren't of the same caliber as we two?" Peter asked, with an arrogant grin.

"I suppose not," Bucktooth rolled his eyes, "If you don't have a chip on your shoulder by morning, you're screwed!"

"Thank you for being patient, Bill... I'll see you later on the greens...and maybe play a few holes. Well, that's all from this end. We'll see you at the dinner hour for a recap of all today's news. I'm Peter Waylon Jennings, good afternoon."

"This has been an NBS special news report.....And remember....There's no BS....."

"OH, KNOCK IT OFF, JOE!!!"

"OK, Gotcha Peter!" Joe winked, once again showing off his sparking pearly whites, and lest we forget, his dazzling deep-set dimples.
(Click)


I shut off the boob-tube and began talking to myself, "I've got to get out of here! No time to waste! Ain't no way I'm going to wear a chip on my shoulder. But I can't go anywhere till this dad-blasted snow and sleet stop falling! Matilda! Maggie! Man, I haven't left them enough food! I guess I'd better head home first thing tomorrow morning, blizzard or no blizzard. But right now, I just need a couple hours of shut-eye." I yawned.

As I hit my head on the pillow I felt something under its cover that was solid. I reached inside and pulled out a paperback book. I gazed at the jacket, reading its title: 'Everything You Wanted To Know About 20th Century Popular Music.'

I casually opened it as it fell, though unplanned, to a chapter about the world's most successful and popular music group, the Bugs. It just so happened I had a tape of their greatest hits in my boom-box, to the side of the bed. I laid back, adjusted the light, and began reading with polite interest, even though it looked lenghty and I was very drowsy...
.........................................


(Episode 6)
It had been a miserably, sweaty and smelly night, at the Cavern Club on the outskirts of Liverwurst, England. Johnny and the Mooners had just wrapped up the first half of their gig, when John blurted out,

"Man, this blankin' place is blankin' blank, blank it!"

"Whad he say?" George asked

Paul put aside his bass. "John's just a bit cheesed off about the sorry acoustics, tonight...Hand me a ciggy, Pete."

Pete hadn't been with the band for very long, and he didn't play drums worth a crap, which John thought was great, because it drove their critics batty. Paul suggested they find another drummer, or perhaps, even let him have a crack at it; but John was unrelenting.

"Don't blankin' mess with my blankin' decisions, blank you! If I blankin 'wanted your blankity blank opinion, I would have blankin'asked, you blankin,' blank of a blank!!"

"Whad he say?" George asked again.

"No," Paul sighed.

The intermission soon ended as the Mooners then strapped their guitars back on, and set up the drums. "Blankin' Paul has a blank of a song he's gonna blankin' do called 'And I blankin' love the blank!"

In the middle of the sappy, crooning tear-jerker, Brian Einstein, a Professional Philanthropist Pleader, walked into the club, sat down, and ordered whatever the band was drinking. The no-foolishness waitress came back with a coke and rum, along with a blankidy, attitude.

Brian couldn't believe what he was hearing, and assured himself that he wouldn't even put his mother-in-law through such torture. However, after six or seven glasses, he began to hear a lot of potential. After the concluding number, he staggered up to the stage and offered a proposition,"How would you boys like an ambitious manager?"

"Blankin' manager, how much would have to blankin' pay you?" John asked suspiciously.

"Whad he say?!" Brian, George and Pete asked in three-part harmony.

"You'll have to forgive John, he's got a bloody speech impediment. He wants to know how much you'll charge us?" Paul clarified.

Brian immediately drew up the contract, and convinced them to award him 20% of their earnings in 10 years. "First thing we need to do is, change your name for something more wholesome....Say, how 'bout the...the Beetle Bugs?"

"Blankin' Beetle Bugs," John laughed, " I blankin' dig the blankin' Bugs."

"Whad he say?"

"He says the Bug idea is hip, but the stupid Beetle thing has got to go! If you do manage us, you'd better get us a recording gig by year's end. We've paid our dues in numerous ratholes, and we deserve the best, considering we're the great musicians that we are!"

"He said all that?!" Brian, George, Pete and a couple of eavesdroppers, asked.


John, Paul, George and Pete soon became a discussion piece all over Liverwurst, as girls would scream, then run, looking for the exits--- ever since George shaved his head and super-glued a toilet plunger on top of it. John thought it was a stroke of genius, on George's behalf, and suggested they all do the same.

Nearly a year's search went by looking for a record company ready to sign them. In those days it was easier than the present to get a break; however, Elvis, for instance, played in clubs for years under his real name, Arnold Gupduddle; but wasn't getting anywhere.

Finally, in desperation, he auditioned to model for a denim jeans ad. He was quickly picked out because of his back-in-the-woods dumb hillbilly look. The company suggested, for some reason, that he act as if he was playing a guitar for the photo shoot, hoping to attract young girls' interest in the ad; but the camera man got extremely frustrated and impatient with him most of the day, because of his lack of sex appeal.

While venturing to try a certain pose, Arnold tripped and stubbed his foot, causing him to gyrate in excruciating agony with a pained look on his face, for around 5 minutes; while the photographer excitedly took pictures. Life magazine, who ran the ad, didn't catch a typo error until the week after the publication was released. The caption below the picture was supposed to read "LEVIS!", however someone carelessly switched the L with the E, making it read "ELVIS!". Women who saw the ad went into a frenzy and jammed the magazine company's phone lines. He immediately, thereafter, agreed to change his name and was offered a huge contract. The rest is history.

The Bugs, like Elvis, paid their share of dues, but were eventually discovered. George Martinique, a Record company president of a small label, left his home in the Caribbean for Liverwurst, to audition them. He had caught their act in a Hamburg, Germany nightclub, while vacationing there one summer, and was interested in producing them. He was looking for a white, British, punkish band that would intermix polka, flapper music, and a touch of Buck Owens alongside of Englebert Humperdink, with a style of music that was popularly growing in his homeland, called reggae.

The Bugs were willing to do ANYTHING to get a contract and signed on with Ganja Head Records in a barely visable, smoke filled room. "If ja don't like something, just let me know," Martinique smiled.

"Well you blankin' don't need this blankin' toupee'!" John cracked, ripping it off of his balding dreadlocks.


The big day arrived, and the Bugs released their first album, "We Mean To Bug You," in America. The first single, "You're Stepping On My Hand," got instant airplay, but not on pop stations; rather, from various religious programs warning parents of the evils of such hullabaloo. The nationally known Right Reverend Ronald R. Ramrod, stated, "We're not gonna subject our kids to this sadistic combination of catcalling and cow butchering! I'm calling on all patriotic and sane Americans, to buy up as many copies of the Bugs' album as possible, and hold a national Bug album-torching a week from Sunday!"

Irate do-gooders, all over America, joined in tens of thousands of record bonfires, and by week's end, "We Mean To Bug You," became the biggest selling album in all the history of the recording business. This was quite phenomenal considering nobody had even listened to the record.

Manager Einstein soon called a news conference and announced that the Bugs wanted to play Shea Stadium, but that they'd hold out for the best offer. A little over four months later, Malcolm, Brian's cousin, whose father-in-law had a friend with a step-brother, who coincidentally owned the stadium, himself owned a sporting goods store and promised each of them a genuine pro-series pogo stick, if they would, in addition, give him a privy performance of his favorite Englebert Humperdink selections.....

After a week of negotiating with the realization it was the best offer so far, they accepted; and the following Saturday night, the coliseum was packed full of thousands of anticipating teenagers.

A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Ed Sullivan stepped up to the mike, then announced, "And now...The Bugs!"

Only half the crowd cheered with enthusiasm, but soon looked bewildered when the band appeared. They thought they came to see a new Alfred Hitchcock movie; after all, it had been a good year since the release of "The Birds." The other half were there because someone announced the wrong date for a Girl Scouts Of America convention.

Once the girly teenyboppers caught sight of the toilet plungers on the boys' heads, they went screaming, running for the exits, followed by the moms in close pursuit. The 30 or so ardent Bug fans remained, holding their flaming plungers high above their heads, and singing their favorite songs; until the stadium burned to the ground.


After a year of failure and anonymity, the Bugs released their next album, "The Bugs' Second Chance," which was greeted far better than their former effort, because of the bouncy polka song, "She Loathes You (Nanny Nanny Boo Boo)," which became very popular among the German folk around numerous Amish communities, all over the Pennsylvania region.


In the latter part of the early years, the Bugs were in their "crest of the wave" success. In 1965, they became millionaires!.... Thanks to a careless New York City bank teller, who accidentally deposited a royalty check made out to John D. Rockafeller Jr., into their joint account. Mr. Rockafeller never realized a thing.

But the Bugs became, in their own right, even more wealthy in the summer of love and hallucinogenics, with their best selling album so far. It all started when John was offered a certain substance at a party. It changed his life. Then he offered it to the other Bugs...they liked it too. Paul suggested that they all put their heads together, and record a concept album, inspired by the experimentation of this stuff. Each song would refer to it, whether in subtle clues, or out right blatantly. Ganja Head executives were reluctant, at first, to release the album...because of the controversial subject surrounding it. But when all was finally said and done, "DR Pepper Comes In 12 Ounce Cans," was an instant hit.

The album included such hit songs as the title track, and a little ditty that Paul wrote called "When I'm Dead And Gone." But the most brilliant song on the album, graced the end of the second side. It was a 5-minute track that finished the album with a spine tingling, loudly building, crescendo; as John gluttonously slurpped down a can of soda pop. As it dramatically came to an abrupt end, he managed to hold out a long, tumultuous, resoundingly diminishing belch........... for an entire 45 seconds! "One day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich," was based on the novel with the same title, by Russian Nobel Peace Prize winner, and Soviet dissident, Alexander Solzhenitsyn. This was a stroke of genius for John; considering Solzhenitsyn didn't write the book till 17 years later!

The DR Pepper album was a gamble for the group, since most of their fans in America preferred Coca Cola. However, the drink DR Pepper, was in its grassroots infancy all over Europe, ever since John F. Kennedy went to East Germany and stood in front of the newly erected iron curtain, and proclaimed to the cheering West Berliners, "I AM A PEPPER!!!"

"The Beige Album" followed suit in 1968, as being one of their best sellers. It mysteriously came wrapped in a beige barf bag. Differing fans, to this day, debate whether this was just artistic expression, or a serious warning that listening to the record would literally make one nauseous.
...........................................


(Episode 7)
(I continued reading)
In January of the following year, John attended an international yodeling contest in Zurich, Switzerland. In the audience, a lady of his liking caught his eye. A 4 foot, 5 inch Ukrainian Olympic team weight-lifter named YoYo, who was also a speech pathologist on the side. She was everything he needed. He kept trying to converse with her all night, but she mostly ignored him by reading the contest program flyer. But, John finally won her heart that night, by telling her he was the great-nephew of Vladimir Lenin.

Two weeks later they were married in Leningrad. Leonid Brezhnev, who performed the ceremony, gave both husband and wife an immensely saturating smooch on the lips... And, of course, the bride wore red.

YoYo complained to John, months later, that her youngest brother, Nikolas, who was an exchange student in America, couldn't play soccer for the school team, because he was one year too old to play with his peers. John became irate, and the two of them got dressed in their pajamas and headed to FDR Head Start, in New York City, to hold a week-long slumber party/sit in with the kids. He told them to rebel against the current establishment, by refusing to make their beds for a month. They then lead the kids in a new song, called "Give Nick A Chance," before handing out autographed copies of "Revolution, Just For The Bleedin' Heck Of It."

Later that day, John announced his support for YoYo's efforts in the feminist cause. He tore his super-glued toilet plunger off of his head, and handed the crown to YoYo.

None of John and YoYo's antics seemed to catch the public eye, nor any intrigue from the press. But, after desperate attempts, they soon made the newspaper front pages all over America and Western Europe, by vowing, in the presence of dozens of reporters to do the absolutely unthinkable.....take up golf.

The Nixon administration immediately called on the FBI to start a file on them, wiretap their phones, and put them under 24 hour surveillance; after the newly sworn into office president stormed away from the Washington Country Club Course, having to forfeit to YoYo on the 17th, because some neurotic, impulsive, stray hound had darted in between his legs (while he attempted a short putt that would have put him ahead)... and ran off with the only ball Mr. Nixon hadn't lost all day.


Bug manager, Brian Einstein, had just taken up the exciting and challenging hobby of Skydiving. On the morning of his first lesson, he was feeling a bit uneasy, after having taken an abundance of fiber pills over the last few days. Before he had the chance to put his parachute on, he felt a sudden urge and galloped to the lavatory at the back of the plane.

He sat comfortably for about 20 minutes, humming a Bug tune and reading "The Wallstreet Journal;" until, without looking, he pulled on what he thought was the lever to flush the commode. Unfortunately it turned out to be the emergency escape lever.

Having just been ejected out of the plane, at 14,500 ft, and nearing the end of his, anything but graceful, descent, a group of enthusiastic amateur skeet shooters happily took aim at what they thought was a "huge, grotesque pink bird with an enormous wingspan that awkwardly flapped in all directions!" But, Brian conquered all odds, having not been shot, and survived!!! ....................until he hit the ground.

The Bugs at this time, were in Queensland, Australia, taking digeridoo lessons from an aboriginal village high priest, Bob Stanley, and hadn't heard what happened to Brian, until a news reporter pushed a microphone up to Paul and informed him. "What can I say?" Paul shrugged, "Brian was no Einstein."

Bob tried to cheer up the boys, by suggesting he was in a better place now, "And besides, mates, without him you all are 20% richer!" he smiled.

They all felt much better and sat in a circle, singing a round of "Tie Me Kangaroo Down."


The next few albums, amid the latter years of the group's history, proved to be somewhat half-hearted. The musical marriage within the band was clearly on the wane. John was into a much more radical political message, whereas Paul was still writing silly love songs. George, on the other hand, was hardly ever showing up for recording sessions; he was spending too much time at home, playing his digeridoo.

But the tell-tale signs didn't become very clear to the fans, until the release of their last album and motion picture, "Laissez-Faire." In the movie, Paul was being very patient with George as he attempted to nail down a guitar riff Paul suggested for the title track. George, feeling humiliated, cried out, "Look, I know how to play the blanking guitar!"

Paul lost everything, reared back his Hofner bass and split it over George's skull. "You're not going to be able to play a blanking thing if you continue to blanking talk to me that way!!"

Fortunately, George was still sporting his toilet plunger headdress; it softened the blow.

"Comrades!" John interrupted, "Don't you see what greedy capitalism has done to you? We must unite for the good of all, for we are all brothers in oppression!"

"Whad he blankin' say?!" Paul and George asked each other.

"Laissez-Faire," the album, contained one of their biggest selling songs, "The Long And Winding Bike Trail," a song which Paul wrote about having a newspaper route in his early adolescence, and remembering the dread of having to get up every morning at 5am, travel a long and confusing dirt trail to deliver papers; only to get lost....everyday. His loving parents would often suggest that the directionless path was merely "challenging", and begged him to persevere every time he threatened to quit.

One particular rainy morning, Paul wandered around that "challenging" route for five whole hours, banging on doors and crying for help. When Paul did make it to school, he was immediately sent to the principal's office, where he tried to explain to the "rather ripe prune" that he wasn't just screwing around. All the kids in school knew she had a sadistic disposition in the first place, but were horrified when she sent Paul home and demanded he take the same "challenging" route he got lost on; this time without his bike!

Paul was extremely hungry, exhausted, smelly, all covered with lice, but elated when he finally arrived home after wandering around that dad blasted, mind bending, "challenging" trail for seven days; only to find a note taped to the mailbox, explaining that his parents had moved, leaving him their best wishes and God's speed; but no forwarding address.


Despite the song's success, there wasn't much to celebrate. Following its release, Paul announced to the world he was leaving the band, and filed a suit against John, George and Pete. He then gave up music to work for the UN as an interpreter for foreign ambassadors with speech impediments.


Then John announced he was quitting too, and filed a suit against Paul, George and Pete. Shortly after leaving the group, John and YoYo began recording an avant-garde album surrounding a new kind of music they thought they were first to conceive. "Rock Music" was a 45 minute recording of a 1000 some-odd-pound boulder of granite, extemporaneously and silently projecting its inner thoughts. Upon its release, the critics quickly interjected that the album would have been brilliant, if YoYo had had no part in it.

Then, to top things off, a Canadian geologist slapped a plagiarism lawsuit against them, claiming that "Rock Music" was an identical replica of HIS efforts 10 years earlier. However, a jury in Toronto, after taking three hours to deliberate, agreed that since there was a lack of evidence, due in part because the half-ton rock refused to testify on the behalf of the plaintiff, and because John and YoYo's version contained 12 MORE seconds of silence than the original...that they were similar, but not the same.

"Mr. Stone" as his sympathizers call him, is to this day on a 25 year old hunger strike in a Canadian jail, serving time for contempt of court. Stone's cell-mates often complain about waking up in the middle of the night, finding themselves stuck between a rock and a hard place.

John and YoYo performed numerous benefit "rock concerts" in his honor, but the two became very disenchanted with the dog-eat-dog music business, and returned exclusively to their political endeavors.


George soon followed with a suit against John, Paul and Pete, then went to Sydney, to work on his Ph.D., researching the spiritual, political and historical significance of the digeridoo. DR George now lives in an overturned dumpster, 20 miles south of London. He occasionally walks in to town to panhandle by standing on street corners playing his......well, you get the drift.


Pete decided to stay in the band, and instead of filing a suit, he bought a new one, and has been touring ever since as "The Bug;" trying to promote his album, "Once Upon A Drum."

One October evening, Pete was the opening act for Welsh punk band, Johnny Proboscis and The Post Nasal Drip. He had just completed the first half of his set, and while he went backstage to change, his manager stepped up to the mike and tearfully explained that poor Pete was being sued for two thirds of his income, for child support and alimony by his wife of 20 years; in a divorce settlement. His compassionate manager informed the audience that his solo album, released 22 years to that date, had only sold around 250 copies since, and begged, "Buy an album or tape tonight, please, for Pete's sake!?"

The scheme worked beautifully, so they both decided to try it at every gig. Soon Pete acquired an income exceeding that of all the other Ex-Bugs combined, and had enough money to begin taking drum lessons for rank beginners, pay off all his legal debts, and spend a summer at Rosco's Ruffian Rough Rider Dude Ranch in the US state of New Mexico, where his manager and he frequent, from time to time, just to ride the"horseys."


Just what was the magic ingredient to the Bugs' success and world wide fame? Some believe it was the constant rumors about the band that kept the press moving and fans fascinated. A good example: A Cleveland disc jockey, in 1969, had accidentally played their hit song, "I Am The Egg Plant," in reverse. The listening audience as well as he himself, had found what appeared to be a message of some sort, as they clearly heard John and George singing, "Paul is Fred, Paul is Fred; and he don't like Fried Tomatoes!"

Rumors immediately flooded the airwaves while the scandal produced several books, magazine articles, and an investigating watchdog, fan based, organization called WHIF (Who the Heck Is Fred?!). Fans began playing Bug albums backwards, looking for more clues. The controversy became so intense that Paul called a press conference, insisting, "If I'm Fred, I'm the last to know about it!"

But the frenzy failed to die. Finally, George decided to call a press conference of his own to let the cat out of the bag. "Any half-witted or 'Intellectually inept' idiot with a good pair of headphones, surely could clearly hear that John and I were singing, "Paul is dead, Paul is dead; cause he choked on Fried Tomatoes!"

There was an instant sigh of relief released by all fans, all over the western hemisphere. Paul wasn't Fred! He was merely dead!... Rolling Stone magazine hastily released their next issue adorned with Paul's bearded kisser on the cover, with the caption: "Better Dead, Than Fred!"
---------------------------------


(Episode 8)
I slapped the book shut and reached for my portable reading lamp, noticing the time was 10 minutes past 12pm. I realized if I was going to get out of Studderton early the next morning, pending the ice on the roads thawing, I'd better get as much sleep as possible.

I reached up and shut the venetian blinds, hit the lights, laid down but began thinking aloud:
"Ah, those were the good old days. I remember my older brother Beauregard must have had all the Bug's albums. Of course, I don't remember much about...wait a minute! What did George say about 'The Intellectually Inept!?'"

I reached for the book from the night stand. "Now, where was that...Hmmm...Oh, here it is, 'any half-witted or Intellectually inept idiot with a good pair of headphones......' That's got to be a clue! What was that song, again? Oh yeah, 'I Am The Eggplant.'

"Now, what's the significance of that particular song, and why is 'Fried Tomatoes' capitalized? It could be that...That's right, there's a song on 'The Beige Album' called, 'Fried Tomatoes,' and if I can remember correctly, there's a verse something like...'And here's another clue for you all: The Eggplant was Paul.' But that brings me back to 'I Am The Eggplant,' again.

"Hmmmm... 'Paul is dead, Paul is dead, cause he choked on....' Hey, what about the song, 'When I'm Dead And Gone,' by Paul...from the 'DR Pepper album?' I'll bet that if I could play it backwards I'd find more clues! I DO have that song on the tape in my boombox."

I reached over the side of the bed to retrieve it....

"OK, put the batteries in the back so that the 2 positive ends meet, that should slow down the tape. Now hook the oscilloscope to the audio outputs, put that in conjuction with a spurious radio frequency inhibitor, and now a signal generator with a faze shifter in parallel alongside a subatomic woofer tweeker. Now where did I leave that Forked Gyrating Mixmaster Rectifying Slope Tuning Horizontal Inverter? Oh, I've got it in my back pocket. OK, put that in series with the variable capacitor that controls the volume...If only I had taken basic electronics in high school!"

I fast forwarded the tape to end of the song and then pressed rewind and play simultaneously to listen to the tape in reverse. The last note of the song began increasing in volume in a backward fade in. Suddenly, I hear the sound of a telephone line ringing as if someone were dialing out, thereupon a jubilant voice in a rich cockney accent asked; "hello, wha' you want me to sing?!"

"Who said that!?!? I shivered.

"This is Pete, who's this?" he asked

"Pete, the drummer!?"

"No you're not," he scolded, "I'm Pete the drummer! Who's this?...Oh no, is this that Clyde bloke that bloody lad warned me about?"

"What bloody lad?! I'm just looking for clues!"

"Uh, nevermind, nobody told me about you...Well, isn't this just jolly good for me?" Pete disgustedly asked, "I've waited at least 25 years for this bloody opportunity; John, Paul and George told me this is the only way they'd let me sing on a Bug album, or in this case...a Bug tape, and it's always you idiot clue freaks! Did you call to hear me sing or what?"

"I was reading a chapter about the Bugs in a book, and I noticed George spouted off a clue about the Intellectually Inept..."

Pete briskly butted in, "I'm so, gee golly whiz, sorry, but I'm afraid that I don't have any more, from the deep bowels of the earth, intriguingly vomited clues to give you, it was probably just like you said; he was spouting off.... And I wouldn't pay no never mind what Georgey boy said, he frequently has a wee difficult time tamin' his undomesticated, fat lip!... You, moronic clue freaks, make me sick! Why, just the other morning some chap wanted to know if it was true that John ate his own boogers, the stupid lad thought I'd confirmed his suspicions when I quipped, 'well, he didn't eat anyone else's!'" Pete hee-hawd, "but, as for you, I can't help you."

"Well, I need someone's help. See, this certain character escaped from my manuscript, and is currently reeking havoc all over the..."

"And you don't find that a bit bloody rockers!?" Pete jeered.

"Well frankly, Pete," I protested, "I find the fact that I'm speaking with you just because I'm playing a song backwards, a bit more crazy!"

"Well, I got to go," he spoke in a softer tone, "me manager is calling me...Yes Mumsey?!...............Oh goodie, goodie, goodie! Mumsey says she'll take me to 'Byron's Bloody Well Big Toy Emporium' later, to pick out me brand spankin' new Cricket Bat. She promised, for behavin' meself, and for cleanin' up me room, she'd..." Pete stopped himself and immediately regained his composure. "Now Uh, don't call back unless you want to hear me sing! I'm basically a Peacenik, but if I'm pushed...why, I might just have to bust your bleedin' knuckles with me face! You dig?...Coming Mumsey!....I gotta go! Osmosis amoebas!" (Click)

<*><*><*>

After not being able to sleep... and a quickening thaw because of the rapid rise in temperature, I ventured southwest late that afternoon but noticed the main highway was blocked off due to construction. Not knowing where to go, I spied a Studderton city policeman sitting alone in his car, sipping coffee. "Parden me, officer, but could you give me directions to the nearest detour here in Studderton that will take me westbound toward Oklahoma?"

His face instantly turned pallid as an immediate sweat poured down his forehead. "Uh, yyyou..you go w..w..we...west down thhhhhhhhhhhhat road...over..over..over there. Th..th..then turn as soon assssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss....you.."

"Uh, thanks anyway!" I smiled and waved.

A quarter of an hour later after finally getting on the Interstate, I snickered to myself as I observed a dense, brownish orange-like smog, hovering over the not too distant horizon--- just as I noticed a sign that read: Welcome To Gasville!
-------------------------------------------------------


(Episode 9)
At sunrise, the sun's glare on the windows of the buildings seem to be the only welcoming, once retuning to Mountain Oyster. Going down Sheridan Road, I noticed a large, at least, two blocks long, line into the county health department. "Everybody must be getting their chip inserted on their shoulder," I mumbled, "Where's everyone's fervor for personal freedom? I've never seen such apathy..."

I pulled into my driveway with a sigh after a long drive. I noticed the yard had grown up a bit. "Oh wow! I forgot to tell someone to get the mail!...Matilda?! " I called out, but there was no response, so I waited awhile then unlocked the front door.

Immediately once inside I flipped on C-Spam, but there didn't seem to be any late breaking news, everything seemed to be normal. "Well I'll check out Good Morning America." As I turned the channels, I heard a scratching at the back door. "Maggie!" I rushed to let her inside.

"Clyde, Sir, since you've been gone, something a bit dreadful has happened!" Maggie, standing outside the door, announced seriously distressed.

"Maggie, you're talking again!" I responded.

"Of course, me lad, as I've always done, but..."

"Have you heard what Homer's been doing?!" I asked.

"No, me lad, but..."

"We've got to go to New York to see Flush Limbo, Maggie! Where's Matilda?" I questioned.

"Well, Clyde sir, she's...sh...she's gone, sir!"

"She's what?!!... The one-eyed midget?!"

"No sir, I just caught a glimps of what happened through the back fence... She was approached by two bloomin' thugs that were harrasing her with a weird question. They kept asking if she had a chip on her shoulder, and she muttered something back to the effect of, 'you know where to put it!' One of them then grabbed her by the tail and threw her in the back of their truck, saying he was going to take her to the rendering plant, and have soap made from her cat-fat. I didn't get a good look, sir, but as they drove off, I think I noticed the letters, 'UTC,' freshly painted on the side of the truck... We've got to save her, sir!!!" Maggie whined.

"The United Thought CO-operative Party... I'm afraid it's too late, Mag, she's probably already been done in... They'll only get us too, if we try to save her." I tearfully explained.

I took Maggie inside and tried to calm her down, noticing the TV was still on, as a gentleman was explaining: "We've got the means to find out who's not going along with us. By tonight, if you haven't got ur chip, or not making preparations to do so- we'll be coming to see you!"

"Maggie, we've got to get outta here today!"

We immediately started throwing everything into the car. I grabbed a rather small short-wave transceiver radio-- a Kenwood TS450S-- thinking it would be a good idea, in case there were others out there that I could get a hold of, who were resisting Homer's cause. Being a licensed ham radio operator, I'd been trained for such national emergencies.

Maggie and I set sail that afternoon for New York. We took as many back roads as possible so as to not get caught.

"Well me lad, it looks as though we might well make it!"

"Don't speak too soon, Maggie, we've got days ahead of us," I responded.

"Food! Good sir! What are we going to do about food?!" Maggie exclaimed.

"The best we can..."

"Oh look, sir!" Maggie shouted. There in front of us was an old man flagging us down. Instead of slowing I swerved around him and sped up.

"Probably works for the Unified Thought Co-Operative Party....Don't trust anyone!"

"It wasn't so much that-- I thought you were going to run over the old fool!" Mag bellowed.

"Don't worry about my driving, Mag. I've only had 3 wrecks within 6 months, 3 years ago... and all of them were only 2 blocks from home, but I've got a handle on it now!"

"Oh, you're a much more cautious driver now, sir? "

I shrugged, "Naw, I just moved, that's all."

"...Old joke sir, I guess I deserved it."

-----------------------------


(Episode 10)
The sun had long descended over the Missouri hills, my eyes were beginning to feel heavy as Mag and I were looking for an area deep with woods. I veered off the road and gunned it through some barbed wire

"Ah... this looks secluded enough... Now to set up the radio."

I was hoping to contact other resistors, and keep a frequency open for emergency traffic; or help others find a safe haven to take refuge while hiding from the UTC police. I connected the short-wave transceiver's DC power cable directly to the car battery. Getting back in, I reached inside the glove compartment and pulled out a pocket calculator, then began dividing the frequency of 7.200mhz into the designated numerical denominator of 468, which gave me an answer of 65 feet... the exact length I needed for a halfwave dipole antenna, for that particular band spectrum.

I cut the wire to the proper length, center-fed the coax, wound a medium sized stone on both ends to put weight on them, and tossed my makeshift antenna where either end would rap around the branches, in between two trees. I anxiously got back in the car and pushed the power button on the radio, tested its resonence by making a quick transmission on the AM mode, and was elated by a low voltage standing wave ratio of a meager 1.5 to 1.

Listening closely, but not hearing more than just interference from A.M. short-wave broadcasting stations, I tuned around until I heard the beautiful sound of atmospheric heterodyne, i.e. a clear frequency. (Congratulations, you've just learned enough to get your own Ham Radio license!)
I decided to give out a call. "This is station KA5HVO... Kilo Alpha Five Hotel Victor Ocean. Can anybody copy?".............Nothing. "CQ CQ CQ... this is KA5HVO...Kilo Alpha Five Hotel Victor Ocean... Does anyone copy, over?"

A few seconds of static was all I heard, then the unmistakable sound of a station transmitting a carrier, and tuning up the tube finals of a transmitter, delighted my ears. I waited till they responded to my call.

"Clyde, is that you?"

"Yes it's me! Who are you?" I acknowledged, not realizing why the voice sounded so familiar.
"It's me... Ah.... you! I'm you! It's me.... Clyde!... I'm at your home station! I'm... Oh... I've got to go, someone's at the front door! I'm clear!" The voice ceased.

"What's going on? How could I be at two places at once,... who is this? over..." No response. "Don't go... What's going on ?! I've got to know..."

After fumbling in and out of frequencies for about five minutes, I had decided it was a prankster who did nothing more than look up my callsign in the FCC database on the internet.... which was available to anyone nosy enough to look.

Maggie and I were later joyously chomping down some grub, then suddenly, we heard a rapid rapping on the driver side window, and looked over in time to witness a large, well-built, 50ish looking African American fellow. He was waving an item I couldn't make out in the dark, but after a near at hand examination... as he waved a flashlight wildly, the light caught its metallic surface, introducing itself as a gun. "Get outta the car!..." he ordered. "You gotta chip on your shoulder!?"

"Oh yeah, I got a chip, man," I obeyed and hoped he wouldn't search to find out I didn't.

"Just gimme the keys. I'm afraid this car belongs to me, sucker, you're gonna stay here. I want nothin' to do with no one spineless enough to wear a chip... Now, I'm sorry, man, I'm gonna have to tie you to that tree over there...
.
"Oh, you're part of the underground! Whew!" I continued, "I don't have a chip either, brother, maybe we..."

He quickly backed away from my hand extended to shake his, "Don't brotha' me.... Lift your sleeve."

He reached inside of my coat and up around my lower neck, where I was terribly ticklish... which only infuriated him all the more, "Quit giggling like a bumbling school-chick!..... Hey, you don't have a chip, why didn't you tell me that right away? Glad to meet you, man, I'm Raphael..."
-------------------------------------


(Episode 11)
I began filling him in about the whole scenario--Homer being a lovable imaginary character gone awry-- until the wee hours of daybreak. Ralph, as I began calling him, and I were just opening up. I was finding him quite opinionated, and we disagreed a lot. Most certainly about politics.

He was behind the wheel as I was fighting sleep. "You conservatives got us in this mess, man." he asserted.

"How do ya figure?" I poo-pooed his assertion..

"Well you Republicans are so doggone reactionary! Every time a Democrat, like Plimpton, gets elected, you guys cause the whole country to go crazy! It's no wonder, because of disunity, that it's easy for someone like Homer to seize power. Not only that, you all want to starve kids. You all want the rich to get richer off the backs of poor people."

"I disagree, your man Plimpton destablized and weakened the armed forces, that's how Homer got to where he is. And I think that people don't have much incentive anymore. There isn't much room for rugged individualism nowadays, with all the govermental control on free enterprise. No one wants to strive on their own, it's all just Gimme Gimme Gimme." I argued.

"Yeah?" Ralph maintained, "How 'bout the underprivileged children, the disabled, and unwed mothers trying to raise 13 kids all by herself, in this rugged individual stuff? How is all that right-wing malarkey going to assist those with a preexisting inclination toward drug abuse, in getting the help they need? Man, kids today are so desperate for escape, that some have even found a way to get a hallucinogenic high, by licking frogs... and that's no joke... I read it!"

"Hmmm, I guess that explains how the frog turned into the prince..."

"I think you lads have forgotten that there isn't any right or left anymore!" Maggie interrupted.

"Who is that?!" Ralph looked in the rear view mirror, not believing he'd just witnessed a talking dog.

"Oh that's Maggie..."

"Maggie, Huh?" Ralph uttered, almost rolling off the road.

"Ralph, me lad, as I see it, that's what makes America great.. All of us, though we disagree sometimes, contribute in the common good. Inspite of our differing views, we all play an intricate part in the sum-total of the whole society," Maggie proudly affirmed.

Ralph slammed on the brakes. "This is too crazy fo' me, man! I don't know if I can handle all this...Where you cats goin' anyway?"

"Cats?!!!" Maggie barked.

"We're going to see Flush Limbo, man!" I announced.

"Great! A Republican, an escapee from a book, a talking dog, and now Flush Limbo?! It sure ain't my day, but what the heck?" Ralph restarted up the car, wondering if this was all a nightmare; while Maggie lectured both of us on the undeniable virtues of democracy and inalienable rights for all mankind. And, most emphatically because of her progressive idealism, their moral obligation to bestow such civil liberties unto dogs, as well.
---------------------------


(Episode 12)
Somewhere in a forlorn area of Virginia, we strung up the wire antenna, and I tuned around the same vicinity of kilocycles as the night before. Ralph was kinda fascinated by the ability to get a signal out to anywhere in the world. The conditions surpassed the prior evening's propagation. I turned the VFO knob and found a few fairly clear frequencies.

"CQ CQ CQ, this is KA5HVO, Kilo Alpha Five Hotel Victor Ocean. Does anyone copy?"

We suddenly heard what sounded like someone fumbling with a microphone. "Yes, Clyde, it's me again... or uh you.... do you copy? Over!"

"Yeah I hear ya, you havin' fun playin' with daddy's radio?... I don't know who you are, but I'm in no mood to mess around."

Just as I reached for the VFO knob, he panicky-like tried to assure me of his authenticity, "No, wait, Clyde, I'm extremely serious! I know it's hard to believe, so I'll let you talk to someone who's here with me..." I just shook my head in disgust that someone who took the time to study to get his license, would be foolish enough to risk getting a citation from the FCC, should they be listening. But I surrendered my suspicions when someone, whom I knew quite well, took control of the transmission.

"Dawn Comes with Rosy Fingers!.... Hey Clyde, I guess you thought I'd never find you. Well, you were right, I didn't. Instead, I returned to the City of the Intellectual Inept, aboard My Train of Thought, and guess what? I found your Fictional Likeness. You know, the one the One-Eyed Midget created when he sent you back to the Fiction Forest? Well, I brought him here with me. Now, I know the rules, nobody can enter into a physical reality without dying a fictitional death, so I had to kill him!.......

Homer continued, "So I guess you're wondering how I did it... I simply bought him breakfast at Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro. I suggested he try one of 14 different courses of Great Eggspectations, but he insisted on the Fried Pork Pickled Potato Peels, instead. Ten minutes later he departed. I don't know about you, but I'd tend to stay away from that place, in view of all the folks who've conked out there....... Well, I guess I'll turn it back to you now, I'm really anxious to hear your reaction..... over?"

"Homer! what is it you want... and what else are you going to do!?" I demanded with a pleading voice..

"Well, myself and your Fictional Likeness, whom I've fondly nicknamed Claude, are going to shake this country from its foundation. Your Likeness will be sort a vice president, but I'm also going to give him the keys to Europe, with my supervision, naturally. No one will ever know that Claude and yourself are two different people... All the future history books will blame you as my accessory in the demise of this nation.... Sounds fun, huh?.. over, Clyde."

I begged to know, "Why are you doing this? You were such a nice old man. What changed you?"

"Well, Mr Author, it's like this... being stuck in your ridiculous story became quite boring. Strange did me a great favor fictitiously killing me and all... I just want to get all the gusto I can, that's all Clyde. Well, we've got to go now.. We've... Er Um... you and I have a world to ruin... Over and out...." Homer laughed.

"Homer! Wait a minute.... Homer!"

"It's no use man.... We've been beat," Ralph sighed.

"I'm not giving up yet, I'm gonna go see Flush, with or without you," I vowed
---------------------------------------


(Episode 13)
The following forenoon, Ralph slept while we drove across the unfamiliar New York terrain. Maggie hung her tongue out of the window, lapping up the last bit of country air we'd breathe again for a good while, as we traveled a backwoods route. We'd been alerted at a rest-stop, by a sympathetic highway patrolman, that the UTC were blockading major highways and questioning passerbys. We stayed mostly unseen, until approximately an hour and a half up the interstate, when we arrived at the worm-infested Big Apple, as Ralph woke up. "Say man, this is bigger than I thought!"

Neither of us ever having been in New York City before, resorted to ask our way around in pursuit of the famed big F.I.B. skyscraper. While listening to Flush Limbo's show, I had decidedly been convinced he'd sold out. Instead of the usual rock-n-roll bumper music, he was playing selections from his "favorite Irish tenors," I was disturbed enough by the fact he was reciting Robert Frost poetry. But worst didn't come to worst until he got on a soapbox on behalf of an extremist environmental organization, called SQUASH; an acronym for "The Society Quite United Against The Slaughter Of Helpless-Veggies:"


"...When was the last time a defenseless tomato ever resisted and made an escape from a despotic brutal attack from a cold and calculating vegetarian?! Ah, so you surmise they don't deserve, as due compensation, the same equal rights enjoyed by the animal dominion... You're just going to sit back and gorge yourself on that submissive salad, without so much as a pea of shamefacedness! Indulge in your gluttony, go ahead!

"....But when the dreaded day of the inevitably impending greenhouse effect comes into being, and the once subservient, vegetated underdogs unite and begin procreating at an enormous rate so as to become the silent dominant majority on this dismal planet... then you'll be on your backs! You'll be so overrun with choices when preparing an ordinary sandwich, that you will have exhausted every plea imaginable, such as: PLEASE, LETTUCE ALONE!!!..."


At which moment we arrived in front of the F.I.B broadcasting building. I ordered Maggie to stay in the car while Ralph and I went to visit Mr Limbo. We struggled up 23 flights of stairs, on account of the fact they hadn't completed constructing the elevator, thereby unearthing Flush's hidden means of having lost 85 pounds in only a span of 2 months.

"How are we gonna get in there to see Flush? You'd better leave all this to me!" Ralph taunted while heavily gasping, as we ascended upward toward the highest story.

When we reached the top floor, there didn't appear to be anyone at all in the foyer, so we randomly opened doors in advance of finally finding what looked like a studio. Ralph practically pushed me aside, all the while racing up to the open door. Before he had a chance to knock, what looked like a janitor with less than a G.E.D, but what we assumed was a broadcast engineer, gave a stern stare. Before I could open my mouth to spell out who we were, Ralph belted out, "We're here to see Flush. If he asks who we are, tell him the honorable Ronald Reagan's grandkids just stopped by to shoot the breeze!"

"Oh yeah? Hold on a minute."

I had a gut feeling that wasn't gonna work too well, for some unexplained reason. I quickly noticed Ralph abruptly looking a bit squeamish as he observed all the GOP paraphenalia lying about. I, though I'd never met anyone that famous before, wasn't the least bit goosey about meeting Mr Limbo, as I was absorbed in what I most needed to make known to him.

"Mr. Limbo will see you on his break in half a minute, wait here," the custodial engineer requested.

Spontaneously, I felt the quaking of a heavy stride (of whom I wasn't sure) approaching the partially opened door, which soon widened as Mr. Limbo, larger than life, came into full view.

"Are you Clyde P. Hipwing?" He asked. "I've been waiting for you two gentlemen. A scruffy looking ruffian named Pigglesworth left a note sealed in an envelope for you both," he added, shutting the door behind him.

I excitedly grabbed it, but irresponsibly laid it on a chair. "Flush, what are we going to do?! The country's in chaos, and..."

"No no," he shook his head, "Everything for once is just fine! For once we've got order. For once everyone agrees."

"But Flush!" I demanded, "What about rugged individualism? What about freedom? What about capitalism?"

"Oh...." he laughed, "it escapes me who said it, but the only difference between capitalism and socialism is ....... in a socialistic society, man exploits man... Whereas in a capitalistic society; it's the other way around.."

"He finally makes sense to me!" Ralph exclaimed.

"Something's wrong," I insisted, "Flush, do you have a chip on your shoulder?"

"Well I used to... but now..."

"Ralph! Hold him down while I try to remove his chip!" I yelled prior to Rapheal jumping on his back as if he were bronco-busting, turning over tables, chairs and articles from Flush's various political memorabilia collections. "Man, he's a strong motha!..."

"Just as I thought!" I shook my head in disgust as Ralph and I held him down with bended knees, and ripped the chip from his lower neck. Flush forthwith lurched about, babbling like a two year old. Slapping his face, I attempted to beat some sense into him, until he began wailing for his 50's vintage 'I Like Ike' pacifier.

"Okay, he's coming around. It'll just take a second, he'll regain his reasoning..." I assured Ralph as he released his clutch.

"Man! I always thought he was a big baby, but...."

"Ralph, we've gotta get him outta here!" I urged, just as a blaring alarm apparently alerted two U.T.C. police officers, who erupted unhindered through the studio door, one nabbing Ralph. The other lunged at me, but missed, and assaulted an unsuspecting potted begonia plant that, on impulse, quickly begonged him..

"Get outta here man!" Ralph yelled, "You've gotta save the country!"

As I scurried out of the studio and down the hallway, I slapped myself on the ear with my palm, realizing I'd left behind Mr. Pigglesworth's important note. Standing in the middle of two pillars and trying to decide which way to disappear, my ears were alerted by a 6 foot, 8 inch, 250 pound telephone booth, right behind me, ringing as though demanding my attention. I frantically answered it, so as to not attract anyone else's attention.

ME: Hello!?

DR: Clyde.... how did we do this week?

ME: Doc? Is that you?

DR: You sound a bit stressed. Have you been taking your meds?

ME: Doc? How did you... Where are you? I gotta see you!

DR: I'm here in the Big Apple and Just thought I'd call. Do you want me to come there? Oh, I'll just give you my address, I'm at 1313 NW 13th, about 13 blocks away from you right now, next door to the Baker's Dozen movie theater... they're playing Friday The Thirteenth, by the way..... See you in, oh, about 13 minutes! Oh, that reminds me, is TODAY the 13th?

ME: Yes

DR: Why of course, I must have asked that at least 12 times this morning!
--------------------------


(Episode 14)
DR: Good thing I called when I did, Clyde!

ME: Why Doc? How did you find out?

DR: I bet you're not taking your meds.

ME: You're right Doc, I flushed em down the toilet.

DR: So tell me about your week.

ME: The world Doc, the whole world is being run by a figment of my imagination!!!

DR: Now Clyde, what have I told you?

ME: Doc, I can prove I'm not nuts... I know someone who can vouch that some clues exist concerning this whole episode... Just let me hook up this boom-box... Connect this to that, that to this...

DR: What are you doing, Clyde?

ME: You'll see! Now, where did I leave my Forked Gyrating Mixmaster Rectifying Slope Tuning Horizontal Inverter?

DR: Oh here, use mine!

ME: Thanks, now listen to this...

PETE: Yes, Hello, wha' you want me to sing?

ME: Pete, I'd like you to meet Doc. Doc, this is Pete, you know, the Bug drummer!

PETE: Is this that bloomin' Clyde bloke?

DR: Hey, Pete, good to meet you, you were always my favorite Bug!

PETE: Well golly gee bum...I guess that makes two of us.

ME: Ok Doc, Pete here will prove to you I'm not nuts! Tell him about the clue in the book, Pete!

DR: Oh knock this off, Clyde. You're really insulting my intelligence. Now, I came all this way to give you a gift I bought for you. Nice jacket huh? Here, try it on.

ME: Sure why not. It fits real nice.... nice and snug.... Hey what's with all the straps...Hey I can't move my arms!!!

DR: Everything's gonna be okay, Clyde! I'm just gonna give you a shot to relax.... just 350mgs of Prolixen, that's all.. Now, that should do it.... You'll soon be fast asleep.

ME: Doc! The country... It's Homer, he's got the whole w.... world by the ... the... thr..oat.........

Maggie: It's for your own good, Sir, you've slept nay an hour in 3 days!

ME: Z....Z....Z...Z...Z.......

DR: Ok, he's taking a siesta... Say, Pete...you think you could sing me a few bars of 'The Good Ship Lollypop?' It's one of my favorites on your album!

PETE: Yeah? Let me have a swig of lemon juice to loosen up me pipe organ first...
-------------------------------------


(Episode 15)
In what seemed like days, I awoke after having a horrible nightmare about being convicted in the Sams Deli Robbery. I had just been sentenced to one night at the Loraine Bobbit Correctional Center!!!!.

"Where am I!?" I sat up and yelled.

Adjusting to the light, in what was clearly a psychiatric hospital bedroom, my eyes became aware of a scrawny character bouncing a red rubber ball, and repeating the term, "can-opener," over and over again.

"What do they have you in here for?" I asked.

"Can-opener...can-opener...can-ope..," he irritatedly responded after a bellowing sigh, "...OCD...can-opener... can-opener...can."

"OC what?"

"Can-opener...can...Obsessive Compulsive Disorder!...Now, do you mind?! ....can-opener...can-opener... can-opener... can-opener... can-opener... can.."

I'd had enough can-openers for one month, so I lunged from my bed and snatched his rubber ball. "What the devil did you do that for? It took me more than 15 minutes to get to 180 can openers in less than 60 bounces... Do you realize what's going to happen now?!" he shreaked.

"Nothing's going to happen, let's try to start a conversation and forget this can-opener stuff," I suggested. "I see you have quite a 5 o'clock shadow left over from yesterday, did you forget to shave this morning?"

"I shaved yesterday morning. Do you shave?" he asked, trembling.

"Of course."

"What do you shave with?" he mumbled, while sweating profusely.

"I shave with a razor, what in the world do YOU shave with?!"

He wasted no more time. "I shave with a can-opener... can-opener... can-opener... can open."

Talk about hooked on phonics! I groaned in disgust, landed back on my bunk, and began bouncing the back of my head against the headboard, seduced by the hypnotic rhythm of his ridiculously over-exerting ball.

Over against the South wall of the room laid Artie, a paranoid schizophrenic. Artie didn't have any friends, and at 32, still lived with his mom and dad. One day they thought they'd buy him a computer to get him on the Internet, to make acquaintances and learn to trust people. All was great the first few hours, until his computer froze up with a message on the monitor: "You have performed an illegal operation!" His parents found him three weeks later, wandering in the Arizona desert, hiding from the law.

I was just getting snug in my hospital blanket, with the heating vent blowing on me and emitting a musty nostalgic odor I contrived to place, when just like an unpredictable dust-storm, a heavyset, hairy under the arms, sumo wrestler-looking, registered woolly mammoth heifer, flattened the door and belched, "Mr Hipwing, your doctor wants to see you now!"

"I was just getting cozy, tell him to wait till later, Ok?"

She moved toward me like an approaching Sherman tank in fierce battle, lifted me up by the foot of my bed, carried me past the (most feared of all possible trepidation) Foam-Rubbered-Wall Time Out Room, then slammed my bunk on top of Doc's psychiatric couch, violently scattering two by fours; and concluded by hurling back my pajama pants to me. They had gotten hung on the doorknob as the mattress and I approached in a hazardous emergency landing attempt, while Doc quietly cleared the runway.

DR: Ah Clyde, I'll bet we're feeling better today, aren't we?

ME: Oh yeah! What's she like when patients give her trouble?

DR: She's one of the best staff members we've got.

ME: Yeah, I'm sure that's well understood around here. Where's Maggie, my dog? Did she tell you what all was going on, concerning Homer? He escaped from the second story of this book, and I'm afraid of what he'll do next!

DR: Clyde, you're talking gibberish! It's all in your head. See, look out the window, tell me what state you're in?

ME: I'm sure you're going to try to convince me I'm back in Oklahoma..... but how? I drove up here, to New York City, to see Flush. If you don't believe me, try asking him!

DR: It's all a delusion, Clyde. The medicine I've got you on will soon stop your brain from wandering.

ME: Doc, I don't want to be on meds, Ok? Just listen to me...

DR: Say, have you thought about Electro Shock Therapy?

ME: What? Are you crazy? (wrong question). There would be nothing left of my brain... it would....

DR: Not true, Clyde. It would help put your past behind you.... Never again to haunt you. Your insurance will pay for it. And you wouldn't have to be on as much medication... You don't want to go through life battling an imaginary war, do you? Whatya say?

ME: I dunno, man......

DR: We can do it right now. All you have to do is sign here and from this day forward, you'll be free from your past, Clyde..... I'm your friend. I know what's best for you. I wouldn't let you down.

ME: Does it hurt?

DR: Nope; we'll put you under anesthesia, and you'll wake up a brand new person... Come on Clyde!.

ME: This is the best way... Huh?

DR: The best.... Clyde.... the best. Trust me.

ME: All right. I guess... Where do I sign?

No sooner than I had signed, they put me in a gown of some sort, and wheeled me into what appeared to be a miniature surgical room. They escorted me out of the wheelchair and onto the table, where I was straight-away strapped down, arms and legs. I was fearful, and wasn't totally convinced everything was in my head, but trusted the doctor's judgment. At that moment the anesthetist entered the room armed with the NEEDLE!

His bushy eyebrows were peeking above his glasses, as his face seemed to form a smile, though I couldn't see behind his surgical mask, of course. The hypodermic needle had no sooner pierced my skin, when he revealed his easily recognizable face and whispered eerily, "Dawn Comes With Rosy Fingers...."

I could barely respond, my mind heavy with the power of the drug. "Ho.... Ho... mer..... Wh..... W...h...y....?"
-----------------------------


(Episode 16)
"My fellow comrades, I the Honorable Homer, have now been generously given all power over the European peoples. So today I'm sending the man I think best suits the appointment of First Secretary of European Affairs, the only man to lead, beneath my supremacy, the now Unified People.."

Homer then, with a evil shift of his eyes, and a wave of his hand to my Fictional Likeness, added, "Mr. Hipwing, would you please say a few words on behalf of the newly liberated continent?"

"Thank you, Honorable Homer,... Friends, Press, and the like.... "

<*><*><*>

Maggie had wondered why she wasn't allowed to accompany me in the hospital, and became suspicious. She had caught a glimpse of Homer's press conference in front of the UN building, on a TV in a shop window, and unhesitatingly set out to search desperately for the International Command Center for World Peace, and alert My Fictional Likeness, Claude, of my dire straits.

She darted in between legs, cars, kids at play, and an occasional fire hydrant, but in her nobility, she wasn't the least bit tempted. She was unyieldingly duty-bound. Jollity would have to be put off till later!

She managed to jump through the window of a moving cab, fondly remembering one of Matilda's favorite tales. "To the U.N. building! Oh, please hurry, my good sir!"

Following a mad excursion through rush hour traffic, the taxi came to a startling standstill. Maggie, thrown out of the open window and landing in a soft flower bed, briskly entered into a welcoming revolving door. She looked behind, and became aware of the vice presidential limousine pulling up to the curb. "He can't be too far!" she reasoned.

She put forth the effort, once inside of the UN building, to emulate a simple commonplace dog, and pretended to analyze certain entertaining odors on the expected places of folks, as they passed by. She hoped her dumb pooch act would assist her in being less eye-catching. Soon afterward, she unmistakably caught a glimpse of Homer and swiftly backed into a deep-set area along the hallway.

His Honorableness was deep into a chewing-out session with several of his yes men, smoking a long foul-smelling panatela cigar while he passed, then progressed out-of-doors. Mag immediately spotted Claude, then lunged forward. She whined while nipping at his pants leg.

"Maggie!" he acknowledged, quickly swooping her up and easily concealing her, due to her mediocre size, inside his weather worn trench-coat while advancing toward his limousine.

"Okay Mag... how's Clyde?"

"They've got him locked up inside of 'The Crazy Nut's Gone Bananas In The Big Apple Mental Health Facility!'.... Tell your driver to go there, I beg you! They won't let me see him, something must be dreadfully wrong..."
-------------------------------


(Episode 17)
Claude and Maggie pulled up to the alley, right behind 'The Crazy Nut's Gone Bananas In The Big Apple Mental Health Facility,' and intensely observed the entire campus to make sure they would not be seen. Claude advised Mag to stay in the car to keep watch and put on her 'dog act' if she thought she noticed anything suspicious. He then snuck around to the front of the unlocked door of the public lobby.

"Mr Hipwing, how did you get out here?" a curious hospital tech wanted to know.

"Well... I dunno.... Maybe you should take me back to my room."

The intern escorted him down the hall, and then down some stairs leading to a locked door. Reaching into his pocket, he removed some keys, and unlocked all the locks as he expressed his puzzlement, "How did you get out of here?"

"It's simple. I just did this..." Claude returned, as he belted the tech under the jaw, with all the power he could find. The force of the blow knocked him into the laundry room. With a smile of pride, Claude rushed into my room, discovering me incapacitated, and hooked to all sorts of monitors. While removing them, he felt around my lower neck and crudely ripped the chip Homer had planted.

"Homer, why...." I mumbled, still quite a bit groggy

"Clyde, get up! It's me! I've come to get you outta here," he proclaimed, and without any hesitence began stripping the tech of his clothing; trading mine for his. He tried to prop me up on my feet; but they were jelly, so he carried me over his shoulder. There didn't seem to be anyone on the basement floor as he looked around, so he hurried me up the steps and we quietly snuck out the door. It seemed odd, he thought to himself, that nobody else was around while he shoved me inside of the limousine. But he thought too soon, as several hospital staff tried to jump on the car and stop us. We fled just in time!

I was beginning to feel my old self again, and sat up in the back seat after I noticed Maggie. Claude, my likeness, began to explain a plan to rid Homer just as the chauffeur turned around slowly and revealed himself.

"Mr Pigglesworth!" I exclaimed.

Elmo began scolding me for carelessly losing his note explaining what procedure to take in dealing with His Honorableness. "This whole thing could have been wrapped up already if you hadn't been so clumsy, Clyde. Listen carefully, here's what you need to do....."
------------------------------------------


(Episode 18)
I wasn't real confident about the whole contrived effort, but I dared to do it anyway. Armed with My Likeness' Identification tag, I slipped by the White House Security Officer, the following afternoon, without any resistance. "Good afternoon, Claude!" he bid.

I had almost forgotten that Claude was the nickname Homer gave him, so as to not get the two of us confused. "Beautiful day, isn't it Bill?" I acknowledged, reading his identification and name badge.

I prowled down the west-end corridor, past the Press Secretary's office, and over to Homer's Personal Secretary's desk. She was buried in mounds of dictation notes, but managed to glance up at me with a puzzled expression. "You need something, Mr. Hipwing?"

"What, Dorothy? I uh..."

"Are you all right, Claude?"

Whew! She didn't recognize me. I inquired as to whether His Honorableness was in and freely at my desposal. She scanned a poorly legible list of executive engagements, then nervously solicited him on the speakerphone. He growled and him-hawd awhile, but agreed to entertain me.

"Thanks, Dorothy." I smiled.

"Yes, what do you need, Claude? I'm afaid I'm very busy right now!" Homer scorned, though I caught the latest edition of 'The Weekly Oppressor,' laying open on his lap. "What is that?" he added, getting up to close the door behind me.

"Your Honorableness, this is my boom-box. You just gotta hear this... Hold on here, I've just got to make a few adjustments.... Oh darn, I can't believe this!... Where did I put it?"

"What's wrong, Claude?" Homer wondered aloud, "Did you forget your Forked Gyrating Mixmaster Rectifying Slope Tuning Horizontal Inverter?... Here, I've got one in my desk, you just never know when yer gonna need one of those cottonpickin' things, do ya?"

"Nope," I agreed, "you sure don't! Now, let's see if this contraption works..."

".....Hello, wha' ya want me to sing!?" Pete answered.

"Hello, Pete!"

"Ah blimey!" Pete swore, "Clyde!?"

I excitedly interrupted, "No Pete, for once I want you to sing, really!!!.. Do you know, 'Somewhere Over The Rainbow?!'"

"No kiddin'?! Sure, let me stop and think, I'm not too sure of the words.... Oh yeah, I think it goes like this; Some... where... Over-The-Rainbow..."

"What in the world is he doin?!" Homer complained, "Tell him to stop! That's horrifying!.....Tell Him To Stop!....CLAUDE! ....... WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO ME?!"

"A...Cow...Went...Mooo........." crooned Pete.

"You can't take it, can you? You were once a nice man, you were once my friend. But you turned on me, so now I'm turning on you. You've overstayed your welcome, Homer! It's time for you to go, or I'll make him sing louder and longer!!!" I threatened.

Pete continued "....Can't....Say.....How-She-Got-Up-There...."

Homer's eyes raged with fear, agony, and betrayal, "YOU'RE NOT CLAUDE, YOU'RE CLYDE!!! TELL HIM TO STOP, PLEASE!!!! AND I'LL LEAVE YOU ALONE!!!! I'M MELTING...I'M MELTING............. MELTING...MELT..I..N..G..., .M..E..L..T..I..N..G..G..G..G..G..G..G..G..........."

As melodious as a dentist drill, Pete added vibrato. "I-Guess....She.....Flew....."

"Ok, Pete, enough already. My, you sure stretched out those, otherwise short, eight bars!"

"Yep, so you'll be orderin' a copy of me album, 'Once Upon A Drum?'"

"I think I'll pass on that, Pete." I politely declined.

"Miserable lousy sod!" (Click!)

Just as Homer's liquefied flesh oozed down into the carpeted floor of the Oval Office, his secretary, Dorothy, who had just entered the room with a arm full of papers, and a sweaty brow, nonchalantly tossed them on the presidentual desk, clicked her ruby-red penny loafers together, then yawned, "There's no place like home!" And proceeded down the hall to clock out for the weekend.
---------------------------------


(Episode 19)
Since Claude, the Vice President, was identical to me, and no one new the difference; I was to inherit the powers that be, as the 43rd President of the United States of America. I had no experience in economics or foreign affairs. I couldn't have told you the procedures involved in trying to get a bill ratified. And I used to think that an Executive Order was the final command given right before you were shot in front of a firing squad.... but I did read a couple of issues worth of 'George' magazine that week!

Claude agreed to stay on as my double for when I couldn't be two places at once.... This worked well with the lobbyists, special interest groups, kiddy Easter egg hunts on the South lawn of the White House, and the most grim of all contingencies, having to be interviewed by Barbara Walters!

After the country had experienced tyranny at its worst, I reinstated the liberties the nation had once enjoyed. So fervent in my new convictions, I declared on a televised speech that I was no longer a Republican, nor was I a Democrat... I was quickly sworn in as the country's first fully Libertarian leader, with the goal of expanding freedom worldwide.

I reflected on my friend Ralph, of his liberal leanings and how he'd disagree with my conservative views. I expounded on the fact that in this country there was room for both, because, "WE are America! As diverse as we are, we are not a divided people, but stand conjointly in our strong belief concerning freedom and the pursuit of happiness for all."

The European community had been liberated as well. In gratitude for Maggie's bravery and nobility, England's Queen Elizabeth knighted her as: The Royal Bitch!

In Washington, a 40-story scratch-post was erected on Pennsylvania Avenue, in loving memory of Miss Matilda Waudlebaum; whose legends would surely be written in all the history books, along with George Birthington and his illustrious Washday.

Once in the White House, after cleaning out all traces of the Honorable Homer, I launched into working on my sequel. Later that afternoon, I put on my Sunday's best... as I was to attend to my very first function as President.... A book signing Party, paid for by my literary agent, Harold Hyde, at Hickle Hopper Hooper Harper Hinkley Harmon & Slovinski Publishing Company, to promote this very book, 'Aboard My Train Of Thought.'

And where should such a celebration take place? Why the newly expanded, Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro Breakfast Bagel Bar and Bookstore, naturally!


The End of Part One.
"Please pass the snot-rag."
---------------------------------------

Part 2

Second Trilogy: The Lackluster Chronicles Of Apathonia

(1)Professor Endicotsley's Distant Cousin/ (2)Ringing The Celestial Doorbell/ (3)The Mark Of The Anti-Beast


(Introduction) It's a balmy late July afternoon at the presidential getaway, Camp David, as I am enjoying a frosty cold beer while aboard my mini yacht, The Wop- Bop- A- Loo- Bop -A- Bam- Bam- Boom (that's the way she sounds when you turn the engine and start the propeller).
After the first 2 months of my shaky presidency, I was beginning to realize I bit off a bit more than I could chew. I had not yet chosen a Vice President, even though I had received several notions of interest.

With the recent success of my previous book, Aboard My Train Of Thought, and my quick rise to the most significant public office in the world, my name became synonymous with conquering the improbability of chance; but no one knew of the lack of confidence that caged my boldness while trying to be an effective leader.

To add even more exacerbation to my woes concerning the loss of one of my best friends, my cat (Miss Matilda Waudlebaum), my only other companion, Maggie McMutt, my beloved canine, had just been offered an extravagant movie career and left for Hollywood.

A good year since my rise to world fame, I had become totally overwhelmed with the burden the requirements of my destiny into the White House had handed me; so I took a little time off to work on the manuscript of this second trilogy. And as surely as it's poor grammar to begin a sentence with and, this second one will most likely confound your already jelling gray matter as effectively as the previous collection of stories presumably already accomplished.

These next stories are the annals of my short-lived eminence and its outcome and are perfect for reading to your Aunt Minerva, as she lunches on tuna and watercress, while sitting in her beautiful rock garden beneath her darling chirping feathered friends hovering in the towering birch overhead...

Splat!!!!!!


PROFESSOR ENDICOTSLEY'S DISTANT COUSIN

(Episode 1)
"Bah!...Rubbish!" The old man growled, tossing the recently purchased book aside. "Train Of Thought, indeed! Why, what ever happened to the classics?..... Whatever happened to say..... The Grapes Of Wrath?"

"Pardon me, Professor Endicotsley, but you partook of the grapes last night; and the wrath got us both up quite early this morning," Edith, his live-in nurse quipped.
Giles Endicotsley, a wealthy widower just a shade past 82 years of age, was quite a bright sort. Though retired from teaching literature and history at several universities around the country, he still kept abreast of the new schools of writing. "Edith, what's the literary world coming to with trash like this?"

"What on earth did you buy it for, Giles?" Edith asked.
"Well, aside from the fact he's the so-called leader of this nation, I had to see what a Hipwing had to say. See, me mother's maiden name was Hipwing, her Grandparents immigrated from Ireland into Scotland in the middle of the 19th century, although in our ancestral lineage we kept the Catholic faith... despite the dominance of the Presbyterian church in that country and space of time. Being Mr Hipwing has the same surname as she, I gathered the scoundrel is a distant relative," he huffed, puffing on his imported $200 genuine meerschaum pipe.

"Very fascinating, Professor Endicotsley, but it's time for your morning bath...Outta your jammies!"

It was a typical southern California mid-morning. The heaven-like, mythical looking fog rolled out of the sea, as the breeze played with the peach colored curtain lace next to the the professor's bathtub. "Ah," Giles sighed, "honeysuckle... I love the scent of honeysuckle."
"Professor Endicotsley!! Get your nose out of the john!!" Edith shouted, "or I won't buy anymore toilet bowl freshener!"

Edith was a young 35 years of age, never been married, and never wanted to be. She took up nursing after failing at everything else, in hopes of finally doing some good in the world. She grew quite fond of the old professor while attending several of his courses at UCSB in Santa Barbara, where he was teaching. The two became very close over their few semesters together, and when he retired, Giles asked her to become his part time secretary...to manage his finances. Over time he became sick with age, so for a small wage, Edith volunteered to take care of him in his latter years.

"Oh Edie, I've been cursed with another day of life," he groaned.
Edith, knowing how to get him going in the mornings, prodded, "So, Giles, tell me about your childhood, you never make much mention of it...."

"Well Edith, I was born a poor Scotch-Irish lad in the North of the Highlands. Me mother, rest her soul, worked hard to keep the family fed--- Mum Hipwing would travel for miles in the mornin' come wind, rain, snow, or heat, over the mountains, braving every sort of wild beast just to go to the nearest village and buy groceries for the family." He puffed again on his large bowl.

"And your father?......" She asked while tying the laces of his shoes.
"Well, me father was a no-good. While me mum would be doing that, he would be loafing around reading... usually books on, say... brawny women who would brave every sort of wild animal in search of groceries for her family......You know, the stuff that made great books."
Edith stood to her feet. "Very fascinating, Professor Endicotsley, but it's time for your medicine. Which is it this morning......the red ones, or the blue ones?"
"Drab!!!!! For Heaven's sake, not the those blue ones again!!!!........ JOKERS!... FETCH MY CONCUBINES!!!!!.......TELL THEM TO BRING THE GRAPES!!!!!!.. I'M GONNA BE BLOODY CONSTIPATED AGAIN!!!!!" He yelled.

Edith, humoring him, laughed and handed him his meds and a large glass of orange juice, then wheeled him up to the morning paper as he began browsing for fair game, armed with his cunning commentary tongue.

"Well, let's see what that blasted cousin President of mine is doing to this poor ol' country today... Drab, I can't see for beans anymore! I used to be quite a bookworm; before long I'm going to have to resort to books-on-tape..."

"I always knew you were an old tapeworm, Professor," Edith cleverly retorted.

Giles came back with, "It's a bleedin' shame when you get old how everything falls apart. Just last Friday when you took me to get that colonoscopy done, when I had that little bout with colitis, I warned the doctor that he make sure he knew which canal to shove that 'colitis-scope' in, cause when I don't have me dentures on, I look the same on both ends!" he chortled. "Now, what is my wonderful president up to?... Wanting to put us back on the gold standard heh? Says it'll put trillions back into the national debt. Hmm...Well, in my day people knew not to borrow what they couldn't pay back! It's a bloody shame it is!!!!!" Giles complained as he pounded on the table.

"Your blood pressure, Giles!" Edith warned. "Have you taken your pills yet?"

"Oh, ah.....yes yes!" He answered while slipping them in his pocket. "When is that son of mine gonna bring that car home?!!"

"What?!!!" Edith gasped, puzzled.

"Let me see this phone, I've had enough of this. I'm gonna call the police.... Well blast, the damn thing won't dial!....Well... Yes Operator, this bloody telephone system of yours is giving me all sorts of hell!!!"

"What, you didn't get any ring?" The operator yawned.

"...Well, we did get a couple of inches yesterday..." Giles informed her while holding a finger in his other ear.

"What on Earth are you doing, Giles?" Edith interrupted.

"Shhhh!!!!!Yes Operator, get me the police! Yes, I'm in Santa Barbara....... Hello, Police!? I want to report my son. He stole my car again!!"

"Ok, Ok... Did he have a weapon?" The officer quizzed.

Professor Endicotsley squinted his aged eyes as if it was going to help him listen better. "Did he have a whippin'? Well no, but he's gonna get one hell of a big one when he gets home!"

Edith snatched the phone from his grip and quickly hung it up. "Giles, your son is grown up, married, and has children now. He lives in L.A., remember?"

The Professor was swiftly taken aback and went back to the paper, "Well, ..yes ..uh, what's this? President Hipwing's going to be on Barry King Live, tonight?.....I've got to see this! Edie, don't let me forget! Eight o'clock tonight, channel 3!"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Episode 2)
With only a fraction of a minute to go until air time, I, the newly crowned president, was seated in the television studio after a lengthy security check. Barry King had just come out of the men's room, next to the studio entrance, and was immediately sprawled out against the wall, and frisked.

"What the...what's going on here!?"

"Sorry, Mr. King, just a routine security check. You can go ahead and have a seat now, sir," the secret service agent matter-of-factly gestured.

"15 seconds 'til showtime, Barry!" the producer shouted.

"Yeah, yeah, okay... So, how does it feel to be president? I suppose you really enjoy all this special treatment, huh?" Mr. King smirked at me.

"Well, I, uh..."

"10 seconds, Barry!"

"What the...?!" Barry snapped. "Miss Fillmore, you forgot to powder my nose! You know I don't like the spot reflecting off my nose!"

"Too late, Barry, " the producer announced as the music began."

"Okay," Barry whispered to me in his lethal garlic breath, "When all the pretty happy music stuff is over, look real excited about bein' here, and I'll do the same.......Okay, here we go!... Good evening, everyone! It's been said he may be the most significant president since Abraham Lincoln, after liberating this country from the clutches of tyranny and back into the arms of liberty, and he's here with us tonight in his first televised interview since taking office! Mr. President, it's a VERY big pleasure and privilege having you here tonight."

"Thank you, Barry, it's a pleas..."

"So, you got a book out," Barry interrupted.

"Yeah, well, I..."

"Let's talk about it... Aboard My Plane of Thought... any reason why it's YOUR thought?... I mean, why not somebody else's?" Barry asked.

"Well, Barry, I really didn't want to focus on the book tonight. You see..."

"Why not, it's a great book?.... Don't be so modest, boy...Yuck Yuck," he snickered.

"Well, uh..."

"The book is called, Aboard My Plane of Thought and will be...."

"Train, Barry."I corrected.

"Oh, and I almost missed it. Yuck! Yuck!.. Little joke there...We'll be back with the interview and your calls and questions after these messages. Don't go away...."

"Mr. King, uh," I whispered.

"Shhh, smile, the music's still playing.....Oh, we're off?" Barry asked. "All right Miss Fillmore, what's your excuse for not powdering my nose!?"

"Mr. King, I can explain! You see...."

"Young lady, you're fired! And I'll see to it that you'll never get another nose job in this city again! And if you want your severance pay, you better do your job properly before you leave!"

"Yes sir, yes sir...right away, sir."

Little did Barry know, that when she was supposed to be administering makeup to his nose, she applied grease paint instead, in revenge. Nobody said a word.

"Mr King, I..."

"Shhhh... don't bother me son, I'm reading the funnies..." Mr. King scolded me while flipping through The New York Times as he finished guzzling something down out of a tall frosty beer mug, then gleamed, "more Ovaltine please!!!"

"Sorry Barry, 4 seconds!"

Growling a bit, he tossed the mug behind himself out of sight, and regained his constraint as the stupid happy-crappy music once again began. "He's got a best seller out there, Ladies and Gentlemen. I'm speaking, of course, of the President, Clyde P. Hipwing, himself. and the book is called Aboard the Train I Bought. ... Ah, the hell with the interview, lets take a phone call... Hello, Stockholm, Sweden, you're on the air."

"Yah... Hallo... I'd like der ask der president about der....."

"WHAT'S THE QUESTION!!!??" Barry hollered.

"Hallo... yah, der question..." (BAM!!!) Before he could finish, King un-hesitantly slammed his finger on the disconnect so as to deface the touch pad then inquired, "So, Mr. President, you think you'll do a follow-up?!"

"Follow-up?" I asked, puzzled.

"Your book!"

"Oh, the book....Well, I wish...."

"Did you really meet Lorraine Bobbit?"

"Huh?"

"Well, in your book, you said you spent the night with her at the Lorraine Bobbit Correctional Center!" Barry nudged.

"No, Barry! That was just a dream I mentioned in the last..."

"And a very interesting dream at that...." Barry added with the emphasis in his eyebrows. "So, I hope you're taking your meds these days, like a good boy. We wouldn't want our president flipping out on us...yuck, yuck!"

"Barry, I've been patient all evening here, and I'd like to ask YOU just one question," I smiled.

"Shoot....I'm game," he shrugged.

"Why do you wear those suspenders?"

"Well, I don't know," Barry blushed... "guess to hold my trousers up. Why?"

"Well, Barry....Why don't you, from now on, wear a pair around your head, fixed to your jaws, to hold your mouth shut long enough to let someone else speak?"

My sarcastic curve ball failed in its attempt to toss him out of his likable yet asinine television host facade. "What a wit!... Our guest tonight has been the one and only Clyde P. Hipwing, and his best selling book...."

"Oh, please...."

"Of course Insane I'm Not... little joke there... Mr. President, good luck and thanks for being on the show!..." Barry grinned, shaking my arm from its socket and spraining my shoulder while he was at it. "It's our Author's Night, Ladies and Gentlemen, stay tuned as our next guest, Dr. Rudolf Bogler tells us about his self-help best selling paperback, 'Don't Bother Buying This Book You Big Stupid Baby, Just Grow up And Get Over It!!!' Don't go away!"
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Episode 3)
Once aboard Air Force 1 on the way back to Washington, I fell into a deep dismal depression. Since taking office, and lifting the country out of the horrors of totalitarianism, there emerged an even wider division in the House and Senate. The Republicans were moving farther to the right and the Democrats (what were left of them), to the extreme left.

I couldn't seem to get anything passed legislatively, as no one seemed to have confidence in my policies; much less my administration. Even conservative radio talk show host Flush Limbo was having a heyday. There was a growing discontent among the nation's vast population, as anarchy was beginning to brew in some states. Doing exactly opposite of what I set out to do in the beginning, I found himself expanding an already big government just to keep the country together.

After some tossing and turning later that night, I finally fell into the sea of forgetfulness, drowning in a sleep I had rarely enjoyed since taking office, though I had a rather bizarre dream:

I found myself embodied as the son of Ivan The Terrible, in ancient Russia. My father Ivan and I got into an enormous argument. Suddenly he pulled out of the floor a huge two-by-four, and with full force threw it in my direction, piercing my stomach and out of my back. He was so enraged that he stormed out and went into town to shoot some pool, not knowing what he had done.

As I lay there dying, everyone in the castle tried everything to humor me till my father came home. They brought in folk dancers, singing quartets and jesters, but nothing distracted me from the monstrous board sticking through me.

Finally, Father Ivan returned home and saw what he had done, felt remorse, and immediately loaded me aboard the Royal Ambulance. During the mad excursion through the streets of Moscow, the back door flew open and the stretcher I was laying on slipped out, though it had a rope attached to the back of the ambulance. Dreaming I was being flipped and dragged in agony, I woke up in dire pain. "What is it?!?!"

"Mr. President.... it's 8:05 AM, Sir...... You have an official visitor..... Time to get up, Sir."

"But, it's Saturday..... I don't have any meetings on Saturdays.... It's my writing day!" I whined like a child looking forward to not going to school.

I got out of my favorite Tweety-Bird pajamas and dressed hurriedly in anticipation of who it was I was to meet. I crept down the hall and waved at the saluting guard standing in front of the oval office door, then entered. At first glance I didn't recognize the individual sitting in my oval office chair until I was quickly reminded by his cool countenance.

"Say man, what's up?" Ralph smiled.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
(Episode 4)
Later that same morning in Santa Barbara, "Edie, have I ever told you that I love you?" Professor Endicotsley winked at the lady who without knowing earned his infatuation.
"Why no, dear Giles.....Why?" She blushed and leaned closer.

"Just wanted to make sure, that's all. Hee Hee," he teased. Edith presented him with a foul expression, as she pretended to swat a fly with the morning paper over his head.

"Well, well, well. Let's see what's happening in the worldly realm of politics on this very day," the Professor smirked, thumbing through the pages of the Saturday Morning addition of the Santa Barbara Bugle.

"I'm ready to take notes, Professor. Will there be any visual aides this morning?" Edith winked at the old buzzard.

"Yes, as a matter of fact it just so happens I have my spectacles, my dear lady," he answered, glancing over his bifocals at her and then back down. "Oh! I'll say!..... The president's approval rating went up 5 percentage points overnight since his appearance last night on Barry King Live. Now, how do you suppose they know that? I mean, did they actually call everyone up in the middle of the night and ask what they think about our bloody president?! They seem to never get around to asking ME!... Oh No!" Giles gasped and rolled his eyes.

"What, Giles?....Tell me!"

"His blasted book has now sold three million copies," he sighed.

"Well, it's your fault, Mr. Endicotsley!" Edie smirked.

"And how do you come to that ridiculous conclusion, I ask you?" He lashed out at her unmercifully.

"Well, had it not been for you buying one, he would have only sold two million, nine hundred and ninety-nine thousand and...."

"Bah!!!!" Giles interrupted, "Wheel me to my radio room!!!!"

Professor Endicotsley was a man of many hobbies and interests. One of them was his love for amateur radio. Since he had been licensed as a ham operator in 1937, he had acquired many friendships over the airwaves. Saturday morning was his usual day for schedules with a certain lifelong friend he'd met with in his native Scotland.

He tuned up his transceiver on the usual frequency, 14.185 Mhz, then rotated his huge six-element quad antenna on a 80 foot tower, to the northeast and called his good friend Dave:
"GX9OTT....GX9OTT.....This is KE5SM, Kilo Echo 5 Sugar Mexico, calling on schedule......Are you there, Dave? Over..."

"Aye, Giles! You old bloody goat. What be up with ya this morning? George Xray 9 Oscar Tango Tango, back to you ol' boy," Dave acknowledged.

"Ah me friend from afar, just been burdened with more years than I've ever asked for, that's all. Edie sends her love. The WX here in Santa Barbara this morning is a bit breezy and cold, had some rain the day before yesterday, but I think we've seen the last of it for awhile....What's it like in Edinburgh this afternoon?"

"Yeah, ok.... KE5SM, this is GM9OTT..... Ok Giles, well, nice and sunny here. Nelda says hello, got Edie's letter yesterday and loved the recipe... Oh, I've gotta big surprize for ya old goat! It's coming up to the top of the hour and you'll never guess who I bumped into last week and have a schedule with this morning .... the President of your country, Mr. Hipwing himself!..... You knew he's a ham operator, didn't you? Over..."

Giles hesitated and growled a bit, "GX9OTT, this is KE5SM. Yeah, ok Dave....Well, I guess I'll, uh......stand by while you two carry on...uh...over..."

"Ok Giles, don't go away. It's a bit early, but he might be there anyway..... KA5HVO.... KA5HVO, King Alpha 5 Hotel Victor Ocean... Clyde, old boy, are you there? Over."

"Yes, good afternoon Dave, and good morning to you, Giles....Been listening to you two for awhile. Is my signal ok in Edinburgh this afternoon, Dave? This is KA5HVO" I answered in return.

"Ok Clyde. A good strong 5 and 8 here this afternoon! Say, you really told old Barry King off early this morning on his show... Did you watch that last night, Giles? KE5SM and the group, this is GX9OTT."

Giles nearly knocked over his microphone just to get to it. "Er Um...Yes, um....ok gentlemen, yes, I saw the... uh... interview. Hello, Mr. President....Yeah, you really socked it to him.... Sir.... You and myself have something in common, Sir.... See, my mum's last name was Hipwing, and well.... You being a Hipwing, well... um... I thought maybe I might be related to you and all, Sir... uh... over," Giles stuttered as red as a beet, and acted as if he had swallowed the biggest pill ever prescribed.

"Why, that's great, Giles!" I replied. "Hope we can become great friends over the years... Say, I've got a buddy of mine here in the radio shack, Ralph, you know, the guy in my first book... he's been listening to us for awhile, patiently, I might add. I believe I'm gonna bow out of here for now, but, Giles, hope to hear from you next weekend. so with that, I'll turn it back over to you.... KE5SM, this is KA5HVO going QRT after your final transmission."

Giles was overwhelmed. He'd actually been befriended by The President of The United States! Edie was going to flip!!! "Yes, all right, Mr. President, Sir, good talking to you and I'll definitely be here next weekend!....Oh! By the way, Sir, really thought the book was smashing, er um, great, Sir!!! Until next week my very good friend...OH, and, see YOU next weekend too Dave. I believe I'm going to back out of here too, so Dave, you rap it up, old man. Give my love to Nelda, bye for now! KA5HVO signed, this is KE5SM, over to GX9OTT for your final. Good day, gentlemen!"

Giles didn't even wait to hear Dave's final transmission. He turned off his radio, and because of his excitement, had no trouble wheeling himself to the kitchen, where Edith was preparing lunch.

"Did you have a nice chat with Dave?....Did Nelda get my letter?" She smiled while preparing the King's feast.

"Edie! You're not going to believe this, but I actually talked with The President of the United States!"

"That's nice," she sighed in disbelief, "and what did he have to say?"

"No, no, no, Edie, on the radio! He's a ham! Er ah ooh... he knows Dave," Giles stuttered.
"Are you sure, Giles?"

"I'm telling the bloody truth, Edie, and NO, I'm not having a senility attack!!! If you don't believe me, I have a schedule with the ol' boy next weekend!" Giles sat up in his wheelchair.

"Ok, I believe you, but.... I thought you didn't much care for him."

"Well, I was a bit cautious at first. You can't be too gullible about your leaders, ya know, you've got to be objectionable about these things, but after a query into the man's character, I see no reason as to why I shouldn't accept him into the fold of my many friends...... Oh," Giles inquisitively salivated, "by the way, what's for lunch?"

"Crow! My dear Giles, Crow!!!"
-----------------------------------------------------------------

(Episode 5)
Back at the White House as Ralph sipped his lemonade while laxly purched on top of the presidential desk, I was nervously pacing back and forth, spilling my woes like a busted water pipe. "I just don't know, Ralph. It's more than I ever bargained for. People fighting and killing each other over petty politics..."

"Yeah, it's bad, man. seems like it wasn't so bad before you took up writing," Ralph nodded.

"I just wish I could bring this country together, Ralph," I sighed. 'If only I could bring the Right and the Left to the center.... Good Godfrey! I never believed I'd see the day when I'd become a centrist!"

Ralph took a big gulp and then studied the design of the glass up to the light. "Yeah man, you blew your chances of getting everyone's support last night on TV. If it had been me, man, I'd a told it like it is, see.....wouldn't have been no compromise. See what I'm sayin?"

"No, Ralph, maybe that's just what we need ---a little compromise. Maybe I need to choose a Vice President with liberal views... that would show the people I'm inclusive and not partisan. I need to display the spirit of togetherness to the American people!!!" I hinted, landing my hand on Ralph's shoulder.

"Hey, wait a minute, man!!!"

"No Ralph, listen!" I pushed him back down to where he was sitting. "A white conservative and a black liberal bringing the country back together again!!"

"Yeah, now wouldn't that just be purdy?" Ralph rolled his eyes, "I ain't gonna be your token gesture of good will, you right wing pompous tightwad opportunist!"

"Oh yeah?! Well, yer, yer, yer just a no good pinko bleeding heart compassion fashion fascist, that's what YOU are!"

With that, Ralph didn't say anything else, but pried lose President Nixon's one time pet (now stuffed) dog Checkers, previously bolted to the floor, and hurled him violently over my head. I retaliated swiftly by grabbing a bottle of Planter's Peanuts, left over from the Carter administration, and returned fire, putting a hole in the wall. Thereupon Ralph went to the coat closet and picked up a thirty pound box of Depends, left over from the Reagan Revolution, and held it over my head with a gloating smile of triumph. "Hey Ralph, stop a minute!" I demanded. "Where did you get that Reagan/Bush campaign button you're wearing on your lapel?"

".................................?!?!?!" Ralph alarmingly asked with his eyes.

"Made You Look!!!!" I rejoiced, and with that I pulled out from behind my back the famous coconut John F. Kennedy had used to carve an S.O.S message on, when he and his mates were shipwrecked in World War Two, and busted it over Ralph's fat belligerent head. (BONK!!!)

"Oh Shhhhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!" Ralph, reeking of fermented coconut milk, cursed and moaned while getting up real slow... Then glanced over in my direction in delight as I was moaning in frustration and he gloated, "teach you to mess with me, man!"

"Don't you see how we're acting, Ralph? We're no different than anyone else!! If you don't wanna help, then I don't want your help!"

"Say, man," Ralph hesitantly began to apologize, "I.... now don't get all worked outta shape, brotha'...I.."

"Don't brotha' me, man!!!" I snapped back, slapping his hand off of my shoulder.

"I didn't know I meant that much to ya, Clyde. I thought you's just want'n to use me cause I'm black.... I don't have no experience runnin' a country!" Ralph offered as an apology.

"And you think I do?.... I just wrote a book... That's SOME credentials! And frankly, I wouldn't care if you were polk-a-dotted, bucktoothed, and had a begonia plant growing outta your ears..." I muttered, after blowing my nose on a rough draft of my upcoming State Of The Union Address.

"...Well heck, why not? If Ronald Reagan could make all those cheesy movies to later become President..."

"So, you'll do it?!?!"

"Yeah, I guess so. What the hell!" Ralph shrugged.

"You don't have any illegal immigrants working for you, do you?" I asked, as there came an urgent knock at the door. "What are you laughing at, Ralph? I'm serious!.....Yes, come in!"

"Mr. President, sorry to disturb you, sir, but the ambassador from Russia is here with an important communique!" the White House staffer alerted.

"Ok, thanks, send him in... Stick around, Ralph, this could be very important, and could require a second opinion....... Ah yes, Mr. Tizyakov, what brings you here today, sir?"

"Yes, Mr. President, I bring greetings from the President of the Commonwealth Of Independent States Of Russia. He wishes for me to read the following communique to you personally, sir," he nervously announced with urgency

"Yes, yes, go ahead, please," I nervously anticipated.
"Mr. President:

For many weeks now, I have been troubled. I have lost many precious hours of rest, lamenting over the circumstances regarding this communique. First let me say, Mr. President, our two countries have enjoyed several years of good relations with one another since the expulsion of the cold war and the mistrust it bred, and failure on my part in not bringing this matter to you sooner is inexcusable. Therefore, please accept my apologies for the incompetence on my part of being so tardy in sending you my condolences concerning the passing of your precious little kitty, Miss Matilda Waudlebaum.
Serge Nicholavich Andropov
-------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Episode 6)
Monday, 12:04 PM
Conservative radio talk show host Flush Limbo had been engrossed early one particular morning reading his dozen or so newspapers, and flipping through several publications in preparation for his daily nationwide syndicated program. He no longer downed coffee and donuts. Instead, due to the insistence of his wife, Flush was munching on a granola bar and gulping orange juice.

"One minute, Flush!" His studio engineer gave him a thumbs up through the window.

Flush took a big swig and slipped the headphones on. "Hello, test.....Turn it up a hair."
Following an audio check that only a perfectionist could appreciate, his ever familiar theme song began. Limbo, nodding his head to the beat, entered in to his introductory exhortation with, "Hello Fiends, Consternationalists, and Homophobes all across the fruity plain, I, the Doctor of Demagoguery, Flush Limbo, with half my rear tied around my brain, am here with you on the second month of this cataclysmic ride aboard his presidential train of fraud! Ah, but there's hope, ladies and gentlemen, because you have me. And once the truth about this administration is revealed, once I uncover his dastardliness, we can stop his train right here. Thus, freeing its passengers, that being the American people, and America as a whole.
"Well, well, well, our President, Conductor Hipwing, is going to hold a press conference this evening, and he's going to tell us that we need a more centrist morale among our people--- to bring cohesion to this nation in dire need of his succor.

"You see, we need to know all over again how to think, ladies and gentlemen. You're not mature citizens, and Conductor Hipwing is all too happy to change your unworthy diaper for you......you see, you probably deserve a good spanking while he's at it, because you've misbehaved, America!..... When he liberated us from the (so called) Honorable Homer, he said he would lessen the clutches of government off our backs by ushering in a Libertarian agenda. One that would be in accord with some of the greatest Jeffersonian thinkers of our time. We believed him. He then asked us to board his train of thought, and we bought our tickets with our trust in him. But, just like in his Big Doggie-Doo-Kitty-Krap book, he's driving us over the edge!!!! Can't he now realize, once again, he's on the wrong track?!!! GOOD GODFREY!!!! STOP THIS TRAIN!!!..... We'll be right back after this:"

(Blip)

Where are you taking your kids out for dinner tonight?

Well, I don't know...

Hey, how about Big Buford's Buffulo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro Bagel Breakfast Bar And Bookstore?!

Yeah!!!!!!!!!!

You think our name is a tongue-twister, just wait'll you try our food! You can order from 21 items off our Big Buford's Bargain Bowel Blaster menu. This week's special is President Hipwing's favorite, Libertarian Liver And Onions!!!

Hi, this is President Hipwing. When things aren't moving as smooth as they normally do, I slip on over to Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro Bagel Breakfast Bar And Bookstore, and choose one of the many selections from Big Buford's Bargain Bowel Blasters. They have, Hard Luck Ham & Cheese, Trust Me Tuna, and of course my favorite, Libertarian Liver And Onions!!!... When things don't come out the way you hoped they would-- just remember-- This too shall pass. Hey, they don't just call it fast food out of mere coincidence!!! ...They also have a nice selection of cold drinks, such as, Centrist Citrus, and for those orders you forgot to pick up the day before, remember: Yesterday's Milk Is Tomorrow's Curds!

Big Buford's Buffalo Barf Bucket Burger Bistro Bagel Breakfast Bar And Bookstore--- Just follow your nose until you see the Buffalo!!!

(Blip)

"Yes well, how did you like that one? Yes, that's new, ladies and gentlemen, fresh from our production staff......Well, it's time for our 'Aboard His Train of Fraud' update." Flush announced.

Music: ("Locomotion" by Grand Funk Railroad)

"This just in from Moscow: Russian President, Serge Andropov, has declared Wednesday a day of mourning in Russia, in memory of Miss Matilda Waudlebaum. Radio Moscow will begin playing requiem selections at 12 midnight GMT on that date. Now, this... hee, hee!... is absurd.... Ah, but what can you expect from a bunch of retired bolsheviks?...

"But, let's look at Miss Waudlebaum's life. What did she contribute to world peace? She played Ping Pong. Perhaps she would have been instrumental in ushering in the growth of Capitalism in Communist China. Maybe, maybe not..... Ok, she spoke good English.... Ah, maybe we could have used her interpreter skills on behalf of the millions of Cats impoverished in third world countries... Maybe she and Simba could have traveled aboard her Train of Thought and prevented the slave trade in Africa from finding its way to America!

"Matilda, our thoughts and prayers are with those you've left behind.... And in memory of a beloved feline the world will surely miss, we dedicate this to you, Miss Waudlebaum."

Music: ("Waltzing Matilda" by The Down-Under All Boys Choir)

"Ok, lets take our first call of the day... Tim, in Virginia Beach. Hi, you're on the Flush Limbo Show."

"Diddly from the left, believe it or not, Flush!" Tim answered.

"Oh Ho! Well, we don't always disagree, do we?.... Go ahead, what do you agree with me about?" Flush delighted with his usual inquisitive but confident demeanor.

"Well, Flush, I'm one of those Yellow Dog Democrats that YOU'D just as soon put to sleep. But, I agree with you! We're really in trouble. Why in the world does Mr Hipwing want to go back on the Gold standard? The Gross National Product has kept things stable for years. Reviving the Gold Standard will only hurt the economy, Flush!"

"No, no," Limbo disagreed, "No, I think he wants to...Well, I don't have the figgers, but presumably, it will put money back into the national debt, but I...."

"Yeah, but Flush, it looks good on paper now, but what if it doesn't work in the real process of executing it? I'm surprised by you, Flush. For years you put down the Plimpton administration because they had all their theories, but...."

"No," Flush interrupted, "If you had remembered correctly, my problem with Plimpton is the same one with this President: No real convictions on anything! Take the abortion issue... and I'm sure you and I are on opposite sides of that fence. Our Conductor President has said from the beginning that he's overtly Pro-Life....Wemsley Higglethorp, his Supreme Court nominee, could care less about the issue!....Where are our President's convictions on this issue, HMMMMM? .....He's simply Pseudo Conservative!!" Flush reiterated his point.

"Flush, the abortion thing is one issue that's tearing this country apart! If people like yourself are so Pro-Life, why don't you start adopting babies?!!!"

"Some do, Tim! But let's change the subject. Let's say, hypothetically, in twenty years the government decides for us that after a certain age, say 65 (that's a good number), that we would no longer be useful, in fact we'd be a burden to society as a whole, and for the common good, euthanasia becomes the order of the day. Ask yourself, Tim, wouldn't you be incensed? Wouldn't you do everything in your power to stop it?"

"Well, if it were mandatory, of course... But, what's that got to do with abortion?"

"Well, Tim," Flush interjected, "how many grandmas are you going to take in and hide in your basement. If you're so against it, why don't YOU adopt a grandma or two?.....You see, it's a matter of conviction.... Legalized abortion was unthinkable only 50 years ago. The numorous atrocities in the name of convenience committed on the unborn in this country pale the Aushwitz's. Not that they weren't just as evil... But, Hitler would have loved the subtlety of
Pro-Choice!

"I have time for one more call before the break....Giles in Santa Barbara, Hi, you're on the Flush Limbo Show."

"Flush, old boy, I have a bone to pick with you!"

"I can sense an Irish temperament a mile away," Flush laughed.

"Scotch-Irish, mind ya, and I don't like the way you're being disrespectful toward the leader of the free world, Flush!"

"Well, Giles....."

"Don't interrupt," Giles griped, "what's with this Big Bufords Buffalo Bowel Blaster Bunk?!?! We have no business hearin' about the president's throne dispositions! What about yours?.... That's right, everyone phone in your bowel reports and may the best chap triumph!!!"

"Giles!... Ha Ha... you.... Hee Hee....You just.... gave an example of what I try to illustrate on this show. Here we demonstrate absurdity by being absurd.!" Flush lightly lectured.

"All good and well, Flush, but I'M going to demonstrate not talking anymore, by hanging up! Good day, Sir!" (CLICK!!!)
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(Episode 7)
Shortly before my press conference, Ralph paced back and forth as I was going over my notes. Silence spoke on behalf of the both of us while waiting the moments beforehand which to Ralph seemed everlasting as he looked down at his counterfeit Rolex, and noticed it had stopped.
A staffer opened the door and informed us it was time. I slapped Ralph on the back, and gave a smile of confidence as we then headed down the hall, noticing some of the faces moving from side to side to get a better look at the man accompanying me. I gazed with displeasure at the back row as someone in the press remarked, "Oh my God! He's black!"

"Ladies and gentlemen of the press," I greeted, "I've called this press conference this evening to introduce the man I feel is best qualified to hold the office of Vice President of the United States of America. Let me introduce to you a man whose character and abilities outweigh the possible reproach that is sure to face him in the coming days. Let me say on social and economic policy, we are bound to differ in some ways. But I have chosen this man because of the love and commitment he has displayed for this nation. I hope this act of cooperative spirit in the upper echelons of the American government, will inspire the people to join us in our effort to reunite this nation in its destiny, once again, towards greatness. To the American people, it is my good pleasure to introduce my good friend, Mr. Raphael J. McCovey!"

"MR. PRESIDENT?!?!" The press stood up in unison, each one eager to be first with a question quite like vagrants begging for handouts.

"I have time for just a few... yes, go ahead, Sam." I nodded toward the third row.

"Mr. President, can you tell us what you feel is the most contributing factor in the recent rush to buy your book, since it has now sold over three million copies?... And I have a followup, Sir. Thank you." The reporter sat back down.

"Well, I didn't want to talk about my book, you see....."

"Isn't it true, Mr. President," the reporter started to insist, "with all respect Sir, that....."

"Respect, my big black hairy butt!" Ralph butted in, grabbing the mike. "Who do you think you're talkin' to? Y'all are just a bunch of overrated, overpaid talk show hosts!!!"

"Ralph, you can't say that!...." I whispered, and unsuccessfully tried to step in front of the microphone.

"Y'all don't know a thing about respect," Ralph continued. "Where's your respect for the man who holds the highest office in the country? He says he don't wanna talk about his book, so let it be. We're here today 'cause people ain't gettin' along. We're here today 'cause people are forgettin' what America is about. It ain't about doin' whatever the hell you wanna, no matter who's gonna get hurt. We're a nation that's forgotten the blessings of our Father God, and traded him off for the gods of our bellies!!!"

The room full of reporters were stone quiet as Ralph pranced back and forth like a Sunday preacher. "Oh, this country has had its share of blemishes. Slavery of old is something my forefathers endured and would have given their very lives for the freedoms I now cherish. But slavery of old is no longer a reality; the slavery we all endure now, black or white, is the slavery of the fear we live in.

"The man here... I mean, the President and myself want to bring the people back together, but we need your help. WE can't fix all the problems up here in Washington all by ourselves. We don't have all our problems due to the lack of bureaucracy!

"But, you say you ain't gonna join the band wagon with no left winger. You say you ain't gonna get on board with a right winger, huh? Last I looked, the symbol for this great country of ours is that almost extinct, Bald Eagle. And casually glancing at that emblem we hold so sacred, I noticed it had two different wings. A right and a left. Now wouldn't that bird look real silly tryin' to fly with just one wing?..."

A loud silence dominated the press room as Ralph backed off from the microphone, though a low rumble of whispers echoed as reporters didn't know whether to applaud or just keep their mouths shut.

"I'll answer a few more questions," I stepped forward.

"RALPH.... OVER HERE, RALPH!!!" the press room resounded.

"Okay," I laughed, "the future Vice President will answer a few questions!"

Ralph, as cocky as ever, directed his first question: "Yes, the man in the back row with the gray flannel suit and the funny looking nose, please."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

(Episode 8)
Launching from the livingroom sofa and nudging the television on/off button after the press conference, Edie decreed, "Okay Giles, that's all the television for tonight. Here's your favorite book, you may read until bedtime," she asserted, while handing him his copy of Aboard My Train of Thought, from the coffee table.

"A splendid young man! Says what he thinks," the professor expounded on Ralph's performance. "Why, we need more like him in Washington, I say! You know, the man of color has come a long way, Edie. A little under a century ago he would have been thought of less than a person. Can you believe how ignorant the popular consent of that day was? You think the country is divided now?..."

"Very fascinating, Professor Endicotsley! But, I believe I shall treat myself to an evening shower. Would you like for me to get you something before I leave the room?"

"Hmm, huh? Ah yes," Giles glanced up from his book, then placed it haphazardly in his robe pocket. "Would you be so kind as to wheel me to my radio room?... I think I'll dabble a bit with the computer before bed."

"Oh Giles, you'll be up all night playing with that silly thing."

"I just want to finish me chess game, Edie, it shouldn't take too long," he begged.

"Oh, all right." She wheeled him up to the keyboard, then kissed him on the top of his head.

"If you need anything, just holler."

The professor anticipated the finish of the match all evening. He was of course losing, being his Packard Bell Spectria 100 was the toughest opponent he'd ever faced. While he waited for his PC to load up, he decided to see how the atmospheric propagation was on his six meter ham radio transceiver. Tuning around the band, he didn't come across anything interesting so he went back to his computer, leaving the radio on.

"Ah, let's see.... Nope, can't move there, he'll get my last Bishop," he mumbled, pulling on his mustache in deep thought.

"Hmm, what if I.... Huh? What's that?" He quickly reached for the tuning knob on his radio after hearing what sounded like a strong signal just a tad bit off frequency. After a brief search he decided it was just his imagination and refocused on his match. "No, I.... wait a minute, he can't get me there if I just.... What?... There's that signal again!"

Redirecting his attention to his radio and pushing his spectacles up higher on his nose, he tuned around till he finally found the strong station causing him to lose concentration on his game. He fine-tuned the VFO until the voice became clearer. His startled ears perked up to what sounded like a very strange foreign language. Could it be Russian? Wait! There was another station now talking, its signal wasn't quite as strong as the other one though. After a few minutes the stations quit transmitting and Giles went back to his chess game.

"Hmm... Let's see.... WHAT IN THE.....???!!!" All at once without warning, his computer screen's background changed color as some sort of strange message formed on the screen. In a cold sweat, Giles took note of, but couldn't believe, what he was reading:

Giles Endicotsley... The peoples of the planet Apathonia send their universal greetings. You have been chosen among your kind to represent them in the great Council of Councils, in the company of The Greatest of Greats, on our lovely planet. Please, be not afraid....

He slumped back in his wheelchair, wiping his brow, and was relieved at the possibility that it was all a joke. No, wait a minute... Edie didn't know the first thing about computers, so it couldn't have been her. And no one else had been near his computer save for his grandson, three weeks ago. Who could've done it? Wait! There was more!

Giles.... this is not a joke, wheel your chair to the window and look out in your backyard.
He hurriedly rolled up to the window and got himself tangled up in the venetian blinds, but managed to give a look outside. Not seeing much at first, because of the dimly setting sun, he started to pull them shut. But wait! What was that dull orange illuminating glow by the tool shed!?

Giles wiped the window of its condensation to get a better look. As he pressed his nose to it, he spied two short individuals walking toward him. A splash of adrenaline ran down his spine as he backed his wheelchair away from the glass pane just as the two beings penetrated through without shattering it.

"Giles Endicotsley... Be not afraid! My name is Derf Enotstnilf. I'm from the planet Apathonia. The Greatest of Greats in the Council of Councils wishes to speak with you... Rise out of your wheelchair and come with us!" The hidious looking visitor from abroad beseeched.

"EDIE!!...." Giles yelled as the trunk of his body seemed to split in two, and a younger Giles quickly immerged from out of his now lifeless aged body. He looked back in astonishment at his prior flesh, slumped in his wheelchair. He noticed his feet touching the floor for the first time in almost three years, and turned to look in the mirror. "Why, I'm a young man again! How did you do that?!"

"Come with us, Giles, we must go now," Derf demanded, taking him by the arm as they exited unhindered through the wall to board the unearthly vessel.

Edie, wondering what all the commotion was about, hurried with barely a towel wrapped around her, and rounded the corner to the radio room only to find the professor's old expired frame he'd left behind, laying lifeless. "Giles!..... Oh God, No!"
-----------------------------------------------------------------------

(Episode 9)
The following sunup after my evening press conference with Ralph, the morning talk shows and news programs were hurriedly competing to bring the results of opinion polls and local reactions to their viewers and listeners. The overall consensus was exhilarating and encouraging.

The editorials were mostly favorable, commenting on Ralph's sharp candor. William F. Bucktooth wrote: "Ralph, as we'll affectionately call him, most assuredly is bound to be the scourge that restrains the elephants and donkeys from getting out of line in the Senate. At no time has anyone in Washington ever displayed such insurgency to shoddy partisanship. Time alone will unveil the triumph or the undoing of Mr. McCovey's much needed bullheadedness."

Flush Limbo, who certainly wasn't a fan of my administration in the least, was very impressed with Ralph's performance and egged him on to join the Republican ranks. Although he wasn't registered with any party, he seemed to demonstrate to Flush a heartfelt conviction for the good of the country, which he believed was in line with the Republican agenda.

Prospects looked good concerning Ralph's upcoming confirmation, as he had virtually no opposition. My own popularity increased overnight too, though I'm sure I was just riding Ralph's coat tails as I now exercise my hindsight.

But how long was this to last? With the national debt well over five trillion dollars, and a budget calling for 1.5 trillion dollars in increased spending (which I had promised to cut), I clearly demonstrated I was no economics scholar.

There was also another major problem: Getting my Supreme Court nominee, Wemsley Higglethorp, approved by the Senate, due to the Republican's nit-picking with concerns about his mother-in-law's sister being a heavy drinker. "Preposterous!" he'd protest. "She only weighs about 135 lbs!!"

Though the immediate polls looked good, I worried myself sick that after the nation's honeymoon with the new Vice President was over, things would get worse since we really didn't have any clear cut agenda. The nation might have fared better by picking ramdom names from a telephone book for potential leaders of the free world! But, there was still my first State of the Union Address coming up soon. I still had time to contemplate something that would rally the American nation behind us.

"Ralph, after you've been confirmed, we're gonna have to work extra hard keeping the confidence of the voters if we plan to run for re-election in the fall. We've got to stimulate the economy. I think in my State of the Union Address I should propose an across-the-board tax cut. Whatdya think?" I suggested, confident that he'd eagerly join the band wagon.

"Oh... Gonna play up to the rich fat cats, huh?"

"No Ralph. It doesn't work that way! When are you liberals gonna learn that a tax break helps everyone. True, the rich man gets the biggest share, but that allows him to reinvest more back into the economy to bring down unemployment... When was the last time you got a job working for a street bum, huh?" I emphasized.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, it's called 'tinkle-down-economics...' the big guy gets richer, and all the little guy gets is pissed on from above. There you go with that Flush Limbo crap! I thought you couldn't bear to listen to him anymore since he's been on your case," Ralph jabbed.

"It's called 'trickle-down-economics' and it worked in the 80s! It revived the economy, put people back to work, and even ended the cold war!!!" I maintained.

"All it's doin' for me is puttin' me asleep! Hey, yo the President, man. Do what you wanna," he pouted, "I guess I'm just the yessa masta boy!"

"That's not the way I want it to be, Ralph. I need your support! Look, if we don't agree on the details, then let's compromise. We can come to an agreement."

"Yeah well, I'm uh... s...sorry for blowin' my top... I need some fresh air. I'll be back." As Ralph excused himself, it became apparent to me that his instant celebrity status was starting to wear thin his nerves. Neither one of us could have foreseen the pressure. As he walked out toward the rose garden, he planted a cigarette in his mouth, lit up, and was about to take in a deep drag when notorious news reporter, Sam McDonald, immediately shoved a microphone into his face.

"So, Mr. McCovey, er uh... Ralph....Uh, tell me, sir, as soon as you're sworn into office, what are you going to try to persuade the President to do for the betterment of the immediate sagging economy? What would you suggest to the President to lessen the likelihood of a defeat in the 96 election? "

Ralph took a long and thoughtful puff on his cigarette before he responded. "Well, the economy IS sagging. People outta work. Mothers not able to feed their kids... I just don't know but what lengths I'm going to have to go to get him to propose to both houses of congress... a big, across-the-board, tax cut!... It's called 'trickle-down-economics," he answered, giving a devilish wide ivory white smile.
------------------------------------------------------------

(Episode 10)
Meanwhile, almost 50 light years from Earth in their second day of interstellar travel, Professor Endicotsley and Derf Enotstnilf were just getting to know one another. Derf was a likable host and tried everything to make the professor less nervous, sometimes telling him an Apathonian joke or two. Giles was polite, and laughed, though he didn't understand any of them. Nevertheless he amused himself by lecturing the poor alien about world history and literature.
After about two grueling hours of how and why Mary Queen of Scots lost her head, Derf finally spoke up. "Yes, I know a lot about your planet....We've been watching it awhile. Mind if I smoke?"

"Smoke?!.. oh uh..." Giles reached into the pocket of his bathrobe, feeling around for a pack of cigarettes he'd hidden from Edie.

"No thanks, Giles... I've got my own." Derf took out what appeared to be a beige bottle of glycerin suppositories and slowly slid one of them up his left nostril, then inhaled as a bluish colored thick haze emitted from the bald crown of his head. "Wow! That first smoke of the day always give a pleasant head rush!... So tell me about Edie, Giles... Do you love her? I think she's sweet on you!"

The professor was at a loss. "Well, I....um. When do we land?"

Derf snickered, then in his native tongue interpreted to the other two crew members Giles' answer they had been waiting to hear. "That language," Giles spoke up, "that's what I was hearing on my six meter radio tranciever right before you contacted me!"

"Six meters, huh?....Oh, of course, that's 50 harmonics down from the frequency of 114 gigglehertz we use to stay in communication with the mothership," Derf explained as there was a sudden jolt, similar to when an elevator reaches its destined floor. "Well, we've landed, professor. Step outside and breathe the sweet air of Apathonia!"

The thought never occurred to Giles that he was the first humankind to ever set foot on another planet. All he noticed was the thick oxygen that filled his lungs that seemed to have, like Derf said, a sweet scent.

"You like it?" Derf proudly asked, "It's potpourri! Our forefathers all agreed on it, and added it to our artificial atmosphere..... Come come, the Greatest of Greats in the Council of Councils is waiting to speak with you!"

"Why won't you just tell me what he wants? You haven't given me a hint as of yet!"
Derf didn't respond, he just smiled. "Come come!"

Apathonia appeared to be quite a strange place, indeed. There appeared to be two suns, one about twice the size of our own, and another only half. Giles noticed there was also a pinkish blue hue in the sky which hovered low, as he and Derf approached some sort of palace.
"Ah, what a lovely doorway. This must be the Council of Councils!" Giles remarked, trying to impress his host.

Derf laughed, "No, my friend, this is the Door of Doors, which is the main entrance of the Building of Buildings, which houses the Council of Councils! Come Come... the Greatest Of Greats is waiting!"

"So, tell me Derf, why are there two suns in your sky?"

"Well, Giles, to make a long story short," Derf answered, "about three centuries ago some careless camper started a moon fire, and it's been burning ever since."

Giles wasn't sure if it was a mere joke, but laughed aloud with Derf. Just at the instant the two approached the Door Of Doors, without warning, a hideously clamorous siren blared as flood lights flashed in their general direction. "What the devil is that all about?!" Giles quivered.

"Oh uh, my fly was down, that's all, Giles..." Derf blushed.

Giles bent to his waist in laughter at the first Apathonian joke he understood in the course of two days, then looked up in time to see a perturbed Derf Enotstnilf... "That wasn't a joke, Giles.....Come come, the Greatest of Greats is waiting."
-----------------------------------------

(Episode 11)
Giles and Derf slowly climbed up a multitude of steps then down a corridor, until they reached a huge doorway adorned with giant stained glass windows. Right above the archway hung a decorative gold and silver plaque that read: The Greatest of Greats. Derf unexpectedly took off his right shoe and sock, then placed his foot over some sort of detection device. The door opened swiftly as a middle aged Apathonian woman, decked in royal garb, announced, "Ah Derfbag, I've told you time and time again not to bother with that silly thing... I can recognize your foot odor anywhere! ... Oh Hun, you're going to have to call on the Cyber-Plumber one more time, the Toilet Of Toilets has crashed again..... Oh dear, who's this?"

"This is the Earth dweller, your Greatest of Greats!" Derf saluted.

"Oh my, this is wonderful! Oh please do excuse me for the mess, I didn't expect you this soon. So tell me," she leaned closer, "how was your flight, hmmm?"

"Well, your Greatness..."

"Oh, stop it! Just call me Irol. That's my name, hun!" she winked.

"Well uh.... Irol, Ma'am..... Why am I here?"

"What?!" She immediately stomped her foot and began bitching at Derf in her native tongue. "I'm sorry old Derfbag here didn't fill you in, hun. Seems we've got a problem. You see, Apathonia is almost 50 lightyears away from your darling little planet, and for the last 6 months, we've been receiving 40 something year old television signals on our Channel Of Channels from a certain station KBCQ, in Roswell, New Mexico, who began about that time airing a program called, "Exercise With Ethel..."

"...And you want me to tell them they're interfering and to stop their transmission, correct?" Giles scoffed.

"Well hun, not exactly. We recently experienced a tremendous radiation disturbance from our outer dwarf star due to the gravitational pull of our flaming moon when it was in the 7th house... this caused great propagation difficulty one particular morning, and I missed program number 155... 'Strengthening Your Abs....' Since you're the President's distant cousin, I figured you could pull some strings into getting a copy."

"You brought me 50 lightyears from home for this?!" Giles rose to his feet, "Madam, I have better things to do!!!"

"Well, there is one itty-bitty matter you need to tell your presidential cousin about..." Irol went on to explain to the professor that the Apathonians were willing and ready to abduct 144,000 American citizens, if the United States government wasn't willing to release some 100 Apathonians kept in a secret place called Area 51 and a half (so secret that even the aliens locked up at Area 51, across the alley, don't even know about it).

One particular resident there was abducted by Neil Armstrong, who was Moon-walking at the time. The foolishly trusting Apathonian approached him and asked the astronaut for a jump, because his spaceship's ignition wouldn't start. Armstrong lured him on to the Eagle with a bottle of Tang. After being subjected to the astronaut's entire family photos from his wallet, and about 50 different war stories for 6 long days, the poor alien begged, "Take me to your leader, PLEASE," upon splashing down in the Pacific.

"All you need to do for us is secure a release of the Apathonian hostages. Now surely, sugar," Irol winked, "you wouldn't want to return to Earth not being able to walk, and instead, being wheeled around like an invalid again. Now dear, wouldn't you like to go back a much younger man, able to take care of himself, hmmm?"

"Come on, Giles," Derf added, "you'll be doing yourself as well as us a favor!"

"I guess you leave me with no choice. Okay, I'll go," Giles accepted with hesitance.

"Oh wonderful, dear! Now, you be sure to tell those little ol' Earthlings how nice our planet is.... Bye bye, sugarpie," her Greatness winked while blowing a kiss. Once Irol shut the door behind them, she quickly removed her friendly masquerade. "Dumb Anthropoid! ....Hmm, what's this? I guess he left his book... Aboard My Train of Thought? Hmmm... oh well, he probably won't miss this garbage."

On second thought, she threw open the window and hurled it outside, thinking the primate might find it. Instead, it clobbered a street beggar right in the middle of the forehead, who collapsed in pain, crying "My eyes... Oh! My eyes!"

"Why didn't you tell me what this was all about in the beginning?!" Giles scolded Derf as they boarded the mothership.

"Sorry, I had my orders. Besides, you wouldn't have come with us if I did.... Oh, watch your head getting in."

"Can you make the trip a little more speedy? I'm sure Edie's worried sick," Giles complained.
"Well Giles, going 50 lightyears in just two days, we can't go much faster than that," Derf explained. "Here, take the window seat. It will help pass the time away."

Giles was stunned from the moment he buckled in at how quickly they went from lifting off the ground, through the pink planet's outer atmosphere, and out of their solar system in just minutes. Stars and other planets seemed to zoom in and out like passing signs along a highway. "If only Mankind could get hold of technology like this, we'd be out of the dark ages," he mused aloud.

"That won't happen for at least another century I'm afraid, Giles," said Derf, putting his hand on the professor's shoulder. "Too many tycoons making money on petroleum. Our crafts are controlled by perpetual motion, which doesn't cost anything but the time to invent the original source of power."

"Why, people on Earth have tried to invent that for years! What is the secret? I must know!" Giles' eyes lit up.

Derf laughed, throwing his head back. "You all had the secret right under your noses. Before we were able to break the light barrier, it took approximately 50 years to reach your planet. But our technology greatly advanced after we visited an earthly salvage yard, and brought back an engine from an old abandoned Yugo!"

The two didn't talk much more over the course of two days, until they reached their destiny, Roswell. As they slowed to an approach over the southwestern army town, Giles looked out the window and noticed all the outdated automobiles driving around in a monstrous thunderstorm. "Wait a minute! Something is strange here! What's the date out there?"

Derf looked at his solar/nuclear wrist calendar/watch his wife bought him for their 23rd anniversary, and did some calculating. "Hmm, well, it looks like somewhere around July 4, 1947. Why, Giles?"

"You didn't tell me we were traveling back in time!! If I remember right, seems I read something about a crashed flying saucer being found in Roswell around that date!!! OH MY GOD, WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE!!!!! TURN THIS SHIP AROUND!!!!"

The professor made a dive at the commander of the ship and pushed him aside. Immediately, Giles took control of the flight panel, pushing all the buttons, twisting all the knobs and wheels he could. The craft began tossing and turning in the electrified sky.

"Giles! What are you doing? You're going to have us killed!!!" Derf yelled, trying to pry his hands loose from the controls.

"Can't you see? I'm trying to save us all!!!" Giles fought back.

"Look out Giles!" Derf panicked, "We're going to crash into that silly looking army weather balloon up ahead with the hideous wooden dummies dangling from it!"
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(Episode 12)
"Hmmm, let's see what's on television...(Click)(Click)(Click)... (Click)...Oh good," I laid back, "Looks like a movie's coming on. This ought to be good..."


...On a misty fall morning, on November 13th, in New York City, the inevitable occurred! They had decided they had had enough! Tired of being sat upon, the toilets around the city united!
They unilaterally tore themselves loose from their plumbing and staged a 'scoot-out,' leaving everyone stirring through the streets, looking desperately for somewhere to go.
As they converged on the steps of city hall, Mayor Luigie was eating his lunch in his office when he heard the commode... er um, commotion. He put down his sandwich and went over to the window to see what the stink was all about.

"Frank, the apparent leader is on line one, and demands to speak with you," his secretary announced.

"Take his name and number, I'll call him after lunch," the mayor said scowling while stuffing his sandwich in his mouth.

"His name is John, and he says he's able to hold a lot longer than you can!"
The mayor threw his sandwich down, sighed and whipped the phone to his ear."Ok, Johnny boy, what's going down?"

"All right, Mr. Mayor, see... we ain't gonna take anymore of anybody's crap, ok?...It's like this... we just don't get any respect, see. The only homage paid to us is an occasional family pet, lapping from our labors, getting its daily source of vitamin P. We want the same equal rights and rewards decorative furniture enjoy, see.... So what is it, Mr. Mayor? Whatcha gonna do, hmm? Come on... Speak now or forever hold your piss!!!"

The mayor slammmed the phone down, then rang for his secretary.

"Yes, Frank?"

"Send this memo over to Jones at the D.A.'s office. Tell him to get things moving, then put a lid on it!"

Stay tuned for the 1952 Oscar- Nominated, My Kingdom For A Throne! Starring Hugh Beaumont....(Click)


"Surely there's something better on..." I remarked while flipping through the channels again...(Click!)(Click!)(Click!) "Hmmmm... the news, huh?"


"...We're looking at terrorism from a broad," the FBI spokesman informed NBS news.

"Uh, don't you mean abroad, sir?" the news anchorman questioned.

"No, we're looking at terrorism in its worst-case scenario, from a very viciously dangerous revolutionary broad, who coined the so-called burn-the-bra-movement in the 60's, named Ima Loosschest."

"At this time they think they know the whereabouts of the suspect in question. But the large wholesale brassiere company's president, Max Sizemore, isn't taking any chances; he's ordered all employees at his various women's garment factories around the country to stay at home until she's been apprehended. The FBI have announced they'll be keeping us abreast should anything exciting develop, pardon the pun.... back to you, Peter."

"Thanks, Roger... We end tonight's broadcast with the recent upsurge of meteorological activity that has become evident all over the evening skies this month; and the public fear surrounding the issue... There has only been one occasion recorded, in all of the history of mankind, of a person ever receiving a direct hit from a meteorite! And statistics tell us that the chance of it ever happening to you is(BANG!!!!!)....... ARGHHH!!!!!"


"Good Godfrey, there's gotta be something good on TV!" I complained, while one more time flipping channels.


(Click!)(Click!)(Click)...God is... (Click)(Click)... our grand-prize winner today!!! ...(Click!)(Click-Click)... and She's quoted as saying... (Click-Click-Click!)"...that's not logical, Jim!" (CLICK!!!)

I decided I'd had enough television for the afternoon. I laid back on the couch, and contemplated my State of the Union Address, scheduled for that evening. My eyes began to feel heavy as I stared at the ceiling fan directly above. Slowly drifting, drifting away from all that plagued my aching mind, I found himself, once again, in ancient Russia. Day after day and night after night, I'd dream that I was the son of Ivan the Terrible, and the dream would always end the same way. "Mr. President!"

"What!!!?? What is it?"

"Mr. President, you have only a few minutes before your speech, Sir. Here, get into this suit coat."

"Oh, it was a dream again." Relieved, I wiped the sweat from my forehead. "OH! The speech. Yes well, uh, where's my notes? Oh, in my coat pocket, whew!...Ok, I think I'm ready now."
---------------------------------------------

(Episode 13)
I was quickly escorted to the Presidential limousine and whisked away to Capitol Hill, where members of both houses of Congress were waiting, yet representatives were starting to get restless during the lengthy delay as one of the more outspoken members of the Black Caucus stood up in his chair and began shouting:

"WE WANT RALPH, WE WANT RALPH, WE WANT RALPH!!"

Other members began joining in, clapping and stomping, until the full house was out of order. One of them suggested they try to do the wave. They started from the right, then the left followed when they saw it was popular.... just like in regular politics! A few began tossing Frisbees, until someone finally spoke up, "Shhh! Ok guys, time to knock it off and put on our dignified faces, the networks are about to go on!!"


"This is an NBS special news presentation. The President's State of the Union Address. Now, sitting in for the recently injured Peter Waylon Jennings, here's NBS news correspondent Dan Rathernot, with colleague Roger Mudpie on the House floor...... Dan?"

"Thanks Joe. Well, this is to be the first State of the Union Address for the new President, Clyde P. Hipwing... and the question of course is: will what Mr Hipwing has to say fall on deaf ears because of the immediate racial turmoil in the nation, his lack of direction, and his waning trade policies... ever since taking office?

"We're joined this evening with news correspondent Roger Mudpie on the House floor with reflection on tonight's upcoming speech... Roger?"

Roger wasn't paying attention, instead, he was telling a joke to Congessman Darymaple, "...So I ended the report with, 'the FBI will be keeping us abreast should something exciting develop, pardon the pun.' Ha ha ha!..."

"ROGER!!!"

"Oh hello Dan, I'm joined here with the Foreign Trade Committee leader, Cedric Darymaple. Now, Mr Darymaple, as head of the commitee, what goals should the president address this evening, concerning your proposal of opening up more trade with the African continent?"

The congressman scratched his confused head and quizzed, "now, say that again... I don't quite understand what you meant. Whose developing breast was the FBI referring to?"

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES!!!

"Oh Dan," Roger quickly alerted, "they've just announced the arrival of the president, so I'll send it back up to you... Now Cedric, listen again; the FBI announced that they will..."

"Um, uh, thanks, Roger. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the president is making his way to the House floor. The crowd, as you can hear, is going mad with applause, but it looks like the crowd is starting to die down now that he's ready to speak. Let's listen in."


"Thank you..... Thank you very much, you're so kind. Thanks. People, members of both houses of congress, thank you for this opportunity to speak with you this evening.... The American people have waited a long time for their liberation from a bureaucratic intrusive......"

"What About The Book Deal, Mr. President?!" Someone on the back row suddenly interupted with a shout.

I cleared my throat and began again... "the American people have..."

"What about the book deal?!"

"Huh? Who said that?" I frowned

"I wanna know about the book deal! How much did they pay you in advance under the table?!"
"Newt?! Newt Greenwich, what you are doing? Sit down!" I demanded.

Other members of congress stood to their feet in agreement with the protest. "Yeah!.... Here here!.... We wanna hear about the book deal!"

I'm sure the folks at home were trying to fine-tune the contrast on their televisions, as I must have turned blue trying to hold my tongue. "You know what I've got to say about the book? I wish I never wrote the thing! The hell with the book! The hell with all of you too! I quit!!!!"

Each and every celestial body in God's great universe were sucked to the earth in that instant moment as all the people across America gasped at once. I ran from the podium and out a back door as members of congress sat in silence while Vice-President McCovey followed me in pursuit. "Hey Man! Where you think you're goin'?!"

"Go back and take care of your country, Ralph. You're the President now!" I said, waving him off.

"Man, you can't just get mad, and take off like that. What will the people think of you?" Ralph clutched me by the arm.

"I don't care!" I replied, "when YOU get all fired up live on TV, YOU get rave reviews. What difference should it make? I can't do anything right..... Goodbye Ralph."

"You lousy quitter! You no good laggard! Man, I thought you had the right stuff, but I was wnong!" he growled with disdain as I turned around to offer a farewell handshake. Ralph, still with disillusionment in his eyes, tried to make up his mind whether to just spit on it, or not. "The hell with a handshake, Clyde." Then in a soft touch that Ralph seldom let anyone see, he reached out and hugged my neck. "Take care of yourself, man..."

The next morning's papers were all front to back with stories concerning my resignation. Some heralding the fact that Ralph would be the first Black President in the nation's history. Others were rejoicing my downfall. "PRESIDENT HIPWING 'NEWTERED' BEFORE RESIGNING!" heralded one headline.

I privately and officially resigned at one o'clock the next afternoon to return to a quiet life, free from any notoriety. Ralph was sworn in soon after, and promised to carry out most of my legislative goals.
-----------------------------------------------------------
(Episode 14)
In Santa Barbara that same afternoon the church on Walnut Street was bulging beyond full capacity for Professor Endicotsley's funeral. Half of those attending were some of his ex-college students who wanted to wish him God-speed on his afterlife sojourn. Several people gave tearful, as well as humorous, testimonials about the Giles they all knew in different ways, but loved just the same. Edie was most brokenhearted. She tried to buck-up (as the professor often advised her), but couldn't hold back every time she'd recall finding Giles' lifeless body slumped in his wheelchair in his radio room that fateful evening.

The Priest had just finished his eulogy and was about to begin the mass, when all the people gasped in sudden shock as the coffin slowly gaped open and a hand crept out the opening! Father Rice calmly looked down at the casket, fell backward with his eyes rolled up toward his brain, and landed on the piano keyboard with the back of his head, producing a reverberating perfect F#minor.

Those in attendance scattered out into the aisles and collided with one another while heading toward the exit in hysteria, as the professor's body rose up, and as if a snake, shedding its aged skin. Edie, the only one still remaining, besides the professor's son, watched as Giles emerged in younger flesh.

"Blast!" Giles complained, "I must have left the bloody book on the spaceship!"

"Giles, you're alive!!!! Charles! Come to! It's your father. He's alive!"
The professor's son came to long enough to see that it was his dad, and then passed out again.
Edie hurdled over the pews toward Giles, throwing her arms around his neck. "Giles! Is this just a dream? Please tell me it's not! You look at least 40 years younger! You're... You're so good looking!!!"

"Oh, I'll bet you just say that to all the good looking lads! I'm almost 50 years younger. No, it's not a dream. I was abducted by a group of extraterrestrials, and we crashed into a blasted weather balloon in Roswell, where the commander sent me back to this duration of time with a cheap transporter he picked up at Radio Shack! Now, anymore questions before you help me out of this forsaken, oversized, college dorm room?" He smirked, complaning about the cramped coffin.

"Oh Giles, I've missed you so much....But, I... I don't understand how you..."

"Didn't you hear what I just told you? I was abducted by....."

"Never mind, dear, I'm just so glad you're back..... I love you!" she sobbed, as she buried her face on his chest. "Since I thought you left me, my life seemed so barren, Giles. You have no idea what you mean to me."

"I know, I know, lovely lady.... Those were the longest four days without you."
The two escorted his bewildered yet gladdened son back to his car... he had an afternoon meeting to make. As he drove away, Edith impulsively offered her hand to the man she always adored. Giles surprised himself with his vulnerable response in receiving it, then looked deep into her magnetic brown eyes. "Ah, my love, you could erect a skyscraper!"

She laughed nervously and blushed. "Ooh, very fascinating, Professor Endicotsley!"

He awkwardly but daringly placed his arms around her petite frame, then leaned forward and pressed his anxious kisser upon her moist lips. "Why Giles, how did you come to be such a great lover?" she asked in her arousal.

He coolly answered, "it takes a mighty good stroke, dear lady, to light a match." Then doing something that didn't come natural to the man, he got down on his knees without any hesitation. "I'd rather die an old man now, than to spend the next 50 years without you... Marry me, beautiful lass... "
---------------------------------


RINGING THE CELESTIAL DOORBELL

(Episode 1)
A Brief History of the Planet Apathonia (As far back as anyone cares to remember)
Thirty Apathonian years ago archeologists discovered a large refrigerator buried with a note attached to the freezer: "Johnny, I'm keeping the kids, car, house, and food.... I'm leaving you with the mortgage, credit cards, and orthodontist bill!!! Oh, but you can have the luggage, sweetie... YOU'LL NEED IT WHEN YOU MOVE OUT!!!! "

Right below the note was a small calendar with the date O.G.U.8.1. circled. Apathonian archeologists are to this day still in disagreement with one another as to whether this was B.C. or A.D. (Before Coffee, or, After Dinner). Most agree, however, that it was definitely before coffee, considering the writer's rotten disposition.

Albeit the recent archeological evidence presented above is contradictory to the devout Authoritarians, a small outlawed religious faction who believe Apathonia was created in the year O.G.I.8.1.2., when according to them, Anthony, the Divine Author of Life, became bored with himself and created a "Drude", or man. Anthony was pleased with his creation, but didn't know exactly what to do with him. For that reason he gave him a brain and entertained himself with all the tricks he could teach him. He then invented the circus, where he could show off his drude. But there was a problem... he had no one to show him off to. So he reached in his drude's ear, and out from a gob of earwax mixed with his own spit, Anthony created a "Prude", or woman. Day after day his drude would perform tricks for the prude, but she was unimpressed, hence he had to learn new tricks to entertain her.

The drude daily attempted to exceed himself till the prude made a fuss one day, and insinuated with her eyes that his tricks were "old hat.". For two solid weeks the prude showed off a few tricks of her own. Infuriated with her competitive mindset, the drude tried to out-do her by doing a triple flip on the trampoline, thus landing on his head. The prude became overwhelmed with a rare mercy, and came running to his aid. The two then all at once discovered a new trick they could do together, and nine months later, had a daughter.

Within one generation the drude became weary as his prude failed to give him a son, and begged for a new prude. Anthony obliged, and reached into his drude's ear, but couldn't find any wax. "Thou hast cleansed thine own ears, ye shall have to wait untill the morrow when thou hast not taketh a bath, OK?"

The drude patiently waited, and the next day Anthony combined some earwax and saliva and created for him the prude of his dreams. The drude was pleased and uttered his first word, "Martha..."

"John..." she panted.

"Martha..." he nudged passionately.

"John!?..."

This went on for 20 years or so until Anthony had had enough, and created for them a language in which to speak... something he later regretted, for once they discovered their new ability they became ingrossed in their own conversation, and forgot all about the divine author. Those who remained faithful, became less reverent of him, and began to refer to him merely as ...Tony.

About six centuries later, those who still served Tony began living in fear as a tyrant king named Dolittle made it unlawful to live with any other purpose other than to serve him. Those who were caught in the act of doing or thinking anything on behalf their own benefit, were put to death with the atomic-egg-beater; a cruel device made into two incredibly strong arms and mechanical hands that cracked the transgressor's skull in two, over an oversized hot skillet, and scrambled the brains while they were being stirred. They were then feasted on by street beggars. (This was the Apathonian government's way of cutting down on crime and feeding the homeless at the same time.)

In Dolittle's later reigning years, a young drude with a charismatic aura about him began attracting a small following. No one could point out exactly what was so special about this chap, who called himself Orlando, but drudes and prudes alike would come from different towns and villages just to listen to him speak. The authorities didn't seem to pay him any mind until word got to King Dolittle that Orlando was throwing secret bridge parties. So Dolittle sent his secret police, garbed in clothing similar to Orlando's followers, to spy on him. One evening when they were playing for high stakes, Orlando threw down his last card and muttered, "Hey Guys, I guess I win again, hand over the dough!" Dolittle's men immediately arrested him and brought him before the wicked king as his followers dispersed.

"We've been observing you for a long time, how everyone follows you around at these illegal subversive bridge parties... How did you manage to clean out everyone's pockets last night, do you have some kind of supernatural capabilities? I expect the truth, are you the King of Kings?!" Dolittle venomously asked.

Orlando just sighed. "No, I was the King of Clubs."

Dolittle became very indignant. "This man is speaking in riddles! To the atomic-egg-beater with him!"

On the way to his demise Orlando called out to his followers, "Fret not, for I have a sister not yet born from the seed of Tony. She will avenge ye! For as quickly as the evil night passeth away, Dawn shall surely come, and she's ready to kick butt!!!"

His utterence was a mystery to most; however according to the few devout Authoritarians, he was merely explaining his significance as one of the triune personages of the Holy Authoritarian Trinity known as Tony, Orlando, and Dawn. Dawn was soon to come to Apathonia, though no one, not even Orlando himself, knew as to when. But when she would come, the Authoritarians would be safely lifted off the planet as the evil ones would be destroyed. The Authoritarians believed that Dawn was constantly expanding the universe to the limit, and when it was finally stretched so far... she'd let it go like a rubber band, crashing all the planets into one another. This was what had been come to be known as the Big Boing theory.

Authoritarians for centuries had lived in hope of the great promise Orlando gave them and remained a surreptitious group, and only let their convictions be known to one another by tying little yellow ribbons around old oak trees around their meeting places. When a fellow Authoritarian was to come to the door of another believer, he was to knock exactly three times, to give an indication he was one of them.

They were a peaceable people, that is until one of them, a blind street beggar, happened to be walking along the Building of Buildings of the Council of Councils where the Greatest Of Greats dwelled, and was all of a sudden hit right between the eyes by a flying book titled, Aboard My Train Of Thought. "My eyes! Oh, my eyes!" he cried in pain. Then, opening them up, he suddenly received his sight once more, and picked up the book and began reading.

News and rumors, news of rumors, and rumors of news, flooded the planet about this lone vagrant who received his sight and began prophesying: "I have received divine revelation from Tony concerning sister Dawn of which Orlando spake of!!! It says here in his book, Dawn comes with Rosy Fingers!!! Brothers and Sisters, Dawn's avenging is nigh!!" he rejoiced to the mocking crowd, who began throwing stones as he fled.

The Greatest of Greats, Irol, Queen Of The Apathonians, was putting on her morning makeup when she heard all the fuss outside. She quickly ordered her troops to disperse the situation. When she caught word about the initial incident, she ordered all books and reading material banned and burned. A public bonfire was set for the next day and everyone was to bring all their possession of reading materials in order to receive clemency.

Not much was known about the wanted street beggar turned prophet, Kram Oingomeyer---except that he drove a Yugo.
--------------------------------------------------------

(Episode 2)
All the while, it was an ordinary Monday morning in Eternity as the Creator of the universe launched into a woeful soliloquy: "None! None are sincere! They're all corrupt, everyone. They have no want or need of a father. All they care about are my promises of everlasting life in paradise. I tried to show them my love by giving my son, and not wanting sacrifice in return...just their love. Oh, but they're so good at being religious. They love their traditions... They love to dress in all sorts of worshipful garb, just to be able to be among the few, chosen amongst themselves, to sit at the table of the worthy, while my children eat of the crumbs. And just who are my children?..."

"Pardon me, Jehovah..."

"Ah yes, Archangel Michael!"

"Pardon me, sir, but Satan wishes to speak to you in the courtyard.... Shall I tell him you're busy, sir?" Michael asked.

"No, no, no, send him in! Why, we haven't communicated since our wager over Job in the Old Testament," God laughed.

"Send him in?...Sir?" Michael hesitated as God nodded him toward the ethereal door.

As Michael reluctantly opened the door and waved Satan in, Gabriel picked up his trumpet and heralded the arrival of another visitor. "What was that?!" Satan growled.

"Oh," Michael sighed, "just Gabriel pretending to be the celestial doorbell again. Come this way. Jehovah God will see you now." The long walk up to the Heavenly of Heavenlys was a bit much for the old man. Satan huffed and puffed his way to his Majesty's throne.

"Ah, Lucifer! What a pleasant surprise!" God announced.

"Lucifer?" Satan scoffed, "Why, you haven't called me that in years! Getting a little mellow in all your pomp and circumstance?"

"No, Lucifer, it's just...well, I've been hoping you'd come around one of these days. You know, it's not too late to...."

"Oh, knock it off, Jehovah, you know I'm not gonna bow down to you, ask for forgiveness and worship you. I've got my own kingdom now!"

God sat up in his throne and looked Satan sternly in the eyes. "Why do you refuse me, when you know I'm going to destroy you some day, hmm?"

Satan just laughed, "Ah, I don't know, guess just for the hell of it!"

"Well, I'm a busy man, Satan. What is it you want?" God snapped back.

"Rumor has it," Satan wiped the sweat from his brow, "that You're about to throw in the towel..."

"If you mean destroy the Universe, yes, I've thought about it," God sighed.

"Jehovah baby! You can't just up and do that! I've...er um...You've got more souls to win!"

God stood up and began pacing on his fireproof floor. "Earth is just slipping away, moment by moment. No one honors me anymore. No, there's not one who really loves me! Why do I bother to love them? It's just my nature, something I can't help, that's all I guess... I want a relationship with my people, and all they are interested in is religion."

"Quite a subtle diversion I created, heh?" Satan laughed.

"More people get burned everyday by religion than will ever be burned in hell, Satan!" God turned with a tear in His eye.

"Oh, Jehovah, just give them another century or two...."

"Nope, Satan, I can't wait any longer... I long for my son's return with those who have at least trusted in his promise. I just can't wait to see the look on their proud faces when I hold out my arms and say: 'Not one of you got it right, every one of you missed the mark, but welcome to my kingdom, because...... I love you..."

"Oh God!" Satan rolled his eyes. "Oh sorry, but this is all too much for me. All I'm asking for is a little extension. You're always talking about your mercy and your grace. Well, have a little mercy on me..."

"I've had more mercy on you than anyone else, Satan," God rebuked. "If I hadn't been so merciful, I would have destroyed you even before the garden incident!"

"Ok, ok! What about this guy with the radio show, claims you're coming back before next year! You always pride yourself of no one knowing when you're going to destroy the world. You can't let that fuzzy headed talk show host get the date right, can you?" Satan prodded.
"It would just be a coincidence!" Jehovah protested.

"I know that, and you know that, but the guy would then be a Prophet to the rest of the world. And then, once again someone would steal your show. Now we can't have that, can we?"

"People are going to believe what they want to, no matter what. I've offered an easy road to salvation by just accepting the blood of my son as an atonement for all sins committed, and yet people want something harder. They would rather buy their redemption than accept it for free. So let the guy be a prophet." God shrugged his shoulders.

"Ok then, let's talk about Apathonia. All these Authoritarians are going to go to their graves believing the Great Anthony caused the big boing, and never know of your love for them. The planet will perish without ever hearing of the good news, not knowing you sent your son in their place to suffer for their transgressions. How can you be so hardshell as the religious folks that make you ill? Where is that mercy you're so quick to expect from your children, huh?" Satan preached.

"Why Lucifer," God laughed, "I didn't know you had such a burden for my children's salvation!"
"Well, I uh...."

"Ok," Jehovah said, "I'll extend more time; but make no mistake, Lucifer, my children will be with me no matter what. I'm extending the time for you. You still have time to repent should you choose, though I, of course, know you won't. In spite of that, I'm offering you a continuance. Now, get out of here before I change my mind!"

Satan tipped his hat, and walked out the door pleased, though humiliated. Gabriel picked up his trumpet and announced Satan's departure as Archangel Michael approached the Holy throne.

"Will you be needing anything else, sir?"

"That's all the visitors I'll be seeing today," God said, "I'm a bit ill at ease..."

"Well, perhaps a good book, sir," Michael offered.

"Ah well, um yes." He took the book from Michaels hand, "Aboard My Train of Thought, heh? Oh! by Clyde P. Hipwing! Yes, Yes! I like his stuff. He makes me laugh. Something those religious cronies swear I don't do.... Let's see... 'Looking out the window aboard my own train of thought, I suddenly realized I was on the wrong track'...Ho, ho, very good! I know just what he means!!!"
---------------------------------------------------

(Episode 3)
Safe within the womb of my private home, I awaited the birth of a more quiet life. After trying several weeks, but failing, to find a decent job (because no one would hire me due to the security risk), I resorted to a meager paper route. I yearned for the days when I could write with little notoriety or consequence, but knew better than to even lift a pen or get behind a typewriter. How could such a once wonderful life become so useless and empty?

Maggie, my only companion, as I said earlier had long since left for Hollywood and never wrote much. My only means of friendship with anyone was through my Amateur Radio hobby, but I rarely got on the air due to all the enemies I had made with the general public while running the country.

Finally, one bleak and black Monday night, I decided in my drunken stupor I'd had enough. I took the small light-weight revolver to my right temple and pulled the trigger..... The television immediately came on as I discovered it was the remote, instead.

While waiting for my eyes to focus on the bright tube, I heard the unmistakable voice of the new President, Ralph McCovey: "You cats need to write your senators and congressmen to support my tax cut. High taxes have stagnated the economy for years, man!"

"Here's to you, Ralphy!" I scoffed with the bottle launching toward my mouth, but suddenly changing course toward the TV. "So it's OK when you suggest it, huh Ralph?!!!"

"President Hipwing fought hard for this bill." Ralph went on, "He believed in America, though America didn't believe in him. Well, I did! And despite of what you pinkos thought, I thought he was a great president!...."

I couldn't take anymore and staggered toward the television to turn it off. I picked up my bottle off the floor and took it to bed as if it was a cherished lover.

President McCovey became a national hero overnight, not so much for the fact he was America's first Black President, but because of his temperament. He demonstrated to America the nonconformist, independent, yet moral attitude it had longed to see in Washington for decades.
Ralph had always looked up to me, though he never really admitted to it, until recently. He remained very indignant for me, and on one occasion had to be escorted off a live television interview with Barry King for threatening to punch the host's lights out for making a snide remark about my presidency.

Shortly after my resignation from office, my book, Aboard My Train of Thought, sold another half-million copies, making it one of the all-time best selling books. Despite my enormous success in writing, I spent most of my time behind the bottle, often waking either on strange curbsides or cold jail cells.

Ralph wouldn't have stood to see me in such dire straits. He would have given me a verbal kick in the butt. "You lousy, good for nothin' loser, get off your fat fanny and show'em". But, Ralph was too busy running the country to know I was slowly killing myself with a deadly mixture of depression and drink.
------------------------------------------------

(Episode 4)
Erstwhile, about 50 lightyears away from planet Earth on planet Apathonia, the religious sect known as the Authoritarians were once again living in fear for their lives. They sensed hardship was in store for them ever since the beggar-turned-prophet, Kram Oingomeyer, began preaching.

Not much was known about him amongst themselves, he pretty much kept his prior existence concealed from everyone, and for a good reason. Kram worked for the Apathonian government until the accident that left him blind. He was once in association with the Apathonian Secret Service for 17 years, and did research, studying planet Earth and its inhabitants. For three years he lived secretly among the humans observing their behavior, and learning at least a dozen human languages. But while reentering Apathonia's atmosphere after a voyage from Earth, his craft's heat shield consumed and he suffered multiple burns, but most tragic, he lost his sight.
Kram later became a fanatical Authoritarian and gave up a promised comfortable retirement for the street life. He was persuaded that Queen Irol's regime was amoral, and that almighty Tony was going to destroy her as well as everyone allied with her.

Convinced that the book that befell his head and its writings were heavenly, he set out to find disciples who would accompany him to Earth in search of the Divine Author (myself) to carry back to Apathonia and expedite the birth of Sister Dawn, of which Orlando spake.

In time their numbers became great, and in fear of her throne being toppled, the Greatest of Greats made it a capitol crime to join the now-underground Authoritarians or be associated with them. If prosecuted, one could expect to lose his or her head in the atomic-egg-beater. Many Authoritarians were already in custody, and expected to be made examples of.

But Kram had no fear of the repressive regime as he and his associates were scheming a way to hi-jack a government spacecraft and go to Earth to seek the Great Author. "Brothers, the good Author has left the key to his kingdom under the mat for us! Be of good cheer. No one can deliver us harm. We must go to this grand place called Earth, a place I have seen.... Yea, even been to! The Great Author speaks of a bliss called America. I've been to this America where people do and say as they please. Let us bring America to Apathonia!" Kram preached as they begin singing Authoritarian hymns.
----------------------------------------------

(Episode 5)
"You have reached the White House comment line, if you wish to leave a comment for the President, please press one....If you don't wish to leave a comment, but want to find out more about....."

"Come on! Somebody talk to me!" I exclaimed, slamming the receiver down, and then taking another swig from the bottle. Frustrated that I couldn't get through, I gave up and tuned around on my walkman AM radio to give listen to the Flush Limbo show. I hadn't listened to Flush in awhile, and wondered what he thought of Ralph's handling of affairs. (CLICK)

"So tell me, Irma, what exactly don't you like about the President's handling of the, what I call, arrogance in the House and Senate? What would you rather see Mr. McCovey do? Cause I want to find a general consensus among my listeners. Again, what should the President do?" Flush quizzed.

"Resign!" Irma insisted.

"Resign?!!"

"That's right, I've never seen such a rude hoodlum in the White House ever! He's got no manners, the young man hasn't!"

"Yes, but Irma," Flush interrupted, "Finally something's happening out of Washington. For once we're getting something at face value and not just a facade! Wouldn't you agree that his handling of the Supreme Court nominee withdrawal was done in all-out candor? He didn't like the man or what he stood for. His words were 'waste him!' No prettied-up words, just 'Get rid of him'. I hope the man continues his business in such finesse."

"Well, Flush, son, I was brought up in the old school. We raised our hands in hope of our turn, we never spoke up to our elders, and when we disagreed we did so with respect, sir. So may I just suggest to you, sir, that you may have all the respect in the world," Irma interjected.

"Ok, ok," Flush laughed, "So you don't agree, that's ok, Irma, I'm glad you called, anyway.... Let's take one more call. Clyde in Mountain Oyster, Oklahoma. Hi, you're on the Flush Limbo program."

The immediate sound of someone guzzling down something flooded the airwaves as Flush quipped, "I hope that's orange juice!"

"Hey, Flush baby!! I can't believe I actually got through on the first try!! He, He!!"
"Uh, yeah, says here you want to talk about the president's personal hygiene. Now, Clyde, tell me why on earth do you want to discuss this particular issue?" Flush laughed.

"Yeah Flush, Drunken diddlys from the...."

Flush's demeanor changed a bit, "Hey fella, you can call elsewhere, we don't advocate drinking on this..."

"Come on, Flush, you don't wanna talk to the one and only President Hipwing himself? I figured with all the great commentary you gave, and an increase in your listening audience because of my administration, you'd want to at least thank me..."

"President Hipwing, it is a pleasure speaking with you regardless of your current state," Flush apologized after he realized with whom he was speaking.

"What, you have something against Oklahoma?" I slurred.

"No, I mean your immediate inebriated condition. Hang on through the break, Mr. President, we'd love to talk to you some more. We'll be back after these words, ladies and gentlemen."

As the engineer clumsily put the commercial on, Flush immediately inquired as to my whereabouts and safety while sliding a note over to him to call the telephone company to trace my call.

"Mr. President, are you all right?"

"Couldn't be better, Flush! Just hittin' the sauce as they say. My life is just like this bottle of Scotch, Flush... almost empty, but still a few precious drops left," I laughed.

"Now come on, Mr. President, don't talk like that, you're scaring me."

"Oh, I scare you? What the hell do you care, Flush? You had a blast while I was in the White House, didn't you? So go ahead, have a blast over me now."

Flush had his long time friend and advocate, William F. Bucktooth, who just happened to be playing a round of golf in the neighborhood, fill in for him for the rest of the show; while he himself devoted the rest of the afternoon trying to put some sense back into my sloshed brain cells

"Now, Mr. President, I guess I never told you how grateful I was for your efforts in delivering the country from the clutches of the Honorable Homer. I guess you pretty much saved the world... I just want to say thanks for your efforts, sir!" Flush went on to say "I have nothing against you at all... I didn't care much for your policy, that's all, but I would have loved to have gone to a ball game or something with you.... We could still be friends..."

About 45 minutes into Flush's homage as I was trying to swallow the overgrown lump in my throat, there was the loud crash of someone busting through my front door as I observed three secret service agents, cautiously yet forcefully, netting me into what looked like a straitjacket. "Someone's just barged through my door! What's going on?..." I was immediately wisked away then taken to Gladstone Psychiatric Hospital, where I was supposed to spend the next few days in detox.
-------------------------------------------------

(Episode 6)
DR: Ah, Clyde, what a pleasant surprise, are we feeling better!?

ME: Doc, I don't need to be here. I hate hospitals... people DIE in hospitals! Besides, I don't know if I can trust you anymore after the electro-shock therapy incident.

DR: I'm sorry Clyde, but I'm not going to listen to this rubbish. I have no idea of what you're talking about! But as for hospitals, I have to admit I'm not too fond of them myself either; ever since I experienced a strange phenomenon...

ME: What was it, Doc?!

DR: Well, I was only about 10 years old at the time and in surgery to have my appendix removed. I clearly recall floating up against the ceiling. I remember looking down and seeing the Doctor and his nurses discussing the seriousness of my situation, down below. I opened my mouth to speak, when suddenly, I realized my voice sounded unlike it ever had before... I witnessed a beckoning warm sunrise appearing through the uppermost of the venetian blinds. Then, I felt myself slowly descending back on the operating table...

ME: Wow, Doc, you had a near death experience!!!

DR: Nah, nothing like that, they just accidentally gave me helium instead of ether... Now Clyde, I'm your friend and your doctor, you'll just have to trust me and my word. By the way, they have just come out with this great medicine! And when they tried it on monkeys....

ME: I told you, no way, Doc. No meds!!!

DR: ...Any persecuting thoughts?

ME: How can you ask me that? I mean, someone breaks into my house and kidnaps me....

DR: It was for your own good, Clyde. You need to rest for awhile and just forget the outside world.

ME: So tell me, Doc, was I that bad of a President? Huh?

DR: Now Clyde... gibberish, gibberish, gibberish...

ME: Man, I really made an ass out of myself all over the world on Flush's show. Ah, what do I care.... no one concerns themselves with my life anyway....

DR: We did want to surprise you, but for some reason there have been so many cards, letters, flowers, and telephone calls, the nurses have been working overtime just to keep up. But don't concern yourself with that right now. Get some sleep or I'll order the nurses to give you something. By the way, who's Flush?

I became suddenly flooded with emotion as to how many people really cared, and couldn't sleep for all the guilt I felt when I thought about it. How could I have sunk to such a low life? Ah, so what if I was a lousy President, I had a number one best selling book, I thought to myself. Almost four million copies sold! Maybe writing was my calling after all. Maybe when this was all over I could write about the situation in hopes it would touch someone else's life and do some good.

Just as startling as lightning striking the bark of a nearby tree, a heavy-set nurse shoved herself through the door and belched, "I've come to take your temperature!"

A bit stunned at first, I indicated no problem, and opened my mouth.

"I don't take temps orally," she belched even louder.

"What do you mean?!" I nervously asked, sinking under the covers.

"Look, I don't have all day!" she huffed.

"Oh," I laughed, "I suppose you take it under the arm pit... or uh, in my ear, huh?!?" I suggested while reiterating my prior nervous laugh.

"Nope, sorry!" She grinned her evil grin. Luckily, All of a sudden there was a huge thud as the hospital electricity shut down and all the I.V. alarms went off. The sound of women screaming down the hall triumphed over the early afternoon silence. The heavy-set nurse looked a bit perturbed and said, "Don't move, I'll be back!"

I immediately bellowed in relief, but as soon as she disappeared up the hall, she cried out, "Oh my God!!!"

"What!? What is it!?" I yelled out from my bed, helpless, as I was pretty much strapped in.
As all the people in the hallway had either run for the elevators, or fainted, the hospital became abnormally quiet once more. I laid there sweating and wondering what was going on while praying that the brutish nurse would be back to protect me. Then the resonance of quiet approaching footsteps filled the hall. I sat trembling as they came closer and closer. Suddenly my startled eyes spied five fingers and a thumb round the door as it slowly creaked open. There stood a creature more hideous than I'd ever seen or imagined before.

"Nurse, help!" I called out to the heavy-set barbarian, who had long vanished down the hall out one of the emergency exits.

"Your Great Authorship, sir," the creature bowed, "We've received your message on planet Apathonia. We've come to take you with us. Please help us in our effort to overthrow the evil one, I beg ye!"

"DOC! I NEED MY MEDS!!! HELP!!!" I panicked.
------------------------------------------------------

(Episode 7)
Under the light of his own glory, Jehovah God finished the book he was reading, Aboard My Train Of Thought, and tossed it aside. "Archangel Michael, are you busy? Come in here," he called out from his throne.

"Yes, Your Holiness." Michael rounded the corner.

"This book that you gave me, have you read it?"

"Indeed, I have, sir" Michael snickered, "a bit on the silly side, wouldn't you say, sir?"

"Silly or not, have you noticed his plagiarizing from my book?" God protested.

"Well, now that you mention it, sir, seems I do recall something about manna falling from heaven in the first story," Michael laughed, "but, I wouldn't worry, sir, everyone with half a brain knows you came up with it first."

"That's not the point, Mike. People do these things all the time without asking me. It's not that I would say no, I'd just like to be considered before people up and do things."

"Well sir, they all know they can pray. Surely not all are forgetful of this," Michael suggested.

"Well, some more than others, I suppose," God sighed. "If only....." Before he could finish, Gabriel, the celestial doorbell, blared his trumpet. "Better go let the new arrivals in, Mike."

"Of course, sir, excuse me." Michael looked out the peephole of the blessed door. "Oh dear, God. It looks like there's been a disaster or something on earth. There's at least 200 souls outside Peter's gate waiting to check in."

God looked up from the book. "Yeah, it was a plane crash. Luckily no one suffered as it happened so fast. You know, I guess no one's going to understand till after judgment day about my love and mercy. Then they are going to see that the paradise I've promised will make all the suffering worthwhile in the long run. If only I had just got rid of Satan a long time ago, there would have been no suffering."

"Well, it's not your fault, Jehovah, he rebelled, and he knows his undoing is near. You tried to tell him, but he wouldn't listen. You've got a big heart, don't beat yourself over the head."

"Thanks, Mike." God looked up, "Well, we've got a busy day, go ahead and bring in the new arrivals."

Michael walked over the heavenly door again, opened it and called out, "Ok, Pete...send them inside!"

One by one they filed in line to go before God's seat of power, but they all just seemed to be looking around as if tourists at Graceland. God the Father stood up with his hands out and greeted them. "Welcome home, children! This is your new home for all time. I have many good things in store for you."

A rather scrawny looking man in the middle of the row raised his hand to ask God a question. "Yes, go ahead and ask, George!" God smiled.

The man was stunned that he didn't need to introduce himself and asked "I don't understand! There's not one missing from the plane. Apparently no one went to Hell!!! Now, I know all these people don't belong to my church. So how come they all made it here, huh?"

God laughed. "George, you don't go to Heaven or Hell for doing all the right or wrong things. You go to Heaven because you wanted it bad enough to make preperations in your heart... the same with Hell. The only reason you all are here is because you wanted what I've offered you. There is no other reason, George. Any other questions?"

George looked a bit disappointed that Jehovah wasn't the ogre he'd long expected him to be. God began handing out keys to their heavenly mansions they had all been promised, when someone else suddenly spoke up, "Where is your son?"

God looked up at his free Triple A Road Service calander he'd recently received in the mail, "Oh, he's out in the sheep bend right now... some varmints got inside the fence and he's dividing the sheep from the goats as we speak. He should be returning with the flock any millennium now."
--------------------------------------------------

(Episode 8)
On our 2nd day of Soaring through the Milky Way galaxy, Kram Oingomeyer, and a few disciples who went along for the ride, were having a most troubling time convincing me of my divine manifest destiny. Still a bit troubled by my captors' appearances, I found it difficult to believe these strange beings meant me no harm. After a day and a half of my refusal to speak, I finally gave in, "What do you want of me? Your people have no need of me. I'm just a low life!!!" I insisted in hope they wouldn't find out I was the ex-President, for fear they might hold me for ransom or something.

"Author Hipwing. We beseech ye!... Please help our people in the struggle for self autonomy. Our enemy, the Greatest of Greats, has our freedom under her feet. You sent us your word from afar, and we're listening.... Please help us, oh Holy One!" Kram pleaded.

Taken aback by Mr. Oingomeyer's apparent desperate plea, I realized these beings thought of me as some sort of god. But, what would give them this idea? So I figured if I played along they wouldn't harm me. "Oh you puny little ones," I scoffed, "how be it ye of little faith knew of my divine presence, and thus among the petty weeds ye kneweth where to findeth and eateth the fruit of my omnipresence.?"

"Huh?!" Kram scratched his bald head.

"How did you know where to find me?" I reiterated.

"Oh, I figured it out after reading this," the alien answered, handing me a copy of my own book.

"Where did you get that?" I asked a bit startled.

Kram then educated me with a long drawn-out story of how the book hit him in the face... thus returning his sight. Then once reading it, how it opened his spiritual eyes. At that moment Kram got on his right knee and began kissing my filthy Adidas.

I was beginning to like the significance being paid me by these peculiar disfigured beings, but still, I was baffled how a copy of my book ended up on the other side of the Milky Way. Could it be that perhaps I did have a divine calling? I decided going to Apathonia wouldn't be so bad after all if I was going to be treated so godlike. "Ok Kram, you can stop kissing my feet and bring me my dinner. What have my subjects prepared for this journey?" I, the now Almighty Author asked with a command.

"Ah yes, my lord, what would you like? We have three-headed dongwazzle flesh steak, or spongy bootlicker soup, or Great Divine One, if you're hungry for a feast... the chef has prepared...."

"No, I believe... er um... You foolish heathen! I was just testing your knowledge. I, the divine Author, do not partake of such materialistic food. My food comes from above, and is absorbed in the soul and nourishes the spirit, then leaves my body through the infinite knowledge I speak... how could you insult me with such pig slop?!"

"Of course! Forgive me, Holy One!" Kram got down on repented knees once again and began kissing my feet.

"Ok, ok, you are forgiven, stop getting my tennis shoes wet, they'll shrink! Now, what will you have me do once back on Apathonia?" I demanded.

"The Greatest of Greats needs to be dealt with, your lordship. Our people have no minds for themselves. She's made laws making it a crime to be in possession of ambition. Because drudes and prudes alike have not thought for themselves for so many centuries, they have become conditioned to do nothing. Our population is dwindling due to the fact most have forgotten or lost interest in the prerequisites necessary for reproduction... The flesh is willing, but the spirit is weak!"

"So what do you want me to do, increase everyone's libido?! You don't need me, you need to bring back a bottle of Viagra!" I laughed.

Oingomeyer blurted out with an indignant tone, "With all respect, sir, it is no laughing matter!!... By the way, what's Viagra, some sort of soft drink?"

"I wouldn't know..." I blushed while trying to ignore Kram's irresistible yet unintentional pun, but soon after became distracted from our conversation as I noticed what appeared to be daylight slipping though the partially veiled window. "What's this, are we getting ready to land?"

"Yes, welcome to Apathonia, oh Great One!!"

I was just beginning to drop my guard around Kram... for he seemed to be an unthreatening sort. "Uh, you can knock off all that Great One stuff; dispite my universal significance, I'm just a regular guy just like you, Kram. From now on, why don't you just call me Clyde?"

"Clyde?!? Is that how you pronounce it?!" Kram laughed with an awkward bobbing of the head.
"Yes, Clyde. What's so funny?"

Kram could hardly catch his breath. "In Apathonian language what you pronounce as Clyde is the word used for urinal!!! You'd better let me refer to you as Great One around the others."
--------------------------------------------------

(Episode 9)
Always having its eye on The World, at all times....... This is NBS NEWS, serving the American people with the complete daily wrap up...... And now, here's NBS news anchor man..... Peter Waylon Jennings!!!!

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, we begin our report tonight with the possible alien abduction of ex-President Clyde P. Hipwing. According to a White House source, it began early Thursday afternoon when an un-named friend of the president checked him into Gladstone Psychiatric Hospital for severe depression and exhaustion.

The President was there for no more than 2 days when suddenly, sources say, three small peculiar beings lowered themselves through a ceiling attic door. As most nurses and doctors fled, and many of them fainted, witnesses say they proceeded down the hall to the ex-President's room and supposedly abducted him and made an escape out of a secured window.
With us on the scene is Ted Koppler. Ted, what new information do you have this afternoon?

Peter, I have two witnesses here at the Gladstone Mental Facility, two nurses as a matter of fact, who witnessed the event! Let's start with Ruth Snobgrass. Ruth, just what did you see!?

"Ok hun, I was at the front desk, and had just got finished with a bed pan... The light in room 203 had just gone off, and that was Mr. Michael's room. Mr. Michael had just had a BM and it was his first all week!! We were quite thrilled for him, considering all the fiber mixed with juice we made him drink. Anyway, Sally, one of the candy stripers let out a blood curdling scream...."

She saw the Aliens?!?!

"No, she had to clean Mr. Michael's bed because he didn't get to the port-o-potty in time!"

Yeah, yeah, when exactly did you see the Aliens?

"Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't. But Susan here, did! Tell them what you saw, hun."

"I saw that each of them had two huge black eyes, a bulbous head, and six fingers on each hand. It was awful.. I..I never want to see them again!!"

Did they say anything to you?... Did you communicate with the Aliens in any way, shape, or form!?

"Well, one of them did mention they had been traveling for two days straight... he was jumping up and down, holding himself, and kept repeating over and over, "Do you have a Clyde?! Do you have a Clyde?!" I checked the patient list, and the only Clyde I found was the ex-President, so I showed him where to go."

Well, there you have it, Peter, a couple of witnesses and their first hand stories. Back over to you....

Thanks, Ted. We now have on the phone a Dr. Giles Endicotsley, a retired university professor, who claims to not only know where the Aliens came from, but has been to their planet when he himself was abducted. He also claims to know what they want. Uh...Mr. Endicotsley, can you substantiate your claims with proof of any kind?

"Hello, Peter, all I have I'm afraid is me word. The aliens are from a distant planet 50 light years away, called Apathonia."

And just what do they want with the ex-President? Do you believe he is in harm's way?

"Oh, no, no, no. A friendly bunch I have to say. I don't know what they want with the President, but as for meself, the lads just wanted me to make a courtesy call to some blasted television station in Roswell, New Mexico. The Greatest Of Greats merely wanted me to ask them for a copy of a silly program they had been receiving on television from earth...."

I see; just what exactly transpired with that, as you say, courtesy call?

"Well, a bit of a disaster, I'm afraid. The saucer crashed into a blasted weather balloon but my very dear colleague and friend, Derf, was kind enough to transport me back to my time frame. If you're familiar with the infamous rumor about a saucer crashing there in 1947, it's true... it was us. Bloody dreadful, it was. I was given the responsibility of notifying the US government about some grievances, expressed by the Council of Councils, concerning Apathonians being held here against their wishes. But, Peter, I don't really feel comfortable discussing much more than I've told you..."

Yes, Mr. Endicotsley, I understand you don't want to put your family through anymore than what it's gone through already, and of course, there's also the family's safety to consider....

"Oh well, it's not really that so much as I don't want to give out any more information until the book comes out in May..."

Thank you, Dr. Endicotsley... I'm Peter Waylon Jennings, and we'll be back after these messages.
-------------------------------------------

(Episode 10)
The Apathonian sun, Genodrah, was just on the verge of descending when Kram directed the pilot to find a secluded place to land in the Apathonian Evajom Desert, just outside of the capitol city of Tralalaboomdia. The flaming moon was just coming up over the eastern horizon, so we had no trouble perceiving a safe place to land after the Genodrahn sun had at last set.

The evening was filled with all sorts of strange sounds of various desert wildlife. The Evajom Desert was a ferine place during the planet's summer months as species preyed on other species for survival. In the distance one could hear the howling of the three-headed dongwazzle, a coyote-like canine with three heads that took turns eating, sleeping, or other doing other necessities, while the other two remained alert as caution against an attack from dissimilar animals that targeted them, such as barkbiters, or flying trees. They literally uprooted when a dongwazzle unsuspectingly took liberty on one of them, and attacked by pouncing on their victim while its roots would imbed into their skulls, and absorb their brains one head at a time. Dongwazzle is also a very kosher Authoritarian dish.

It never rained on the small pink planet of Apathonia, but the inhabitants never suffered for water because its large center core, starting at just less than 10 kilometers below its surface, was filled with liquid hydrogen. However, the barkbiters tore from their roots during the hot season, and flew heedlessly south in search of more shallow ground. The average mean temperature was around 20 degrees Celsius in the summer months and 15 degrees in the winter, so Apathonia was by far quite a cool planet in comparison with the Earth.

After walking some two hours, Kram located the gathering's dugout deepset in the fringe of a plateau. When we approached the metal shrapnel door, Kram had not knocked yet when the door slid open as several faces peeked outside. The Authoritarian fold were elated to see that Kram and his disciples had returned ok, but became timid as they noticed me following behind.

"Brothers and Sisters," Kram spoke, "I have brought to you the Great Divine Author!!!!"

All immediately sensed an inevitable liberation from the Greatest Of Great's evil empire would be soon underway, and rushed to my feet and began washing them with their tears, as I gently rubbed their smooth bald heads. "What is it you ask of me, children?... tell me what it is you want..."

"We want our freedom," they cried, "and our own America!!"

"You must learn to deem yourselves worthy of freedom... and soon you'll find your own America!!!" I insisted, lapping up all of the reverence being given me, like milk.

"Are you the Intellectually Inept?!" One of the elders asked.

"No! The Intellectually Inept are those who want to rob your minds... Depart from them, and look instead to follow the examples of the Cognitive Elite!" How everyone was still able to breathe I don't know, being it was starting to get REAL deep.

"Who are the Cognitive Elite, oh Great Author?"

"A certain schoolboy was flunking Algebra," I began, "He pleaded for assistance, though no one would help. Everyone was busy going on lunch break or going to recess, until finally he met a math tutor who was not only willing to help him with his homework, but furnished him with a place to study. The student not only passed the course, but received a B in the class.... I tell you the truth, all that refused to help him before failed to study, and there was much weeping and gnashing of teeth come test day when he refused to give them the answers!"

"Master, we don't understand, you speak in parables," one of the Authoritarians bemoaned.
"Don't you understand, even yet? Once you have discovered the Cognitive Elite within, the Intellectually Inept will quit pestering you!" Boy was that profound, I got duck-dots with that one! "Come, let us reason together, and we will overthrow the Greatest of Greats!"

I then passed out a stack of paper tablets and pencils to everyone, and told them to not be afraid, but boldly write out their their secret ambitions. This was to weed out the feeble from the courageous for the reason that some would become discouraged... and realize that coming after me to risk all was much too costly. "Everyone who's still with me.... let's march on the Buildings of Buildings to put the Greatest of Greats in her place. Once she's been overwhelmed with your self detemination... we win!!!"
--------------------------------------------

(Episode 11)
It was a beautiful Sunday morning in God's heaven as he was strolling in his garden of paradise, treating a few new residential neighbors to a guided tour (Jehovah, of course, was head of the Welcoming Commitee). He was pointing out to them the vine that grew around Jonah while he laid in anger toward God for not punishing the Ninivites, in the Old Testament. Someone spoke up and quizzed the Holy Of Holys if there was any validity to the story of Adam and Eve. "Well," he emphasized, "if you look over there, that's the tree of knowledge from which they partook and received the curse. I bet you can't guess what kind of fruit it grows," Jehovah questioned.

"Uh, excuse me most gracious heavenly Father, but I have two PhDs... one in biblical studies concerning how the Old and New Testament parallel each other concerning messianic prophesies and fulfillment, and another in the study of Jewish customs, concerning the Passover in the year of Jubilee... According to the extensive research I have performed, I found that the 'forbidden fruit' scenario was just figurative," a liberal scholar advised.

"Nope," God disagreed and shook his head, "It was kiwi. Adam and Eve lived on the outskirts of the Bay Of Plenty at the time, in New Zealand, and weren't supposed to mess with that particular tree. I told them they could eat anything else, but the kiwi was mine... So for their disobedience, I sent them North to kangaroo country where a Tasmanian Devil tormented them for generations, by forcing them to consume nothing but apples."

"So tell us, God, why are you not in church this morning, it's Sunday you know..."

God joyfully laughed, "Nah, I'm too much of an iconoclast for all that... just kidding!" His audience didn't know how to react to his sense of humor and were extremely afraid to laugh. "I wish you folks would check out a joke book or two from the Divine Library, and loosen up!"

"Excuse me, Jehovah, you just received an e-prayer from someone in need of your assistance," Archangel Michael interrupted.

"Well, it'll have to wait on my own timing, I'm with my friends and showing them the garden right now," God grumbled.

"But, but, sir, it's urgent...it's...it's Billy Graham, sir!" Michael announced.

"Oh my, why didn't you tell me that in the first place?!" God immediately ran inside as Michael explained to the others, "I'm sorry, you'll have to understand that when Mr. Graham speaks, even God listens."

Jehovah immediately took his PC out of sleep-mode (he used to just let it run at all times-- until he received last month's whopping bill from The Holy Ghost Power & Electric Company) and went online to his inbox to retrieve the following message:


DEAR HEAVENLY FATHER,
WE COME TO YOU, SIR, IN HOPES THAT IT IS YOUR WILL TO ANSWER ACCORDING TO OUR NEED. LORD, THE EX-PRESIDENT, CLYDE P. HIPWING, HAS BEEN KIDNAPPED BY A GROUP OF ALIENS FROM ANOTHER PLANET CALLED APATHONIA. LORD, IT IS OUR WISH FOR HIS SAFE RETURN. WE ASK THIS IN YOUR NAME, AND IN FAITH THAT YOU WILL ACT ACCORDING TO YOUR OWN GOOD WILL.

bgraham@nosuchwebaddress.com


"That's what I like about Billy's prayers, quick, to the point, and in faith!.... But most of all, in plain simple text... unlike a few who try impressing me with their e-prayers sent in html language which only causes my mouse to freeze up." God groaned, "Oh Michael!!!!?"


"Yes sir, Lord!"

"Dispatch a group of angels to the planet Apathonia, and make sure no harm comes to the American President," God decreed.

"Pardon me sir, but we received a report earlier that he's living it up, pretending to be a Christlike prophet, and gaining a planet-wide following," Michael informed his Lordship.

"Hmmm," God rested his chin on his hand while leaning his elbows on the computer desk, "Well, I guess he needs a lesson taught him... bring him to me!"

"Very well, sir!" Michael smiled in anticipation, and left to dispatch his heavenly hosts.
---------------------------------------------------

(Episode 12)
As the great Greek philosopher Esophagus once said, "don't chew more than you can swallow," President McCovey's job as leader of the free world was becoming quite an all-consuming burden, so he vowed to put aside all domestic and foreign policy until I was safely returned home. The public's ill disposition was rising as the government's explanation of the situation was vague at best.

"We ain't gonna rest till them Apathonians give in to my demands!!!" Ralph pledged to a gathering of reporters at a press conference in the rose garden.

"And just what are your demands, Mr. President, sir?" a pundit quickly asked as a follow-up then sat down again.

"If they don't return President Hipwing unharmed by next Monday...We're gonna blow their pip-squeak planet up with nuclear warheads! They ain't messin' with me!" The President pounded on his podium.

"But, Mr. President, we have no idea where their planet is! You really don't have a plan, do you, sir?" The reporter harped.

"Man, I'm outta here. I ain't gonna mess with you cats anymore!" Ralph huffed before storming back inside. The populace were in a state of panic, fearing that the aliens might come for just about anybody. The tabloids were having a great time capitalizing on everyone's fears, as they printed story after story about frequent alien horror stories. The President of "Ufologists For Jesus" was very openly outspoken in his opposition to all the negative press the aliens were given. "Let us go to them in love, and try to resolve this thing peacefully. Let us not hate our neighbors before we even meet them! Maybe the president ascended to his heavenly home with the help of these aliens, just like our Lord did two thousand years ago..."

Radio talk show host Flush Limbo suggested the Apathonians were nothing more than a bunch of deceased Democrats, reincarnated to a planet of their own. The heavenly liberals forgot what common sense was, and went to Earth to kidnap what they thought was a conservative, so they could observe me and be once more reminded what effective government was like.

Mystics and psychics joined in on the bandwagon as several claimed to be in communication with my kidnappers, telepathically. One of them claimed the Apathonians were beings who lived in a city inside the Sun. Every eleven years the Sun produces sunspots, which are holes that are cooler than the rest of the surface, where the Apathonians were able to go and come as they please so long as there were sunspots available to exit from. They happened to be vacationing on Earth recently, "and had befriended the President who wanted to journey back with them to the city inside the Sun. There is no need to worry about his safety..." one suggested, "he is to return shortly with a lovely tan."
-------------------------------------------------------

(Episode 13)
"Ten seconds, Barry!!!"

"Yeah, yeah," Mr. King sighed. "I wish you guys would pick an interesting subject for a change... Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! We've got a great show tonight. With us is the man who not only claims to have been abducted by the Apathonians, but was taken back to their planet! Professor Giles Endicotsley, it's a pleasure having you on the show tonight! Well, were they friendly?!!!" King excitedly asked.

"Good evening, Mr. King, sir. Well, let us just say...."

"You're the ex-President's third cousin, is that right?" Barry butted in.

"Well, yes," Giles began, "I had the good fortune to...."

"Uh huh, so, you're coming out with a book! When's it due out?"

"In May," Giles managed to successfully answer without being interrupted.

"Pardon?"

"In May.... I was just answering your....."

"Oh, congratulations on your recent wedding!!! How was the honeymoon? Know what I mean? huh? Huh? I bet she really appreciated the rejuvenated hardware!" Barry nudged and winked.

"I beg your bloody pardon!" Giles scorned and started to stand up but managed to hold his temper.

"Oh, we just got an e-mail from John in Kalamazoo. John says: 'I was abducted by a group of aliens last week... they tied me up then crossed back into the border and threw me out, while they ran off with my car... Darned Canadians!' Now that's a real good point," Barry announced, "what about those darned Canadians, Professor Endicotsley!?"

"What?!"

"Yeah yeah yeah, OK, let's take a phone call... Hello to Mot in Weinstamer, Apathanonia. You're on the air!"

"Uh, yes, hello!" the prankster spoke in a poor false accent.

"YES, GO AHEAD!!!" Barry yelled.

"Uh, yes, on behalf of the Apathonian people, I'd like to say your president is fine, and there is nothing to worry about as far as his safety is concerned. All we want is sixteen million dollars in cash, and we will return him." The supposed alien demanded, as insomniacs all over America excitedly turned up their television sets.
.
"Well, there you go, thanks for calling! What do you have to say about that, Mr. Endicotsley?" Barry smiled and asked stupidly while he disconnected the caller.

"HELLO! IS THE PARTY STILL THERE!!!!???" The professor yelled into the dead line, causing a startled Mr. King to knock over his glass of rich chocolate Ovaltine.

"Hey, easy Giles!" he complained, " I've got my aids turned up! You scared the living......"

"What's the matter with you?!" Giles shouted while slapping Barry on the head, "that was the president's captors!!!!"

"See there, ladies and gentlemen, not five minutes into my show and the mystery is solved....What a show! Damn, I'm good!" Barry gleamed. "We'll be back with Professor Endicotsley and your calls after this. Don't go away!"
----------------------------------------------

(Episode 14)
The Apathonian dusk was quickening by the minute as I and my Authoritarian following marched up to the Building of Buildings, readied with boldness. "Come out, your so-called greatness! We've come armed with our ambitions and demand your abdication of the throne!!!" I yelled up toward the courtyard balcony where Her Majesty was enjoying a majestic sunset.

Irol gazed down at us fully aware as to what our intent was, but, in her deceiving charm, called out, "Oh, how wonderful! Visitors! Oh, do please come in, boys and girls!" The Authoritarians all looked at each other and shrugged, then started heading towards the opening drawbridge.

"Hold it! It's a trick!" I warned.

"Oh, no, dear earthling, I've been hoping you'd show up! Come on up, hun. It's ok," she insisted. We made our way up the steps and down the hall until we approached the pretentious looking stained glass window door that opened as her majesty stood in the archway, offering a batch of fresh baked cookies on a silver platter. "And I suppose you're the Divine Author, how quaint! You can call me Irol, sweetheart." Her Greatness said while she extended her hand to me.

"We have a complaint with you, your Majesty," I spoke up. "These oppressed Authoritarians here say that you have been crushing their freedoms with the tyranny of your throne. That they are not to practice their beliefs. That they should have no say in the everyday affairs of their own lives."

"Oh, stop! Surely not little ol' me? Why, I have a deep love for my subjects. Tell you what, you tell me what you want, and I'll see that they get it, ok, hun?"

"OK, for starters they would like to enjoy more autonomy. You have no right refusing the masses to unite collectively while your imperial government oppresses the workers as slaves and refusing to share the wealth attained by the sweat off their backs!!!" (For some reason, what little I learned in Karl Marx 101 forced upon me as a prerequisite in college, spontaneously erupted from my mouth.)

"Well," she hesitated. "That's a bit much, sugarpie, but maybe we could work out a deal... I'll tell you what, you tell your followers to try and understand why we have such inconvenient laws, and I'LL LET THEM KEEP THEIR HEADS!!! Ok, hun?"

"Well," I sighed, "I guess this means war!!!!..... Ready, guys?" I asked, as everyone then boldly presented their secret ambitions on poster paper. The Greatest of Greats immediately felt faint and ordered them to leave, but they refused to go.

"All right! Please! (cough, cough) Maybe we can make a treaty! Please, for heaven sake, lay down your ambitions, I can't stand it!!!!" Her Greatness all but collapsed, and then rose slowly with an evil grin, laughing hideously, and then vomited a hugh fire ball, consuming at least ten Authoritarians and exterminating them. "So you think your ambitions scare me, heh? Out of here, before I kill all of you!!!" She hissed as we all fled.

Once back in the cave, the Authoritarians tried to remain optimistic, though defeat was obviously shrouding them as a dark cloud overhead. "It's no use, we'll never regain our freedom from the evil ones," some of them were moaning.

"Oh, ye generation of little faith, we must press on further and find the right weapon to bring defeat upon them. Are your backbones nothing more than a wishbone? So, ok, our ambitions were not enough...."

Kram spoke up, "Yes, but now we must set goals with our ambitions, and if that's not enough, perhaps once setting goals for ourselves, we should begin pursuing them!!!" Some of the less committed Authoritarians fled, for this was a hard saying.

"Excellent, Kram! She surely won't be able to withstand such faith. Everyone! Begin setting goals, tomorrow we attack!!!"
----------------------------------------------------

(Episode 15)
The night was long as I tossed and turned in my sleep. The wind harmonized with the distant howling of a dongwazzle. Tomorrow would be great timing for the assault on the Council Of Councils, I figured, since the barkbiters, or flying trees, were cluttering the sky as they were migrating toward more shallow ground, and would block the morning's light so as to hide us better. In anxiousness, I could sleep no more and decided to launch an early offensive. I charged Kram to head the troops as we marched into Tralalaboomdia, Apathonia's capitol city. The overall feeling of confidence led us straight up the main road leading to the Building of Buildings.

"We have a bone to pick with you, your so-called Greatness," I once again announced up toward the courtyard balcony.

Queen Irol approached her window, trying to focus her eyes as she had just awoke. "Oh dear!" she acknowledged, "It's a bit early, sweetie, can't we meet after the Genodrahn sun comes up?"

"Nothing doing! We want our demands met here and now!" Kram yelled.

"Oh, you and your silly ambitions don't amount to doodlee squat, I'm afraid. Go home and just be good law-abiding citizens, ok?" she sneered.

I dauntlessly informed her, "Oh, we don't just have ambitions anymore! We've come prepared with goals, and we've made preparations in carrying them out!"

"We can surely work out something sensible before you all go to such extremes!!!" she gasped.

"I'm afraid the time for negotiations is a bit too late unless you're prepared to make some drastic changes, such as the abdication of your throne," Kram threatened.

"I'm sorry, as much as I'd like to help you," Irol apologized while feeling faint and dizzy, "I... I... I just can't do it..." On that occasion, after nearly passing out from being overwhelmed by our boldness, she forced two fingers into her mouth and gave a shrill whistle. Immediately several barkbiters hovering overhead pounced onto the crowd and began sucking the brains out of a few unfortunates. As for Kram and myself, we were knocked unconscious and apprehended. Once regaining our senses, we both discovered we were chained up side by side, upside down, hanging by our feet in Queen Irol's courtyard for every passerby to take notice.

"Be not afraid, little ones," I reassured the concerned, "Dawn will come even if I should not live to see her arrive, and she shall avenge us!"

Kram and myself were later brought before the Council Of Councils, and made to sit and wait upon our fate. In front of us, strangely, was some freshly made tea and crumpets. Her Greatness had just come out of the ladies' room from freshening up in preparation for our sentencing.

"Well, I'm really so sorry to do this, boys, but you leave me no choice. You know, you both could have been such great subjects in the hierarchy of my administration, and because of the kind of girl I am, I am offering you both clemency if you'll just serve me......... Otherwise, I'm afraid it's off to the atomic-egg-beater."

There was a long, thoughtful silence until Kram reached for her right hand and kissed it with admiration... and the desire to remain among the living. "Your Majesty," he cooed as he knelt.

"Kram! What are you doing?!" I scowled with disgust.

"Oh, Kram dear, you're making me blush! And what about you, hun?" she asked me, winking all the while.

I slowly sat up, cleared my throat, smiled, and then spit in her eyes.

"How dare you! Take him to the atomic-egg-beater, right now! And... And force all the Authoritarians to feast on his brains," she demanded to an intern. "I swear, the nerve of some men!!!"

On the way to my execution that evening I waved to the cheering and scoffing Apathonians. The Authoritarians remained silent, fearing retribution. I was brought up to the elevated platform where they attempted to intimidate me by making me watch while they put a large dongwazzle egg under the machinery, to demonstrate my impending demise. "This is your brain," the executioner boasted, then added as he pulled the lever, "and this is your brain on toast!" When the crowd gasped, I turned to them with a confident smile.

They bound my hands and feet, and pushed me toward the deadly contraption. They then laid me on my back, without a blindfold, on a board that was slid under the mechanical arms. A large Apathonian who looked like he hadn't gone any farther than the third grade mumbled, "Fee Fie Foe Fum.... ah heck, I can't count," and then pulled back on the lever as I felt my skull fracture over the hot skillet. Then, there was nothing...
-------------------------------------

(Episode 16)
I awoke from the nightmare of my short physical life and found myself in a euphoric grassy field. I rose to my feet and noticed in the distance a beautiful gate with a bearded man who appeared to be guarding it. As I approached I noticed my walk seemed exceptionally effortless.

"Hey, you there! You're supposed to check in with me before you go wandering around. Get over here. Come on!" The bearded man called out.

I seemed to approach him immediately at the moment he ordered me to come hither, "Where am I, and who are you?"

"Oh, please, can't you new people ever think of something original to ask? I've heard that on a daily routine for two thousand years now!" St Peter rolled his eyes. "What's your name, son?" he asked flipping through a book of reservations.

"Clyde P. Hipwing."

"Clyde P.... Oh, you're the one who wrote that silly book the boss gave to everyone at Christmas! I ought to... No, he's probably watching," the bewhiskered fellow complained.

"Is this Heaven?" I asked.

"Well, inside this gate is.... Actually, you're standing in Purgatory! You better step in here before you have to suffer awhile! Little joke... Come in, the boss is waiting.... Ok Gabe, do your thing!!!!"

We proceeded to the heavenly door as Gabriel played a few resounding bars of "The Bugle Boy Of Company B." "What was that supposed to be?!" I asked startled.

"If you've been paying attention to this story all along you ought to know by now!" he scoffed.

Archangel Michael escorted me the rest of the way to the Holy Throne as Peter went back to his watchman duty. When I caught a glimpse of God I all at once felt faint, but something beyond my control kept me on my feet.

"Jehovah, this is Mr. Clyde P. Hipwing," Michael announced.

God seemed to be looking up at the stars overhead, admiring his handiwork. "Yes, of course. We've got lots to talk about, young man!"

I swallowed hard. "Uh, we do?"

"Let's talk about the book!!!" he waved his finger at me in a scolding fashion.

"Um. Uh, I'm sorry, sir, that I didn't read it as much as I should have, you see...."

"No, no!" God interrupted, "not mine, yours!"

"M-Mine?" I stuttered.

"A very entertaining piece of writing, son, but what's with the idea of borrowing ideas from mine, such as, manna falling from heaven? Hmmm?" God leaned closer.

"Well, that was just for humor's sake, sir. I...."

"Humor, Heh?" God sighed. "Well, let's see, you've read my book three times now, I assume that's right. Just between authors.... What did you think of mine?"

"Huh?!?! You're asking me what I thought about.... Well, I've always loved it, sir! Honest! But, some parts confuse me.... not that it's confusing, sir!!! But, I'm sure a lot of people get confused. Have you ever thought about writing a follow up that would better explain it to us feeble-witted humans?"

"Yes, I've thought of it... But, I'm afraid that would cause a lot of trouble. There are a lot of books out there that I've supposedly written, you know. I'll admit, I've co-written a few, but my co-authors usually get tarred and feathered, or worse," God lamented. "I do need to revise it one of these days, cause there's a big typo error in the New Testament... it was supposed to read: 'Repent and be Baptist, for all fall short of the glory of the Assembly Of God.....'hee hee... that was a joke son, chill out!"

"God, did I....."

"I wish you wouldn't call me that, it sounds so generic... my name is Jehovah and I like it just fine!"

"Ok, Jehovah then," I corrected myself. "Is.. is this where I'm going to be from now on? I tried to live a good life..."

"No, I'm sorry!"

"NO? Oh, I see," I hung my head to the ground in disappointment and dismay.

"No, I just wanted to talk to you, that's all... I'm sending you back, you see," God smiled.

"To where?"

"Where do you want to go?"

"I want to stay here!!!" I protested.

"No, I'm sorry, you're only 37 years old, and besides, we're a bit behind on our mansion building because of the lack of cut timber due to a work stoppage in Purgatory. I'm thinking about sending you back to Apathonia to undo all the mess you've created, trying to portray yourself as a Omnipotent being" God scolded.

"Well, if I go back now, after I've been beheaded they're gonna really think I'm the Creator, especially after resurrecting from the dead!!!" I nervously laughed aloud.

"I suppose you're right," God joined in laughter, "Even though the Apathonians really know better.... You see, humans on planet Earth, in the city of Atlantis, began DNA experimentation, creating six fingers on all newborns for better dexterity, about 10,000 BC. Things got out of hand though, as scientists began mutating animals with humans. A small group of God-fearing Earth dwellers that didn't like what was going on, fled in search of a deserted and habitable planet, thus Apathonia came into being. They're all born with an innate knowledge of the true Creator, just like humans, because the Apathonians and the people of Earth are really one and the same... they've just been genetically modified. I destroyed the remaining few on Earth during the flood...." God then changed the subject, "Well, they're plenty worried about you on Earth, so I suppose I'll send you back there, but don't tell them how you came back. I don't need anymore people going crazy worshipping anyone else but me. Just go back to your meager paper route!"

"And I suppose I should lie about the truth?" I kiddingly tested God., "I would rather return to the Oval Office and get another crack at it. I think I can be a better President if you'll just give me one more chance, and send me back before I was abducted by the Apathonians... By the way, could I please have my dog and cat back too... I miss my two best friends horribly."

God was obviously moved by my request and reached for a soft cloud to blow his nose on. "All right, no problem, but I'm afraid your friend Ralph has bowed out. He'd been praying for an easy way to escape all the responsibility you left him with, but another goofball named Ross Parole, has been begging me for the job for 8 years now, so I let him have it... I guess I can demote him to V.P. once you take up office again."

"Ross Parole?" I gasped.

"Yes... so are you ready to go back now, Mr. Hipwing?"

"No, wait a minute, Jehovah, there are a lot of questions I've always wanted to ask you!"

"Here we go again," God rolled his eyes and sighed.

"What exactly are black holes, you know, out in space?" I asked in suspense of learning what no other scientist would even come close to understanding.

"Black holes, huh?" God laughed, "Well, you might say they are my version of Windows 95, but of course, on a much grander scale. Ok, any more?"

"Yeah, which DID come first, the chicken or the egg?"

"Hmmmmmmm, chicken or the..... Look, I don't have time for such foolishness. I'm sending you back now."

"But, God I..."

"Sorry, see you in six months!" God warned.

"SIX MONTHS?!?!"

"Ha, Ha! Just a divine joke.... Toodle loo!" God laughed.

Suddenly I felt myself going down a large and strange black tunnel, all the stars and planets in the universe seem to be flying by. I looked below and there was an approaching light. It was getting closer, closer, and closer... After getting even a closer observation, I noticed below me an approaching couch. Why, it was a Psychiatric couch!

(PLOP!!!!)
-----------------------------------------------------

(Episode 17)
DR: Hey Clyde, how did we do this week?

ME: Doc?!

DR: Something wrong, Clyde?

ME: Boy, you just wouldn't believe what this week has been like!

DR: Oh, so tell me about it, Clyde.

ME: Well, you know! Since I was in the hospital, I.....

DR: When were you in the hospital?

ME: Oh, come on, Doc!

DR: No, No! Tell me about it, Clyde!

ME: When Flush checked me in! Remember? Well, I was kidnapped by a group of Apathonians, who were actually rebel Authoritarians... Anyway, I was taken to their planet and worshipped as a god. We made war on the Greatest of Greats, but lost, I'm afraid.

DR: Go on! Go on! This is very interesting!

ME: Well, I lost my head in the atomic-egg-beater, then ended up in heaven and met God and all his heavenly hosts! He told me it wasn't my time and sent me back. So, here I am!

DR: My! It HAS been a busy week, huh?

ME: The busiest, Doc!

DR: Hmm, so how do you feel about all this?

ME: What do you mean?

DR: Clyde? Why won't you take your meds? You've been reneging on me, haven't you?

ME: Well, Doc, I quit taking them shortly before you tried to do Electro Shock Therapy on me.

DR: ELECTRO SHOCK THERAPY?!?!

ME: Yeah, but then Homer put me under anesthesia so he could put a chip on my shoulder, remember?

DR: Oh!! Yes! Yes! Say, um, Clyde, why don't we try that procedure again?

ME: Nah! I'm doing fine now, Doc!

DR: So tell me about Homer, is he one of your friends?

ME: Well, we've talked about him before, Doc.

DR: We have? Oh, we have! Yes, well I have a bad memory. Let's talk about him again.

ME: Well, he's not actually a real person, you see I made him up. We got along real well till he got out of my imagination and tried to take over the world....

DR: That must have been very scary for you.

ME: Yeah, but my likeness, Claude, assisted me in overthowing him and then I became President of the United States... I later resigned but God gave me the job back!

DR: I see...

ME: What are you writing?

DR: Does it bother you when I write?

ME: Well, I just thought you weren't listening and just doodling or something.

DR: Oh No!! I just want to remember all this for later, that's all!

ME: So you still think I need to be on meds, huh?

DR: Well, I've asked your family to come today. They want to confer with you what they feel about your situation.

ME: Family?

DR: Yes, just a moment... they're right outside the door. Maggie! Matilda! Please come in, folks!

ME: Matilda?! Maggie?!

DR: Yes, have a seat and let's begin with you, Matilda.

MATILDA: Oh yes, I do worry about him much, he's just not himself anymore!

DR: Tell us about that, Matilda.

MATILDA: Well, he hasn't played a game of ping-pong with me in ages!

ME: But.... But.

DR: Maggie, do you have any input on the situation?

MAGGIE: Forgive me, Clyde, but you really need help!

DR: Matilda?

MATILDA: Oh, luv, I miss my old friend. Please, do it for us!

DR: Well, there you go, Clyde. I realize this is professionally unethical, asking your family to come without your permission, but I really care for you, Clyde. Now, about this writing business... why don't you take up something less harmful to your health. Say, something like poetry, maybe. This story writing is going to get you killed, and that's the truth.

ME: Truth?..... Truth comes as a cynical comedienne, yet she's the only one laughing. She opens up her book of candor, as I walk away.... I'm no longer kissing her shadow... I spit out the dust between my teeth and realize the bitter taste of asphalt..... Pulling away at the pedestal, I fall to the ground, though she's left standing.... not to notice. A rose colored thorn and yet I didn't feel the razor's edge, I chose to listen instead to the voice of Desire. He would often whisper to her in song, but she wasn't listening, instead she left him babbling.... trying to say what's never been said before. How she must have loved the moment. Desire is a stranger to me, now. He still beckons me, but I can't forgive him for all the foolish things I've done! Truth offers me her book once more.... though reluctant, I peek inside and see myself on a lonely beach, resembling Vincent Van Gogh holding his ear in his hand. But, after gazing up into the Starry, starry night.... I throw it into the sea and begin Painting holes in my memory!......

DR: Yeah, Ok, so forget my idea about poetry. Maybe you should take up crocheting. Anyway, don't forget your meds.

ME: Ok, no problem. Oh Doc, my insurance company called about a week ago and said they won't fork over anymore payments for the year, until I meet next year's deductible of $200... and I'm flat broke until then!

DR: Why that's wonderful, Clyde!!!

Me: What do you mean?!

DR: Don't you get it, Clyde? You're finally well, and you won't have to come see me anymore! But, to be safe, let's schedule an appointment for early January after you meet your deductible, just to make sure you're still doing OK!

ME: By the way, Doc... I have a question.

DR: Sure, what is it?

ME: Do you have a name?

DR: Oh Clyde, I'm so sorry, you'll have to excuse me. I'm Dr Radford, but you can call me Alice...

ME: I'll bet that surprised the readers!

DR: Readers, Clyde?

ME: Ah nothing. Must have been a tongue spasm from all the Prolixen I was on. Come on, Maggie! Come on, Matilda! Ok, let's get this settled right now..... Who wants to drive?

DR: Ok, Clyde, hang in there. See you next year!.....(Sigh) Poor fellow!
--------------------------------
THE MARK OF THE ANTI-BEAST
(Episode 1)
"I realize this is an odd place to take an intermission, but," my Right-brain asked my Left-brain, "Whad'ya think of this double trilogy so far?"

"Oh, uh, yeah," Left-brain shook his head, "A lot of confusing stuff, man!"

"Oh yeah, whad'ya mean?"

"The first trilogy was called, Aboard My Train Of Thought... how can you board a thought?" Left-brain asked bewildered.

"You know what I don't like about you, Lefty?"

"...What?" Left-brain didn't ask, after a long pause.

"You're supposed to say 'what?'"

"Ok, what?" Lefty sighed.

Right-brain shook his index finger and scolded, "you're so doggone literal, you never make an attempt to think abstractly!"

"Well if it weren't for me, Mr. Hipwing would be a blooming idiot and unable to engage in a regular conversation, without going all out in left field... no double meaning there. Hey, did you notice that the word antiestablishmentarianism is nowhere to be found in this book?... Oh, I was wrong, there it was..."

"You musta put it there, I sure as heck didn't!" Right-brain scoffed.

"Is all of this some sort of allegory?"

"I never thought about that, Lefty, I'm impressed!" Right-brain expressed.

"Wasn't he the one who invented the internet?"

"Who?" Right-brain asked, confused.

"Allegory, of course!" Left-brain proudly answered in jest.

"Cute... Humor isn't YOUR job, that's MY job!" Right-brain complained.

"So why does this book need a sixth story?" Left-brain asked.

Right-brain thought wisely to himself and answered. "...Because it's missing."

"Hmmm, I guess that's logical enough..." Left-brain commented while tossing the manuscript aside. "But while you're writing it, I'm going to go do some of what I am more adept at doing, like balancing the check book... See ya."
----------------------------------------------------

(Episode 2)
It was an unusually solitary evening in the town of Dunghill, Missouri, as Ira Stippens lay in his bathtub, reading his waterproof version of The Confessions Of Saint Augustine, while chomping on a freshly picked pear plucked from his neighbor's backyard tree. Suddenly, he took notice of something seriously distracting. He quickly raised up as his bathwater forthwith seemed to gasp for breath. At first he was shocked, then quite disgusted... He hadn't cleaned in between his toenails in over a month; much less trimmed them. Still dismayed, he pole-vaulted out of his bathtub as there came a knock at the front door. Ira, with mind still occupied on his toenails, swung the door open and was at once greeted by a scrawny, bald, tambourine-carrying, Hare Krishna type.

"Where the blazes did YOU come from?!" Ira smirked.

"Dallas, Texas....Why?" the stranger asked. "My name is Ravi Ohlee. Did you know that by eating meat, you're eating Jesus?"

Ira, being a devout man in his own right, quickly picked up his New International Version study bible, then paraphrased slightly, "Jesus said, 'it don't matter what you put in your mouth, it's what comes from inside that defiles you'... in other words, you're full of crap!"

As Ira was about to hurl the door shut, Ravi wedged his foot in what was left of the narrow opening. "Do you always answer your door naked?"

"The door is not naked!" Ira muttered as he slammed it closed and went back to his welcoming bathtub, and proceeded to cleaning his toenails.

Just who was this man, Ira Stippens, a man of many legends? No, just an insignificant member of the board of trustees at The First United Church Of Prosperity, in Dunghill, who wore the same army fatigues, day after day, since retiring from his service in Viet Nam.

A lonely and eccentric divorcee since his late 40's, when he returned from Nam a changed man. He had let his hair, beard, and sideburns go, before his faithful wife greeted his return, and to her displeasure, he was now a total stranger. Their wedlock of 20 years came to an abrupt end when she filed for divorce on the grounds of "unrecognizable differences."

But Ira was a well respected member of the church community, and despite his rather good-for-nothing appearance, he was the biggest contributor in the entire fellowship. Dr. Screamer, the church pastor, was quite fond of the old man, but the congregation's only elder, Brother Name-It-Claim-It, had a bad taste in his mouth when it came to Stippens, and tried more than once to persuade the pastor to ask him to step down from the deacon-ship.

The church monthly evening fellowship dinner and singing service was about to come to order one significant Sunday evening, as Irma McGillicutty waddled with sheet music in hand up to the piano, and began playing a rather staccato version of "Onward Christian Soldiers." It was at that moment that Ira came inside from having a smoke and reclined in his own pew. Widow Jane Rutherford sweetly tapped Ira from behind and eagerly commented, "Good evening Ira, are you wearing Old Spice Aftershave?... It smells so manly!"

Ira, who was not going to let himself be taken in by such ladylike flirtations, him-hawd, "...Uh no, it's VERY Old Spice underarm deodorant," in return.

Brother Name-It caught a glimpse of Stippens sitting down and whispered something naughty in his wife's ear. She slapped his knee in a humored scolding. As Irma banged on the piano with much enthusiasm, several church members noticed her feet were no longer touching the pedals. Then her hands could no longer reach the keys. She seemed to be ascending slowly upward. Then she realized the same thing, and shrieked like a cat under a rocking chair. The eyes of the congregation followed her up toward the top of the ceiling, as their mouths opened as wide as the suction end of a toilet plunger. She had just crashed through the steeple attic stained-glass window when her husband of 35 years woke from his snooze and queried, "Do we eat yet?!"

"Oh my God!" Brother Name-It lamented loudly, "The rapture! I've been left behind!!"

Dr. Screamer rushed up to the podium and tried to throw water into the fire, so to speak, and urged for calm. "Everyone settle down, there's got to be an explanation for this! Now let's quiet down as brother Barnhardt will lead us in hymm number 145... Let's take it from the chorus:

"... And he walks with me, and he talks with me, and he calls me up on the phone...."


Following the dinner and fellowship, Ira, like always, volunteered before the evening was through, to clean up. Dr. Screamer begged for everyone to give him a hand... he received a standing ovation (before they all rushed to Martha's Sip & Chew... ). After locking all the doors, Ira headed home, but was startled to hear what sounded like someone moaning in pain. He got out from under the street lamp and noticed the Hari Krishna freak he had encountered days earlier, shaking his tamborine, and singing while holding out a coffee can. "What the hell are you doin' out here?!" Ira demanded.

"Oh yes, it's the naked bible thumper," Ravi scoffed. "Have you heard that the end is near? As we speak, Brahma and Vishnu are snatching the enlightened ones from the earth before the great Shiva destoys the planet!!"

"What are you talking about, does this have something to do with the disappearance of Mrs. McGillicutty?!" Ira interrogated.

However, before Mr. Ohlee would respond, a greenish haze engulfed his entirety as he slowly floated upward with a sense of tranquility on his face. Ira was suddenly drenched in a cold sweat, as the man faded into a single speck in the night's sky. Why was this happening? he wondered... It all surely wasn't an act of God. No, Stippens knew something sinister was at hand, for he smelled something foul... as he sat on the curbside and began biting his filthy toenails.
----------------------------------------------

(Episode 3)
Subsequently having been rehired into the highest office in the land by way of the back door, I was in deep bewilderment the following morning over the thousands who disappeared into the clouds the night before, while I paced the floor of the oval office. My new Vice President, Ross Parole, was doing an outstanding job of getting on my nerves as he paced in the opposite direction all the while humming, "The Yellow Rose Of Texas." I wasn't so sure our alliance was going to work. On his first day of employment he informed me that for the betterment of the country I should let him wield the big stick of policy making. I refused.

"Mr President, I gotta darn tootin' idee as to what we ort to do. Since all these people are now kaput, we could balance the budget by freezing all their assets, then liquidate all that cash into a trust fund, and..."

"Go get me some coffee, Mr. Vice President," I growled while stomping on a rather large bug. This all consuming enigma was to be the biggest challenge to my presidency thus far. All across the United States at least 35 thousand people had been reported missing in one night. There was panic in the big cities as thousands sought refuge in the thick forests and countryside from what most thought was the wrath of God. I had to repose the people's fears with not a minute to waste, so I hurriedly addressed a group of reporters in the rose garden. "Today we face a grim situation. We have no clue as to any explanation for this large-scale national security situation. But I as your President promise to put all my efforts in gear to quickly resolve the issue, and have put the National Guard on alert. The safety of the American people is my main concern. I'm inviting all heads of state around the globe to join us in a co-operative effort to find a solution."

My speech did little but exacerbate the situation as some, who hadn't been aware of the situation, now also feared for their own safety. The news media just reported the news and didn't attempt to explain or express any theories. For once, they realized the moral obligation of keeping everyone calm.

As the week went by, more than 100 thousand people all over the country were witnessed ascending into the heavens like shooting stars. I finally had to call out the National Guard to deal with the hysteria, but was reluctant to bestow upon them full authority. All interstates were blocked off and all citizens ordered to stay at home, but the fear grew in intensity as some fanatical religious groups rejoiced in the happenings, and convinced quite a few non-believers of the biblical relevance of the circumstances. Churches were running out of room, and infidels begged the religious community to pray to their God to save them.

The Pastor at The First United Church Of Prosperity, Dr. Screamer, begged for calm from his emotional flock. He encouraged everyone to remain objective, and was encouraged that at least one important member of his church, Ira Stippens, had some sense.
-----------------------------------------

(Episode 4)
A groggy Stippens awoke from his slumber a morning after he burned the midnight oil researching the writings of Albert Einstein and Isaac Asimov; hoping to find anything that might explain physiologically the reasons for the daily disappearances. He clumsily threw back his cover and knocked over a stack of books on the foot of the bed. "Well hell, be that way!" he grumbled.

In spite of Ira's religious conversion 30 years ago, he was not an alarmist... but weighed everything with a grain of salt before he'd give a reaction. Here was a man who had been through a bitter divorce, war, poverty.... and above all, two deadly tornados both in one afternoon. It happened in 1975, when one April, an F4 was spotted on the ground four miles south of Dunghill, traveling north. Ira was bagging groceries that afternoon when the sky became frightningly black and the sirens blew. No one in the grocery store had any time to get to safety, much less think. The tornado had already destroyed the high school, courthouse, and three fourths of the homes in Dunghill when it finally lifted and dissipated back into the clouds. It was fortunate that there were no fatalities. But, there wasn't much time for anyone to rejoice, as another tornado, this time an F5, roared into town while everyone dodged for cover again while praying. The twister stayed on the ground of the small community for an astonishing 35 minutes. The populous was sure this was going to be it. There would be nothing left of the town. However when it was all over, the township was astonished to discover that the storm had completely rebuilt the courthouse, the high school, furnished homes with new siding, hauled all the debris of the former storm to the city dump, erected a beautiful fountain in the middle of the town square, transfered a totally intact Goodyear rubber and tire manufacturing plant all the way from Little Rock into the once dying business district of town; and even delivered groceries to the local shut-ins!.. But even that spectacular incident failed to raise the eyebrows of laid-back Ira Stippens. Nevertheless his calm would today for the first time be put to the test.

Ira dragged his feet in approaching the cockroach infested kitchen and reached into the refrigerator to grab a carton of buttermilk, which he would pour on top of his bran flakes.
As he reached in his t-shirt shoulder pocket for a smoke this particular morning, he noticed a rather large junebug making what would be its fateful final destination. Ira took great pleasure in squashing him with a three day old sock covering his left foot, before slipping on his shoes... again without changing his woollies. He wondered why his cigarette tasted so foul until he slipped on his bifocals and noticed he'd lit the filtered end. Nearly stumbling over a hugh accumulation of dirty clothes, he then returned to the bedroom with his breakfast bowl of bran and a warm glass of prune juice.

He reached up to his bedside black-and-white, and searched for something thought provoking to watch, then laid back down after tuning in on a courtroom TV drama:

"Has the jury reached a decision yet?" The judge asked.

"Yes we have, Your Honor... the bagel sandwiches were awfully dry yesterday, so everyone agrees on pizza today!" The jury foreman answered while salivating.

"Very well, this court is now adjourned for an hour recess, I get the swings!!!"


We interrupt this program to bring you a special news bulletin. Now here is NBS news reporter, Peter Waylon Jennings, in New York!

Thanks Joe... NBS news has just received word from a White House source that Vice President Ross Parole has been missing since last evening. The President is urging calm, and says he's fully confident that Mr Parole... (Click!)


Ira quickly turned the television off, mumbled a quick prayer, then grabbed his double barrel shotgun from the wall, and darted out the door at an impressive speed for someone in his seasoned physical state. "Come get me, you cowards!" he yelled, just as Brother Name-It-Claim-It came strolling up, wondering what the heck was going on.

"Brother Stippens, what'r you doin'?!" Name-It scolded inquisitively, all the while carrying what looked like a large roll of raffle tickets.

"There aint no way in hell they're gonna get me!" Stippens defied.

"Watch your language, Brother Stippens! I just dropped by to offer you some 'rapture tickets'... they're only a hundred bucks each, and if you purchase one now, I can guarantee you an early departure!" the shrewd elder offered.

Ira had a real hard time holding back his disgust. "You no good... you'd probably sell your soul if someone offered the right price!"

Ira had real contempt for the likes of Brother Name-It, who more than once had been caught with his hand in the church collection plate. He also almost caused a church-split over the biblical consent of having a kitchen built next to the sanctuary. But the silliest antic of all was when Brother Name-It demanded Pastor Screamer resign because he failed to agree on a revelation he'd been given, that concerning their belly buttons, Adam and Eve both had outies instead of innies. Ira disdained the troublemaker at best.

As elder Name-It was trying to talk Stippens into buying a rapture ticket in his polished Amway-like presentation, he then realized the immediate unforeseen weightlessness of his own body, as he swiftly began rising from where he was standing. "Praise the Lord, Ira; I'm going to my glory, at last!"

"Not if I can help it," Stippens declared, lifting his gun toward the sky while shooting wildly in all directions. The words "Cut it out, Ira!" sternly reverberated across the forenoon sky, as Name-It rapidly climbed upward in gleeful anticipation of his new heavenly home.

Stippens rushed back inside to retrieve some shotgun shells. While reloading, he felt something cold and prickly on his shoulder and frantically wiped it off. "Man, these junebugs are really big this year," he spoke aloud to himself.

Once more he felt something crawling-- this time on his head. He tried unsuccessfully to pluck it off, but it wouldn't budge for being tangled in his hair. So he stooped his upper body downward and aimed his rifle in reverse (barely over his head) and pulled the trigger, narrowly missing his scalp, but successfully shooting down the chandelier he'd been wanting to take down for many years anyway. In a panic, here fired in all directions as he kicked open the front door to escape.
-------------------------------------

(Episode 5)
Elsewhere, our new friend, Ravi Ohlee, the transcendental tambourine man who had been sucked into outer space, discovered himself in a cylinder shaped room with a wall of red velvet that was well illuminated, though no visible artificial source of light such as a lamp could be found. The sound of grinding metal startled his ears at the same time the ceiling overhead slid open, and a giant bloodshot hazel colored eyeball, that was as wide as the ceiling itself, seemed to be studying him.

Ravi assumed the great eye to be divine and prostrated himself in awe. "Oh great Krishna, at last I enter your kingdom. I have read the Bhagavad-Gita many times. I've refrained from eating flesh... and I have..um, pretty much led a celibate life!"

The eye followed him around the cramped room as he began banging his tambourine, and singing a hideous version of that monotonous Hare Krishna song that anyone (who's ever been to an airport) could recognize with no effort. The ceiling sealed shut momentarily, then opened again, and an oversized nose pinned Ravi to the floor as it began sniffing him. Ravi began to have second thoughts about the divinity of the situation. He reared back and clobbered the intruding snout in self-defense.

Abruptly, an immense mouth with horrid breath entered upon the scene. "Hey, why did you go and hit my friend Nose like that?! Huh? What?" Mouth asked. "I can't hear you, I'll have to go get Ear... if I can pull him away from his Bose Radio."

Following a series of other tests, Ravi was scooped up through the ceiling with some kind of mechanical shovel, and dumped in a large room among a diversity of other people who turned to study him like a book. "Surely this isn't nirvana," he surmised.

A rather frantic middle aged woman rushed to his side and begged to know, "Are you God?"
"Aren't we all?" Ravi gleefully responded.

Her face turned pallid as she turned away shrieking, "Oh my God, we're all in hell!!"

The 100 thousand or so claustrophobics banged their fists on the metallic walls while crying out for help, and a wall slid open from left to right, exposing some sort of movie screen. A loud friendly sounding voice, on that occasion, announced over a public address system, "Friends from Earth! The Greatest Of Greats, Her Majesty, Queen Irol, sends her love and wants you to know you won't be harmed! You are all invited to help your world as well as ours, by involving yourselves in an interplanetary goodwill act of diplomacy between our two planets! Our featured movie this afternoon is an Apathonian classic western called, "Shootout Beneath The Flaming Moon," starring, Gerg Ydarb! Relax, there is plenty of popcorn and refreshments for everyone!..."

In the time frame exactly parallel, on the third stone in our own solar system, and within the outer fringe of its own galaxy, Earth's citizens had just breathed a moment of relief at the same time a new crisis had just begun. The unexplainable disappearances had seemed to cease for now. The new dilemma began to snowball ever since insects known as junebugs, commenced to procreating and growing in size at an alarming rate. Crops were being destroyed. Telephone lines were being devoured, and nationwide interstate 40 was cluttered as trapped motorists witnessed junebugs along the highway, marching in over-exaggerated goose-step, all the while singing battle hymns with much enthusiasm.

One unlucky traveler swore that she was carjacked by two enormous bugs, who tossed her out of the car along the highway shoulder. She recalled one of them commenting, "Hey, let's hide it in the bushes for now, and when mom and dad are asleep tonight, we can sneak back out and go cruisin'!"

A convenience store clerk in Casper, Wyoming reported to the police that one stood at least 6 feet 8 inches in height. It had barged into his store and knocked over several isles, then drank his entire stock of Coors Light. The monster bug was later arrested, but soon escaped because he ate his way out of the bricked cell. Authorities were now searching for a large, moaning junebug, with a block of ice wrapped around the top of his throbbing head.

Of course none of this had anything to do with the rather harmless British music group, The Bugs... However hearsay claimed this was all an extravagant marketing scheme concocted amid rumors that the band was shortly to reunite. A farmer put up a sign in his pasture along the highway that read: PAUL IS DEAD MEAT!

Adding irony to the situation, a tourist claimed that a huge number of these rabid insects completely covered his car one afternoon. He tried to spin his wheels in a getaway attempt, but they had already been consumed. He tried next to blare his horn, but they had disconnected it. Just as they were about to eat their way through the windshield, he knew not why, but he turned his radio on full blast, as The Bugs' 1964 hit, "You're Stepping On My Hand," was being played. Panic-stricken, they covered their feelers with their two front legs and desperately fled.

This having been discovered, I suggested to the press that someone fork out enough money to give the four lads from Liverworst an incentive to regroup and tour the US. John was easy with it; as long as YoYo could tag along. Paul said if that was the case; he'd bring his best friend, Buster. George indicated that was out of the question; because he was allergic to dog hair. Pete volunteered to do a solo tour; but everyone agreed the situation wasn't serious enough to warrant going to that extreme. So we went with an alternative...

The Salvation Army Band had been working on some Bugs selections anyway, so they vigorously made plans to march from the east coast to the west coast, along interstate 40, and play the most unbearable Bug tunes that they knew.

The parading band neared San Luis Obispo, California, after three weeks of solid marching and playing. They had managed to drive the hydrophobic insects off the highway fleeing in the direction of the beach (along with brave vacationers who frantically abandoned their automobiles when the band approached with their gawd-awful sound). Once reaching the coastal sands, the savage bugs leaped in the water and drowned.

But it was too early to celebrate as spectators and news reporters alike cheered, for the ocean strangely receded, then formed an enormous wave, and a monster of a junebug standing at least 6 stories high, with ten heads, and the words "sex sex sex" written on 3 by 5 cue cards stapled to every one of its foreheads, spoke; "NOW THAT I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION!..."

The entranced crowd didn't know what to make of it, until someone in the crowd suggested that this was the biblically foretold, apocalyptic beast, and he was merely a lousy speller.
------------------------------------------

(Episode 6)
Queen Irol had just risen out of bed as the Genodrahn Sun had illuminated her bedroom walls. "Oh, Kram sweetie, have the humans from that pesky little planet Earth arrived yet?"

"Yes, Your Majesty, all 144,000 are here and accounted for."

"Wonderful! Bring me the one that looks the smartest, OK sugar plum?" Irol gleamed.

Today was the 15th anniversary of her rise to the throne. As the legend goes: She was the 20th generation descendant of King Doolittle... who one day bought a beautiful bouquet for his wife, on his favorite concubines' birthday (which he totally had forgotten about). His prude friend became so enraged, that she sent some flowers of her own to the Queen, also supposedly from him, with a planted Micro-letter-bomb inside the card envelope. Having rid herself of the competition, his mistress, Bertha Tudor, won the thrown for herself and became the new Queen. This was referred to in all the historical annals as, "The War Of The Roses."

Irol was really looking forward to all the festivities planned for the day as she noticed a new wrinkle on her grayish-white bald head in the mirror. She was a mere 56 years of age, which was still quite young in accordance to the longevity of the Apathonian average lifespan of roughly 110 years.

"This is the most intelligent looking one of the bunch, Your Majesty," Kram declared, escorting one of the humans.

"Oh yes, and just what is your name, sweetie?" She winked.

"Vice-President Ross Parole, who the hell are you?!"

"My," she grinned, "what big ears you have. I wasn't aware that you all had Feringees on earth!"

She went on to explain to Mr. Parole that they were all being held as "insurance," in case the US government refused to relinquish several hundred Apathonians being held against their will at Area 51 & 1/2. As a double measure, her Greatness assured him that there would be another batch of cybernetic junebugs unleashed upon his planet coming soon, to tip the bargaining power in Apathonia's favor.

She went on to give the V.P. the authority to act as a go-between if her "guests" had a complaint about anything. She promised that if anyone in the camp had a problem, they could voice it to him without any fear of any retribution, then he could voice it to her... and she would take it into consideration and laugh.

She also advised that if anyone out of 144,000 gave her trouble of any kind, the Picasso Factory lay in wait to permanently and metamorphic-like, alter their appearance into some of her favorite Picasso paintings and drawings.

To make certain that there was a no-baloney understanding about her warning, she escorted the Vice-President back to the encampment and picked out a feeble looking woman in her autumn years to be made an example of. Screaming and kicking, the woman was tied down upon the conveyor belt right before they put the wheels in motion.

In a torturous three minutes she went in one end and came out of the other. The newly deformed Picassovite was quickly put on display to everyone's horror as Irol admonished, "Now I'm sure the rest of you don't want to end up like Mrs. McGillicutty here, so I'm counting on you all to be good boys and girls, OK?"

The camp was terribly lacking in space and the detained humans had to sleep in shifts of one hour each, for the lack of beds. No gathering of more that two people was allowed. For ten hours a day they had to move bricks one at a time to the different piles they were all assigned, then move them back, day after day. They had only one meal in the evening consisting of fermented barkbiter roots and gruel.

After dinner every night they had to listen to Irol's propaganda about their princely planet, as opposed to how evil and inferior Earth was in comparison. For instance, she claimed that Ronald Reagan once headed up a covert operation while in office, and sent Colonel Oliver North to Saturn's gassy moon, Titan, to approach the Titanian rebel underground with an offer to
exchange a book of matches for 100 tons of liquid methane gas. The Mob obliged...

Matches were a controlled substance on Titan, and any terrorist in possession of them could easily blow up the planet-like moon, in view of its gassy atmosphere, with a simple strike of only one match.

Ollie elatedly came home with the goods and handed it over to the CIA, who smuggled it inside the borders of the USSR and planted it in the Kremlin basement, in connection to the plumbing installed right below the men's room. A sensor device was mounted to recognize Mikial Gorbechev's 'cheeks' when he sat down, so that when he flushed, it would release a methane cloud and leave everyone (who didn't pass out) wondering where not to order borscht for lunch anymore.

This operation proved to be a success with multiple defections, which single-handedly brought an end to 70 years of the evil Soviet Empire, and a hasty desperate dismantling of their nuclear arsenal.
------------------------------------

(Episode 7)
The fold at The First United Church Of Prosperity were all a-quiver in light of the intense earthly goings on, while Paster Screamer was trying desperately to keep the place of worship in focus. Since the disappearance of head elder Brother Name-It-Claim-It, he charged Ira Stippens with the task... because of his composed demeanor.

He hoped the flock would take note and follow suit. But nothing seemed to dampen the fires of fear especially since the apocalyptic beast rose out of the California coastal waters, and made his presence known to all the world.

Dr. Screamer was in the middle of a children's bible story one certain Sunday as he rhymed, "I saw Esau, sitting on a see-saw..."

Suddenly, Brother Butch Butts had a word of knowledge: "Ira Stippens, thus calleth the Lord, 'thou art to rise from the depths of uncertainty, and go to Los Banos, California, to meeteth the Anti-Beast, Elmo Pigglesworth. He will disciple you as to how you must taketh the mighty sword of truth, and slayeth the beast! You shall go forth as the great Squirminator, and killeth him with my word!' thus sayeth the Lord!"

A reverent awe engulfed the sanctuary with silence, until Ira slumped with embarrassment in his pew and responded in jest. "...Poppycocketh..."

The sanctuary burst into laughter, but the humored church members suddenly fell to their repentful knees, when the walls and floor began to rattle, and a invisible yet powerful voice added, "I'M NOT KIDDINGETH!!!"

Upon returning home from an eventful church service, Ira discovered his front door partially open. He was certain that he had locked it before walking to church that morning. However, his puzzlement departed upon stepping inside as he was embraced by the cool from the refrigerated air window unit. Sinking upon his sofa, he reached for a cigarette and noticed what looked like a ticket of some sort partially exposed in between the couch arm and cushion. He spent the next few moments attempting to figure out where it came from, instead of just picking it up. His curiosity finally triumphed.

He snatched it up to his face and observed that it was an airline ticket for a flight bound for Stockton, California. He quickly made the correlation while remembering Brother Butts' antics that morning in church, and his frivolous prophecy.

Ira tossed it on the floor and exhaled a rather impressive smoke ring. In the same fleeting moment, someone gently knocked on the door that was still partially open. With his bare feet propped up on the opposite arm of the couch, his filthy shirt opened revealing his gray chest hair sharing the same acreage with some tattoos and warts, he nonchalantly responded, "Yeah, come in," as he reached for a day-old half-filled can of lukewarm beer.

There was no immediate response, so Ira tossed his cigarette butt into his ashtray and swung the door even wider open to reveal a long haired airport shuttle bus driver with a ridiculously joyfull smile. "Time to go, Ira... no time to waste!"

"Who the hell...?"

"Grab your ticket, I'll explain it along the way, come on..." he assured while pulling on Ira's arm, who quickly yanked it back.

"Did Brother Butts put you up to this?!"

"Look, my name is Mike, but that's all my boss wants you to know right now," the shuttle bus driver tried explaining.

Ira was relentless and declared that this was all "a bunch of hogwash!" Mike had no choice, it was getting late, and he was fearful that if he couldn't get Ira to cooperate, he'd lose his paid vacation coming up in the fall. So he caught Stippens's attention by putting his index and middle fingers up to his lips, and gave a startling shrill whistle. To the bewilderment of Ira's usually unimpressed reasoning, the bus swiftly pulled up to where they were arguing, as if it had been remote controlled.

"How the hell...?"

"I wasn't supposed to do that, Ira," Mike scolded. "Now, get in! Your luggage is already packed and in the trunk."

The flight took all of two hours and Ira passed the time away sleeping. A flight attendent had the good pleasure of waking the aged fart factory and snatched his pillow from under his head, after everyone else had left the plane. Ira mouthed a few tame explicit adjectives and pronouns under his breath while his lungs were begging for a cigarette. No sooner had he stepped down the folding staircase when Mike, the shuttle bus driver, pulled up on the runway and rushed to help him with his luggage. "So, Ira, how do you like Stockton so far?"

"How the hell...?"

"Here, let me get that for you..." Mike offered, then whistled toward the bus and the back trunk automatically opened.

"How the hell...?"

"I really wish you'd quit saying that, Ira," Mike nagged as they got inside, and suggested that Stippens not smoke in the van just as he was about to light up.

Ira scowled and threw his cancer-stick out the window and sarcastically remarked, "Yeah, that second hand smoke thing is REAL dangerous... Had an uncle that smoked for 35 years! He decided to switch smoking with his right hand instead of his left, one day. He died of a heart attack two weeks later... Yep, if he'd only just stayed with that first hand, he'd still be around!"

"OK, Ira," Mike responded after loosing his temper. "I wasn't gonna do this, but you're not being very cooperative!" At that instant Ira felt something digging in his pocket. Just as he reached on impulse to see what it was, he witnessed his last pack elevate from out of his pouch. It momentarily hung in mid air, then caught aflame and disintegrated right before his eyes.

"Why the hell did you do that?!" Ira fumed.

"I just figured you'd appreciate that, since you don't have a problem with second hand smoke!" Mike laughed.

"So who's this Elmo Picklewart, anyway, and what's all this got to do with me?" Ira asked as if he had more important things to do.

"Pigglesworth Ira. Once we've arrived he'll fill you in on everything..."
----------------------------------------

(Episode 8)
The long two hour drive seemed nonsensical to Stippens since Mike seemed to excert some sort of miraculous physiological ability that could surely get them there a lot faster. "Why couldn't he just blink his eyes, or something," he thought to himself, "and while he's at it, I could use another pack of cigarettes!"

"Smoking is not good for you, Ira," Mike harped, "Don't even ask!"

"How the...!? Oh, forget it!"

The two of them pulled into Los Banos around 3pm local time. Mike spotted a run-down service station, and pulled up right behind it. He cautioned Stippens while covering his lips with his index finger, hinting to him to keep quiet while he lifted a manhole cover among some weeds, then motioned to him to get in first.

They silently crept a ways down a dark underground passage full of rats and snakes, but went about their doings unconcerned as the two crawled through. "OK, I think this is it, Ira! Now, crawl out and knock on the farmhouse door exactly five times!"

Ira didn't understand all the caution Mike advised. Notwithstanding, he did what he was told and waited for a response. After two or three long smoke filled breaths from a well earned cigarette after much arm twisting, Ira looked back at Mike peeking from out of the manhole cover and shrugged his shoulders and turned to head back. Finally, the door whipped open, and a ruffian even more uncouth looking than Stippens himself demanded, "Are you the Squirminator?!"

"Uh, were looking for a Mr. Picklewart..." Ira halfheartedly explained.

"Pigglesworth, Ira!" Mike corrected, while still peeking out without revealing himself.

"Who's your friend?!" Pigglesworth demanded of Ira with a sudden rifle aimed straight at the dimple in his chin.

Mike hum-hawd around but finally crawled out and explained, "Sorry, Mr. Pigglesworth, I'm Mike... you know, the one you've been informed about?"

"You!? You scrawny pathetic looking youngster are Mike? OK, if you're Mike... show me a sign!!!"

Mike had a sudden smirk on his face as he reached real deep into his pants pocket, and miraculously pulled out a 6 foot by 12 foot billboard that read: BABY BARF BURGERS AT A BARGAIN... AT BIG BUFORD'S BUFFALO BARF BURGER BISTRO BAGEL BREAKFAST BAR AND BOOKSTORE!!!
Elmo dropped his gun in awe, "That's a hell of a sign!"

The three pulled into San Luis Obispo shortly before sundown, as a group of reporters were questioning the apocalyptic beast who was soaking up the sun while halfway submerged in the water. "THE GREATEST OF GREATS AFFIRMED THAT NO HARM WILL COME TO THE HUMANS BEING HELD, SO LONG AS THE U.S. GOVERNMENT AGREES TO HAND OVER THE IMPRISONED APATHONIANS. ONLY THEN WILL THE BUG EPIDEMIC STOP, AND I WILL RETREAT BACK INTO THE SEA," the brute announced in his thunderous voice.

"Oh," Pigglesworth spoke up from the crowd, "We're supposed to take YOUR word for it. Why should we? You're a liar from hell, you who calls himself, Sir Elvis Holyfield!!"

"Sir Elvis Holyfield?!?!" Everyone gagged.

The beast did a double take with all ten heads and noticed his arch rival. "OH ME, OH MY, I THINK I'M GONNA DIE... IT'S THE ANTI-BEAST!" Sir Elvis scoffed, "HAST MINE ENEMY COMETH PREPARED TO DO BATTLE TO THE BITTER END?"

"You bet your sweet bippy!" Elmo replied.

Elvis scratched one of his heads and asked, "WHAT'S A BIPPY?"

"I dunno, it was just something they used to say on Laugh-In in the 60's..." Elmo explained.

"OH, I WASN'T ALLOWED TO WATCH THAT, CAUSE MY DAD ALWAYS WANTED TO SEE BONANZA..."

"Well, if you subscribe to the Family Channel..."

Before Elmo had a chance to reach for his latest issue of TV guide, Mike stepped into the picture. "You all can go watch television later, right now it's time for one of you to settle the score!"

"OH," Sir Elvis mused, "I SEE YOU'VE BROUGHT THE ARCHANGEL WITH YOU!"

With that the two prepared for their significant dual to determine whether good or evil would prevail. Elvis quickly whipped out a floating Styrofoam table as Elmo revealed his box of tiddlywinks, and they began a best out of five series. Elvis won the first, but Elmo took the next two. In his humiliation of possibly losing a third match, Sir Elvis swung one of his arms over the table, scattering tiddlywinks everywhere.

"Hey, what did you do that for? That was my best set!" Elmo complained.

"YOU ALWAYS WANT TO PLAY TIDDLYWINKS, I'M READY FOR A REAL BATTLE!" Elvis proclaimed.

"Whatever you say, Sir Elvis," Elmo nodded, "OK Ira, he's all yours!"

Ira stepped foward with an old King James at the same time the beast's eyes caught sight of him, "THE SQUIRMINATOR!? I'VE CHANGED MY MIND, LET'S PLAY ANOTHER ROUND OF TIDDLYWINKS!"

The beast cringed in horror as Stippens flipped back to the middle of the Old Testament. Ira cleared his throat and began his public address: "I will be reading this evening the entire Old Testament book of 1st Chronicles..."

"NO, NOT 1ST CHRONICLES!

The beast nervously laughed, trying to pretend that this was all ridiculous child's play, and began whistling while trying to cover as many ears as possible as Ira began reading: "Adam, Sheth, Enosh, Kenan, Methuselah, Lamech, Noeh, Shem, Ham, and Japheth. The sons of Japeth; Gomer, and Magog, and Madai, and Javan, and Tubal, and Meschech, and Tiras..."

Well into 15 minutes later, Ira continued, "the sons of Levi; Gershon, Kohath, and Merari. And the sons of Kohath; Amram, Izhar, and Hebron, and..." At this point Elvis the beast was squirming just like a bored three year old during church. It was working!

"And Azariah begat Seraiah, and Seraiah begat..." Two hours later, Elvis the beast not only was still squirming, but now going into spasms, and finally came to the point where he couldn't stand it any longer, thrashing all ten of his heads into each other, then vomited out from his mouths his own life; as he shriveled up like a deflating balloon. Ira did it, he literally bored the beast to death!

Archangel Michael drew from his lungs a heavy sigh and deadpanned, "Ladies and Gentlemen, I'm afraid Elvis has left the building..."

Cameramen, reporters, and spectators all cheered while vigorously and enthusiastically approaching the Squirminator, as he and his two cohorts made a quick dash back for the shuttle bus. People rushed up to the deflated beast to take pictures and someone noted a small round yellow circle with a smiley face in the middle, and the words, "Have A Nice Day!" written under
it on each of the beast's lifeless heads...

This was the mark of the Anti-Beast!

As the President of the United States, I called Mr. Stippens the next day and personally invited him to visit me at the White House. I caught his performance live on television and decided he could play an intricate part toward a solution of the whole Apathonian escapade. He reluctantly agreed after a lot of coaxing, but jokingly suggested that the U.S. government ought to rent a Ryder truck, load it with ammonium nitrate, and send it destined for the trouble making planet.
-------------------------------------------

(Episode 9)
Deep in the desert mountains of Southern Nevada, there lies a small community that everyone and his dog is well aquainted with, that being of course, Area 51. But across the alley there stood what most thought was a group of section 8 low-income apartments, or government projects for those below the poverty level. It was actually that of Area 51 & 1/2 (and in case you've forgotten, it was so secret that even the aliens kept at Area 51 didn't know anything about it).

Despite its deceiving appearance on the outside, Area 51 & 1/2 was actually very plush in its interior and a place only for 'significant' occupants. Upon stepping inside, it still held a dismal appearance; but once the proper password was givin to the front desk teller, you would be escorted to the combo garbage-shoot/elevator and lowered downstairs, where the privileged few controlled the world's banking, political, commerce, stock market, elections, weather, and sewage systems, from underground.

There were 367 occupants at Area 51 & 1/2. Most notable were 56 of the 127 extraterrestrial aliens from all over the universe who were in complete collaboration with the World Trilateral Commission, and just like every other conspiracy, the CIA was revamping the original Area 51 into an amusement park, to sell it to Disneyworld.

The local folk in that particular neck of the woods caught wind of the plan and took up a petition to stop the measure, complaining they didn't want to move their tourist trade to Florida, because of the extreme humidity. At the time of this writing, both the World Trilateral Commission, and the CIA were taking their concern into serious consideration.

On the nicest floor underground lived an old Apathonian drude named Derf Enotstnilf. As you remember, he and his crew, and a human passenger whose name he couldn't remember, crashed into an army weather balloon, leaving them marooned in the New Mexico desert in 1947 and eventually captured. Derf had excelled to the privileged ranks in the last two decades. He was responsible for numerous inventions that had helped the United States win the cold war, not to mention the first Kitty-Kat-Pooper-Scooper which he was most proud of.

On the third floor below at Area 51 & 1/2 were the new aliens who hadn't as of yet converted over to capitalism. In Cell Block 34 Second Hand-1st Door To The Right #12 Blue 72 Red 25 Wide-Left, lived an alien brought back by Oliver North from Saturn's moon Titan, on the brief visit you read about earlier in this story. Zolo, as he was known, had come a long way since the 80's, although he hadn't been totally reformed quite just yet... He loved to hand make gloves for the other captives, as well as the guards; but he still refused to sell any of them because he despised Capitalism. It's sad to say, but it didn't look like Zolo would be transferred to Disneyworld any time soon.

But the sector described above was NOT the most classified secret at Area 51 & 1/2. On the 5th floor down, you could find a workout gym, a Burger King, an arcade room full of video games, and a tennis court. Every morning around 8am you could find Jim Morrison playing tennis with Mayor Jimi Hendrix, as both worked up a healthy sweat. Jimi could still do all those great licks that used to drive the fans wild, as long as he was wearing his dentures.

Janis Joplin owned a flower shop, Jimmy Hoffa made doughnuts to pass the time away, and grunge rocker, Kurt Cobain, stared at the television all day. He was known to throw the furnature around when 'The Price Is Right' didn't come on when it should've.

Yes, you too can purchase your own death certificate, move in, and watch all the money come pouring in from fan clubs, memorial funds, biographies, movie re-releases, tribute concerts, and sudden through-the-roof record sells since your 'death!'
------------------------------------------------

(Episode 10)
On Apathonia, Queen Irol's captive audience had become restless in the last few days of incarceration, so much so, that she had already 'Picassovited' one third of them for getting out of line and asking for too many favors. The new 'Picassovites' had to be put in a separate encampment of their own, on account of the violent behavior they instinctively displayed once transformed.

Because of their violent behavior, they had to be seperated from the others. A scuffle would break out as one would elbow the other with his forehead, and get a bloody nose just below his buttocks, or a herniaded eyelid, in return. The rabid Picassovites demanded their immediate release and threatened to start procreating, but the Greatest Of Greats had needn't to worry... most of them were so altered, they couldn't locate their genitals if they tried.

Word had not as of yet met Irol's ear about the fact that Sir Elvis Holyfield, the beast, had been slain; and nobody volunteered to be the bearer of bad news. The Apathonian Secret Service all drew straws, but as always, whoever would end up with the smallest one would renege.

Finally, they all agreed to give the job to the janitor boy who happened to be mopping at the time. Mij was a young 18 years of age, and soon to be wed to a sweet little prude who was with child... though he was not the father. They promised him the day off to take care of wedding plans if he'd oblige. Mij thought it was no big deal and accepted.

"Well, good morning there, sweetie poo!" Irol bid the good natured adolescent drude, "How's the little pregnant prude doing, hmmmmm?"

"Oh just fine!"

"So is this your first child, hun?" her Greatest of Greats begged to know.

"Well, it's my prude's first anyway," he blushed in return.

"Now Mij, you know it takes two to tango!" She giggled and winked.

Mij in his usually wise-cracking manner jested, "Yes that's true, but I didn't meet her until after the dance!"

"Oh aren't you the clever one?! Is there something you need, sweetie? Nobody usually comes around just to say hello. What is it I can do for you, hun?"

"Well, the guys at A.S.S. wanted me to tell you that Sir Elvis Holyfield kicked the bucket a few days ago, that's all." Mij chuckled goofy-like. "Say, I've been meaning to talk to you about my vacation..."

"WHAT?!?!" Irol bellowed before coughing up an enormous fireball that totally engulfed the harmless little guy , "KRAM, GET IN HERE!!!"

"Yes, your majesty!?"

"First, clean up these ashes," she demanded, "Then run all 144,000 humans through the Picasso factory, and I don't care HOW long it takes! Do I make myself clear?!"

"But, excuse me, Your Majesty..."

"I just did! Now do it!!!" She yelled.

"Of course, your greatness... Right Away!" Kram galloped out of her royal residence to fetch a broom, as she slammed the door behind him. But as he exited, he distinctly heard the sound of a bloodcurdling scream, followed by a desperate striving-to-breathe gagging sound. He whipped the door back open and discovered Irol laying flat on the floor facing upward, with a potted begonia plant stuffed down her throat.

Shocked, Kram came to her aid, and with an abundance of effort, tried to remove the pot from her mouth, but it was too securely fit. She had no pulse. Her skin color, bleakly pale. He propped her head in his lap and couldn't decide whether to weep, or rejoice, as he took a double take and noticed a small yellowed-in circle, with a smiley face and the inscription: Have A Nice Day!... on her forehead.

Once again, the Mark Of The Anti-Beast.

As custom called for, a week later Irol's body was sealed and loaded aboard a torpedo-like missile and therewith launched toward the Flaming Moon, where other Apathonian royals and war heroes throughout the ages had been laid to rest.

Kram would have done better for himself if he hadn't fled into hiding. He was shortly caputered and wrongfully charged with the crime, found guilty, and sentenced to death by way of the atomic-egg-beater immediately after the new Greatest Of Greats, Gerg Ydarb was sworn in.

Gerg was once an Apathonian movie actor, and later a prominant member of the Apathonian Secret Service after a long military career with the Apathononian Guard. He then accepted the number two job in the government as the Mediocre Of Mediocres, with Irol's full blessings. However, Gerg was a lot more even tempered than his predecessor, and temporarily shut down the Picasso Factory while trying a more humane diplomatic approach toward the 144,000 Americans being held.
Once in office, he sent for Vice President Ross Parole, and began making plans to negotiate a peaceful settlement of the two planets' grievances against one another, by paying a visit to Earth along with Mr. Parole the following week.
--------------------------------------------

(Episode 11)
The mood in Washington on the morning of the 27th of June was as dreary as the morning drizzle. I called for a formal meeting between myself, the Chiefs Of Staff, and Mr. Ira Stippens... who had become an overnight icon since slaying the apocalyptic beast that Apathonia had unleashed on our corner of the universe. I was to utter nary a hint or clue about my first hand experience with the Apathonians in my past.

Stippens felt about as out of place as a toothbrush at a barbershop, as he twiddled his thumbs, waiting for the conference to begin. I officially opened it up by introducing him to the Chiefs Of Staff as someone who I believed could be essential in a diplomatic solution with Apathonia. Everyone in the room turned and friendly-like nodded, all except for General Higgenbotham that is, he just stared ahead and fiddled with his double chin. "Has the person in question here been through a thorough FBI background check? This is not the way we do things in Washington, Mr. President!" he chided, waving his finger in my face.

"Mr General, Sir, I'm the Commander In Chief! This is the way I do things in Washington!" I fired back. The General quietly returned to the space on the wall he'd been staring at, and continued to play with his chin.

"Now, what I was about to say was... I think Mr. Stippens here, because of his sudden prominence and popularity, should head up a committee concerning the issue; to give the American people a sense of hope in this conflict with the hostile alien government. Because we have no idea where Apathonia is, we'll have to assume they will make the first contact," I surmised. "Ira, what do you think should be our stand in this possible negotiation with the Apathonians?"

Ira blushed and slid down in his chair, and tried to downplay the suggestion he was an expert of some sort. "Well I... Uh, I never seen a UFO before... the only flying saucers I've ever seen were thrown by my ex-wife..." he joked, as most of the Chiefs Of Staff half-heartedly laughed, "but uh... I don't think I have anything special to..."

"Oh knock it off with your humility crap!" General Higgenbotham hollered. "You know you want the job... You and your cohorts are nothing but a bunch of foolish and stupid ineffectual tiddlywinks playing ignoramuses, that's what I think of you!!!"

I quickly tried to jump in between the middle of them both, but it was too late; Ira had already bluntly whacked the General right smack in the middle of his face with the chair he was sitting in. "Get this maniac off of me Mr. President, he broke my nose!" the General bawled as he hastily attempted to put his schnozzle back in shape with his hanky.

"Mr Higgenbotham, Sir... Why don't you take the rest of the day off, huh?" I suggested. What I really wanted to say to the childish General was it was his naptime, and did he need anyone to pat him on the rump to help him fall asleep?

"I'll get you for this, Stippens... Even if it's the last thing I do," he threatened right before he ran down the hall to be consoled by his wife, who just happened to work in the Press Secretary's office.
------------------------------------------------------------

(Episode 12)
The colossal junebug epidemic all across America, once thought vanquished, had flared up again after the recently 'waterlogged pests' larva left behind, hatched in extensive numbers. Once again, fields of grain were leveled, phone lines gnawed in two, and traffic halted from coast to coast as the six legged monsters sought to avenge their parents.

Having once tried but failed to bribe the British rock group, The Bugs, to do a nationwide tour-- in view of the fact that the rabid monsters couldn't stand their music-- I was successful in talking them into at least doing a live interview and performance on a worldwide television appearance. John got busy and wrote what would be the worst Bug song in history, titled, Free As A Bug. "This will make them quit begging us to get back together," John boasted as the other three sighed in relief.

The day came not any sooner when exactly 1800 hrs UTC, live from Paul's kitchen in his London flat, the interview began. "So tell us Paul, when was it you decided to be a rock star?"

"I think I was six months old at the time, and me mum was changin' me diaper..." Paul began.

George butted in, "You're such a wiseacre, you always tell that same dumb story, get real, Paul!"

"I can tell whatever bloody story I want to, Georgey Porgey!"

"Do you have anything to add, John?" the interviewer asked.

"Yeah," John smarted off, "I think it's wee past Georgey and Paul's Beddy-By time..."

"John," George fired back, "when you open your eyes, do you see anything besides the inner walls of your colon?!!!"

John, Paul, and George evidently hadn't seen or spoke to each other in over 26 years and were finally letting out some anamosity on one another. As they eventually began brawling on the floor with each other, Pete took center stage and completed the interview with an intricately detailed discussion about his 25 plus years of touring as "The Bug."

With only five minutes to go until the song, Free As A Bug, was to be performed by the pop-combo, the three others were too bruised and bloodied to play. John was missing an index finger, but found it later betwixed George's teeth. Paul had a slight concussion. And, George had had his digeridoo shoved down his throat. But the show had to go on.

Luckily The Bugs had recorded a rough demo of the song, and the producer imposed the reluctant studio engineer to roll the tape. With the very first few measures of the song's intro, the warlike insects all over the country took no notice. But when the first verse began, they stopped chomping on phone lines, they stopped robbing the fields of grain, they stopped reeking havoc... and joined in singing... while they became even more vicious and tried to eat their way into the homes of millions of Americans to get a better listen! The switchboard at NBS studios rang off the wall with people informing them it had failed...

But, there was still the last desperate measure.... They had no choice whatsoever, so they held their noses and asked Pete to fill in. Of course, Pete obliged.

He only knew one song on the guitar and that was a song by the 1960's pop icon, Bob Dillydally, called, "Blowing My Nose In The Wind." The creepy crawlers, once having eaten through the walls of homes all over America, merely caught a glimpse of Pete tuning John's guitar, and cried out in unison, "OH MY GOD, NOT HIM!!!"

They all conglomerated in the skies like birds of a flock in such dire terror that they voluntarily drowned themselves in the deep waters of the Pacific.

It was a success, the world was rid of an impending potential exacerbating excursion of suffering (the junebugs were pretty bad too), but Pete begged the producers to let him sing anyway. He finally backed down when I personally called him on the phone (at the network's urging), and offered The Congressional Medal Of Honor instead. He'd always wanted a Grammy... but the "small token of appreciation would suffice."
------------------------------------------

(Episode 13)
Vice President Ross Parole, and his comrade, Gerg Ydarb, had just entered the Earth's outer atmosphere as a few fleeing terrified junebugs hit the spacecraft's windshield. Gerg turned on the wipers as Parole, opening a Rand McNally road atlas, guided him toward Washington DC as the headstrong two fought over directions.

"You wanna drive?!!" Gerg yelled.

Finally pinpointing the South lawn of the White House, Gerg slowly lowered the craft and a deafening siren sounded as a guided missle system rolled out from under a camouflage, tanks steered their gunnery, and about 100 armed Navy Seals took aim in their direction as they landed. Parole swiftly opened the hatch and commented, "By golly, if you'd been that prepared in Nam, we would've won the stupid thing!"

"Mr. Vice President!!!???" the comanding officer questioned puzzledly.

"Now," Parole demanded, "Y'all get the luggage. Oh, this is my friend Gerg, he's sorta the big G on Apathonia!"

I'd been given the all clear once the secret service verified that it was for sure the Vice President. I rushed out to greet Mr. Parole, though secretly I had wished they'd left him on Apathonia. I was a little queasy, in view of hoping his friend Gerg wouldn't recognize me from my former dealings with the small planet.

Parole was basking in the glow of all the attention he was receiving. "Mr. President, good to see ya. Smith, how the hell are ya? Say, General Higgenbotham," Parole smirked, "what the hell happened to your nose?"

"Uh, it was a golfing accident, sir...." Higgenbotham blushed. "Mr Hipwing, er um, Mr President, how do we know this is really the Vice President? And has Mr Gerg here had an FBI background check?"

"Why don't you go play a round of golf, General Higgenbotham, sir!" I suggested.

I made plans to start negotiations with Gerg, The Greatest Of Greats, for that evening. However, I had lost sight of him or the Vice President shortly before lunch. Little did I know but the General had both of them incarcerated downstairs in a makeshift holding cell, while he interrogated them. Higgenbotham was about to release the Vice President until he mentioned Area 51 & 1/2.

"What do you know about that place!!" the General demanded.

"I know that there are 100 or so innocent people who want nothing more than to go home to their planet, sir. We art to be 'shamed of ourselves!"

Pacing the carpet of the oval office later before noon, all the while puzzled concerning the where abouts of Gerg and the Vice President, General Higgenbotham nervously followed me while assuring me not to worry about them. It was then that I caught on. "Where are you hiding them, General?"

"Ok, Mr President, I assure you they're safe down there!"

"Oh, they're in the basement, thanks Higgenbotham..." I said while in immediate pursuit of the elevator.

Higgenbotham followed me down to the storage room/wine celler, nervously arguing his case. As the elevator slid open, I quicky took notice of all the jail cells apparently recently erected. "I wonder who could've put these here, Mr General..."

"Well, I uh... you see... I.. uh...um..."

We rounded the corner just as I spied the V.P. together with Gerg, playing a hand of poker. Gerg must have been a quick learning being that Mr. Parole was stripped down to his Fruit Of The Looms. "We're in a fine pickle, Mr. President," said Mr. Parole. "Seems we got into this mess cause we've got some of their people in confinement at 51 & 1/2... at the General's blessing! We art to be 'shamed of ourselves."

"I thought it was known as just Area 51, Higgenbotham?"

"Oh all right, President Hipwing," the General pouted, "Area 51 & 1/2 is a top secret strategic world command center for the Trilateral Commission.... it's so secret, that even the aliens at..."

"Ok Ok, we get it... enough already!"

The General had a lot of explaning to do, but it would have to wait until after lunch, as Gerg, Parole, Higgenbotham, Ira Stippens, and myself, waxed the presidential limousine, then headed to Gert's Greasy Spoon to pick up some chicks.
-----------------------------------------------

(Episode 14)
Prior of the start of negotiations that evening, everyone except for General Higgenbotham was gathered and seated in the room. Ira couldn't help eyeing across the table at Gerg, who returned with a quick smile. Stippens made an obvious attempt to look away. He'd never dreamed he'd ever see the likes of the Apathonian. I called the meeting to order, in spite of Higgenbotham's absence.

"Gentlemen, we're all here today representative of both sides of this issue," I began while the General entered the room and quietly sat down. "As all here know, there are 144,000 Americans being held against their will on Apathonia. At the same time there are 100 or so Apathonians being held at Area 51 & 1/2 also..."

"May I add," Gerg interjected, "against their will as well? Some of these drudes and prudes have been held for decades!"

Higgenbotham jumped on the small extraterrestrial like a dog spotting a bone, "Look, your greatness, or whatever... Area 51 & 1/2 is a very plush resort. The captives... um, the occupants have everything they need or want. Why, there's even a Burger King there! So they are VERY comfortable!"

Vice President Parole quickly whispered into Gerg's ear explaining what a Burger King was.

"I don't think you all can appreciate what it's like to be held against your will for so long on a foreign planet. I do!" Gerg explained. "I was in the Apathonian Guard at a young age for most drudes. We were defending a friendly planet called Van Gogh, against an evil empire from the planet of Di Vinci. Our outfit was captured. The lucky ones were let go if they chose their right ear to be severed. The rest of us were taken back to Di Vinci, where we were made into foot servants by their Queen, Moaning Lisa. For 5 years we busted our bones to make her happy, but all she ever did was moan, and moan, and moan. I tell you the truth, gentlemen, I will never be the same..."

Even stone-hearted Higgenbotham had a hard time keeping a dry eye. The room became loud with sudden silence. Ira, wiping his glasses, then spoke up... "Gerg, I uh can't say I uh ever been in your situation. But look at all the trouble your people have caused. The junebug thing, kidnapping our people, and scaring everyone into thinking all this was part of an apocalypse..."

Stippens had just barely made his point as a White House staffer barged into the room and demanded to speak with me outside the door. I excused myself as Ira lit a foul smelling bargain cigarette. General Higgenbotham fidgeted with his double chin. Then Gerg tried to ease all the tension, and began sharing some cheesy Apathonian jokes. I quietly crept back into the room with an aura of deep concern.

"What is it, Clyde?" Gerg Asked.

I sighed and sat down. "Gerg, Your Greatest Of Greats, I don't know how to tell you all this, but... someone has hijacked your craft and put a Ryder Truck full of ammonium nitrate on board. It's heading straight for Apathonia on automatic pilot!"

General Higgenbotham had escorted Ira down to the basement to be interrogated, in view of the fact he made a crack earlier, coincidentally suggesting the same thing be done for all the trouble the planet's people caused. "It was just a joke, I didn't do it!" Ira maintained.

He got right up in Ira's face..."Well, who did, Stippens?!"

"I think YOU did, Mr. Hickingbottom!" Ira shot back.

"It's Higgenbotham, and it doesn't matter if I did or I didn't. I told you I was gonna get even with you for breaking my nose! I was the only one in the family that had a decent one, and now thanks to you, I HAVE MY MOTHER'S NOSE!!!" The General yelled.

Later I was in the oval office trying to console an extremely worried Gerg. "I don't have anything to offer but my regret, Gerg. I don't know what got into Ira, I thought I knew him."

"I knew he was bad news from the word go!" General Higgenbotham offered once entering the room from downstairs. "This is most regrettable..."

"I hate to break up this pity-party," Gerg snapped, "but does anyone here realize if we don't get on the ball, 1.5 billion drudes and prudes will die tomorrow?!"

"I'm sorry, Gerg, but we don't have any type of ballistic missile capable of traveling fast enough to shoot it down." I apologized.

"You mean to tell me that in a world such as yours, with all the weaponry to destroy the world 10 times over, you don't have anything technological built to travel past the speed of light?!"

"Well, if your people are so doggone smart," the General offered, "maybe they'll see it coming and run like hell!!"

"Ok, knock it off, General!" I commanded as a staffer alerted me to a visitor in the main lobby.

Rounding the long hallway, I caught a quick glimpse of a gentleman in a red workman's jump suit. I somehow knew I'd seen him from somewhere. "Yes, what can I do for you?"

"Yes, Mr. Hipwing, I'm with the Carter Crane Company. A General Higgenbotham solicited our services this afternoon and I just came by to give him his receipt..." the rather jovial man said.

"What's this regarding?"

The overly friendly fellow snickered, "He rented an old broken down Ryder truck, and paid us to have it lifted aboard that some-sort-of-strange top secret government vehicle. He said he was retiring to Montana... Oh, by the way, if you see a Mr. Ira Stippens anytime soon, tell him Mike said hello!"

"Yeah, I'll do that," I acknowleged realizing I'd been had by the General. I smiled real big while reaching deep in my pocket. "By the way, do I know you from somewhere?"

"Nope, not from around here anyway. Thanks for the tip!"
-----------------------------------------------

(Episode 15)
The Genodrahn Sun had long set below the western hemisphere of the Apathonian planet and the Flaming Moon hovered over the Southeast. The human captives in the encampment just outside of the city of Tararaboomdia, were becoming more discontent by the day. Two thirds of the hostages had already been Picassovited thanks to Mediocre Of Medocres, Zonka Punksquirt, who filled in while Greatest Of Greats, Gerg Ydarb, was off to planet Earth trying to make peace.

Punksquirt was an 'old guard' member of the Apathonian establishment, and a member of an ultra-secretive group called the Dongwazzle Dozen, a group ready and waiting for the right time to begin a bloody coup-de-tat, and implement an even more intrusive control by state of the people. He despised what little recent reforms that were implemented prior to the reign of Queen Irol, and he and his cohorts were hoping to accomplish the overthrow during Gerg Ydarb's absence, but their plans would be foiled for now.

The human 'collateral' imprisoned in the camp were in the midst of switching sleep shifts, when one of them noticed a bright jet-stream-like trail in the night sky. The Apathonian Guard quickly pinpointed the flying object at approximately 25,000 miles in space above the planet. They readied their intercontinental ballistic warheads in case it was a hostile attack. At the same time the prisoners became worrisome as they could plainly see that it was heading in their proximity overhead.

Just as it entered around the orbital space of the flaming moon, they all sighed in relief as they witnessed it changing course because of its gravitational pull. They sat in awe, watching the greatest fireworks display they had ever seen, as it crashed into the flaming moon. A ring of fire and molten rock encircled instantly around Apathonia, similar to the giant rings of Saturn. During the five or so second explosion, nobody detected a sound, until the ground beneath their feet began to totter and shake, and the encampment walls came tumbling down, freeing not only the humans, but the Picassovites as well. They began gathering force by capturing the remaining humans and running them through the Picasso Factory.

The Greatest Of Greats' younger brother, Ekim Ydarb, hurriedly decided to board his private vessel and head for Washington DC, to warn his brother not to return because of the ensuing chaos. He made it out off Apathonia right before all hell really broke loose.

Zonka Punksquirt had just come from out of the shower, when 15 Picassovites busted inside of his private quarters. "Please, don't kill me!!!" he shreiked with a skimpy towel wrapped around him.

"What should we do with him?" The Pacassovite King, Ravi Ohlee, taunted as they laid him before his deformed legs.

"Why don't we run him through the Picasso Factory, not once, not twice, but three times!" Brother Name-It-Claim-It suggested.

"That's a wonderful idea, Brother Name-It!"

They dragged the Mediocre Of Mediocres by his long nose, all the while he was making an unavailing effort by kicking and biting, and tied him down on the conveyor belt. King Ravi Ohlee pulled the lever and Zonka twisted and turned in agony once inside, then came out the other end severely distorted. Ravi shoved him back in, and this time, he came out ever more disfigured and grotesque. When he was shoved in for the third time, the heat funnels on the top spewed a gaseous black smog...and the walls collapsed in flames. Zonka stood upright on his earlobe with fire coming out of his eyes and hair, lion-like fangs protruding from his buttocks, a muscular clinched elbow above his now 11 foot, 4 inch frame, and cried, "NOW WHO'S BAD?!!"

The others quickly prostrated themselves before him in homage, then turned around and leaped on their former King, Ravi Ohlee, and gave him a slow death by tearing off his limbs.

Because of the firey circle that now surrounded the once cold planet, the heat index fluctuated up and down at a higher rate. The mean temperature had increased by 15 degrees. This caused a phenomenon its inhabitancy was not used to... rain.

High cumulative clouds gathered over the township of Tralalaboomdia causing extreme panic. The unique sound of thunder terrified the people, and most especially the Picassovites, who called it "loud gods."

They attempted appeasing them as Brother Name-It lead the Picassovites in primitive worship dancing. They cried out in tongues they'd never used before, while Name-It prostrated himself for a full 15 minutes until lightning bit his lower extremity, causing him to dance even wilder and holler. The others tried to imitate him while praying that gods would bless them with spiritual fire also.

The good King Zonka pulled aside Brother Name-It after the festivities were over and knighted him Sir Sparking Butt, while the others paid tribute by waiting in line to kiss his charred rump, and receive their sanctification.
-------------------------------------------

(Episode 16)
The Greatest Of Greats' anguish was now twofold. He not only was severely troubled over the fate of his beloved Apathonia, but his heart was also reaching out for General Higgenbotham who was in a holding cell, ironically built with own hands, down in the White House basement.

"You don't need to worry yourself over him, Gerg. He chose his own actions and should suffer the consequences."

"I know you're right, Clyde," he agreed, "but I've never been the same since my own captivity 24 years ago... I feel bad enough about the actions of my predecessor, Irol, and all the Americans almost 50 light years from home.... How hopeless they must feel."

I reached over and patted him from behind on the shoulder. "And I'm just as concerned about your people. I'll tell you what, let's plan a trip to Area 51 & 1/2 for next week. I promise you Gerg, I'll do everything in my power to see to it that there will be an equal exchange... let's hope for the best that your planet is not destroyed."

Suddenly Gerg's ears turned a bright off-green color, and small bright follicle hairs raised from the top of his otherwise bald head. I couldn't help but stare. The Greatest Of Greats caught on and laughed with tears, "I know what you're going to ask, Clyde. It's the Apathonian version of having a lump in your throat... I really wish you'd consider pardoning the General. You know, you have the authority to do so, Clyde."

I was struck by the alien's humanity. "You've got a great big heart, Gerg. Come on, let's go talk to the General."

Once downstairs we noticed someone had shut down the lights. I blindly reached for the switch then we proceeded down the long narrow corridor, until we located the iron cubicle. "OK Higgenbotham, it's your lucky day! Good Godfrey!!!" I gasped, as I discovered the General laying flat on his back with a potted begonia plant stuffed down his throat.

Gerg discovered the Mark Of The Anti-Beast and became overwhelmed with grief. "No, this can't be! This is the same mark that was on Queen Irol's forehead when she was assassinated! This means that Kram didn't do it! I put an innocent man to death!" He sobbed.

"Kram Oingomeyer?!" I asked with a slip of my tongue.

"How... How did you know that, Clyde?"

I had no choice now but to level with him about my former dealings with Queen Irol, which oddly didn't seem to matter to him right then. He was more concerned about the immediate situation.

"Do you realize what this means, Clyde? We're now dealing with an intergalactic serial killer!"

That afternoon, the Los Banos, California police department, in cooperation with the FBI, brought in fruit picker and ex-con Elmo Pigglesworth. They had caught his performance along with Ira Stippens in slaying Sir Elvis Holyfield, the Beast, on television a while back. Being that he either directly or indirectly had something to do with The Mark Of The Anti-Beast, they wanted to question him concerning General Higgenbotham's death.

"So, Elmo, tell us about the Anti-Beast." Sergeant Wilco requested calmly.

"Whadya wanna know?"

"Well uh, Mr Pigglesworth, we saw your little tiddlywinks match-up awhile back..." Wilco smiled, "Uh tell us about that there mark that was discovered on all ten foreheads of that there beast, after he was um, deflated, so to speak..."

"A little yellow circle with a smily face, and the words 'have a nice day' written inside...." Elmo grinned with pride.

"Yep, that's the one. Now let's put the two together. Elvis is dead, and you put the mark on his forehead."

Elmo's demeanor changed immediately. "I play tiddlywinks, that don't make me no murderer!"

"You wanna tell me how that there mark was put on the General's forehead too, before HE was 'put out?!'"

"You forgot to include Irol, the Queen of the Apathonians..." Elmo smirked.

An unprepared Sergeant Wilco flipped through his scattered papers. "Uh, yeah, what about this Irol, Queen of....."

"Apathonia."

"Yes, that's right, what about her?" Wilco asked.

Elmo sat up and leaned right into the sergeant's face, with a long piercing crazed look of dare, an air of sheer unyielding fearlessness, and a voice of unadulterated boastful pride, as he whispered sadistically, "She didn't play tiddlywinks worth crap!"

"I believe I've had enough of this!!!" Sergeant Wilco yelled.

"Good, can I go home now and finish pickin' my cherries?" He retorted.

Pigglesworth was held for only three hours while they searched his home, but found no probable leading evidence, no not even a solitary begonia plant. He was written off as a lonely and eccentric fruit farmer, in need of a bath, shave, and hot meal... which they gave him for the trouble.
------------------------------------------------

(Episode 17)
Upon the evening prior to when we were to leave for Area 51 & 1/2, I along with Ira stippens, and Vice President Ross Parole, were treating Gerg to a barrage of American Movies. We were all do doing our best to try and comfort Gerg., as he was on nerve's end, wondering if Apathonia had been blown to bits, or had been spared. He thoroughly enjoyed 'The Brady Bunch,' but totally disdained 'E.T.'

"That was the uppermost hidious thing I've ever seen!"

"Don't blame me," Stippens remarked in self defense, "I chose 'The Blob.'"

"Why do you Earthlings always either imagine folks from other worlds as cannibalistic, idiotic, blood sucking, necrophiliacs," Gerg asked, "or adorable and affectionate, ignoramuses?! We're just people like you all!"

Ira, ever the insightful one, cross examined Gerg, "So what are your B-rated movies like on Apathonia, how do they portray, as you say, folks from other worlds?"

"Hmmmm," Gerg paused for a moment, "Good point, so sue me!... Anyone for a game of poker?"

"Come in..." I acknowledged a hasty knock on the door.

"Mr. President," the staffer said in a begging for pardon tone, "an Apathonian craft has landed on the South Lawn. We're holding someone who claims to be the Greatest Of Greats' brother. What do you advise, sir?!"

"Ekim!" Gerg rejoiced. "Maybe Apathonia has been spared!"

Gerg was rapturously relieved that his home planet was still intact, but in the light of all the chaos going on, he wasn't sure when it would or ever would be safe to return. I advised him he could stay in the Lincoln Bedroom for however long it took, but he chose instead, the Watergate Hotel. "It's a hell of a lot cheaper, thanks anyway, Clyde."

The morning afterward, we landed on the obscure runway at Area 51 & 1/2 in the middle of the Nevada desert, at 5am. A variety of military armored vehicles surrounded the plane. They were expecting us, but it was standard conduct, nonetheless. A number of troops, whose identities could not be revealed because of some sort of mask covering their eyes, nose, and mouths, matter-of-factly approached; and a commanding officer gave us all blindfolds then explained we would not be able to enter in without them. I asked them if they knew who they were dealing with. "Just procedure, Mr. President." I was respectfully informed.

Ira, Gerg, and myself were guided over to some sort of trolley car and secured with abnormally tight seat belts. We were told that the blindfolds would be temporal, but the long ride inside took at least a half an hour. "Gentlemen you may take off your blinders and exit your seats," the driver spoke.

At first view, the ceiling made me think we were in some sort of cave supported with hefty crossbeams. The adobe-like walls were lined from end to end with glass windows and chicken wire like protective steel.

"If you gentlemen will come over here," the driver waved, "I will start introducing you all to the occupants. Let's start here with Zolo, he's from the Saturn moon called Titan. Breathes pure methane, so we have ventilated his cell with the fumes of Area 51 & 1/2's sewage system. He is very valuable to us in developing a means for future astronauts to visit the likes of his planet. ....Mr. President you can talk to him, but you must press this button here in order for him to hear you..."

What a strange looking being Zolo was. His scaly looking skin layer was very reptilian looking in nature, complete with some sort of gills on the sides of his face. "Hello, Zolo. I'm glad to meet you!"

Zolo's eye color changed to a bright red and his tight lipped aperture seemed to form a friendly smile. "Snoitaludargnoc ev'uoy derugif siht tuo!"

"What did he say?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry... Zolo is very proud of his Titatian-American roots, however he refuses to speak English ever since they tried to make it the national language. He merely said he'd make you a pair of gloves before you go. It's his hobby, and he's very fast!"

We were then led two windows down to a compartment that appeared more like a jail cell. A bizarre looking lone figure the size of an older child, lay in the corner with typing paper strewn all about him on the floor. "This is one of our most troublesome residents. He comes from a planet near the center of the Milky way called Zucchini. He was the 'Pharphignuut', or President of a small Southern region. He was impeached while in office on account of being involved in a fraudulent loan scam. But he fled his planet and went to Washington DC, a place he had often read about in various sci-fi periodicals as a boy, where he met then-President Plimpton who promised him asylum if he would offer his home on Zucchinni to Mr. Plimpton when HE got out of office. The deal was later squashed of course..."

What's all the typing paper on the floor about?" I puzzledly inquired.

"Oh, he's writing his memoirs. He plans to publish them as a book he's appropriately entitled, 'Pharphignuuted!'

"Oh."

"Now over here is our most privileged occupant," the 'tour guide' motioned. "This is Derf Enotsnilf... from the planet Apathonia..."

"Of course," Gerg recognized, "I served in the Apathonian Guard with you Derf! I'm Gerg Ydarb, remember?"

"Gosh, it's been so long... Almost 50 years now. My memory isn't quite what it used to be." Derf admitted.

"In case you all haven't heard about it," the gentleman began to explain, "Derf crashed just outside of Roswell in 1947. His comrades were all killed in the accident. Derf is most valuable to us, he built the..."

"Valuable to YOU?" Gerg protested.

The guide was taken aback slightly then continued. "Yes he's invented many important technological breakthrough weapons and radar systems, not to mention satellites that helped us win the cold war. He's given a very healthy income for his efforts!"

"And just what kind of a life does he have here?!" Gerg angerly challenged.

"Well Derf is one of the few that are free to roam all over the base. He likes to go to Burger King a lot!" He smiled.

Gerg was close to the boiling point. "What kind of a life is that? Derf, I'm here to take you back to Apathonia with me. I'll make sure you have a good income and a job in which your expertise is fully utilized..."

"With all respect, Your Greatest Of Greats," Derf bowed, "I'm an old drude now, nearly 90 years of age. There's nothing for me anymore on Apathonia. These people have been quite good to me and I want to stay, Sir."

Gerg paused very seriously then proposed, "Derf, we will give you everything you want. What is the real reason you don't want to go back? I sense you're holding something from me..."

"Well, Your Greatest Of Greats, you all don't have the 99 cent Double Whopper With Cheese special, back home on Apathonia!"
------------------------------------------------

(Episode 18)
While Gerg stayed behind to try and talk sense into his old comrade Derf, Ira and myself were then lead down a dark corridor, passing steel enforced glass window after window, occasionally sneeking a peek at many peculiar and sometimes misshapen faces of various living things from throughout the cosmos. Our guide lead us down to the very last door, but strangely there was no window as all the other compartments. "Only YOU can come inside this room, Mr. President. This one is top secret and your friend must stay here."

I couldn't imagine what the big deal was, we'd already seen stranger beings in one day than any one person would in their entire life. Nevertheless Ira stayed behind with a strange aura of suspense, and eyes seemed to peek out of the corner while I pulled on the handle of the heavy door, and stepped inside.

DR: Hey Clyde, how did we do this week?!

ME: Doc?!?! How did I suddenly get here in your office?!

DR: I just thought I'd help you end your double trilogy, Clyde.

ME: Uh...hmmm, what double trilogy, Doc? You never seemed to believe me when I told you about all the weird goings on.

DR: Clyde, I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but you're going away for a while. So I got you a nice going away present.

ME: Going away?!

DR: It's a nice beautiful freshly potted begonia plant, whadya think, Clyde?!

ME: Begonia?! You... You mean, it was you. Why Doc?!

DR: Well Clyde, ever since you quit coming around because your insurance company refused to pay until you reached your deductible, I simply had a lot of time to kill! Literally speaking of course...

ME: You knew all along what was going on. I wasn't crazy!

DR: Oh no, Clyde, that's what so ironic about all this. YOU weren't the one who was crazy!

ME: I...I don't understand...

DR: Mary, would you please ask Mr. Pigglesworth to come in now?

SECRETARY: Sure thing DR Radford.

ME: Elmo is in on this too?!

DR: You see, Elmo used to be one of my patients too. He used to hear a constant voice in his head, but he never would take his meds... Oh, have a seat Mr. Pigglesworth, I was just starting to fill Clyde in. Maybe you could continue for us...

ELMO: Hello Clyde, as Doc was probably telling you, I used to hear this one strange voice in my head. The first thing it would say every morning was, "It's been you all this time, and we both know it, don't I?"

ME: That's amazing Elmo, I used to hear the very same thing, what did you finally do?!

ELMO: Well, for a while I would just ignore him, but that didn't seem to work. So, I decided to use a little psychology on him and invented other voices in my head to communicate with him. After a while, he forgot about being just a voice, because I had created an entire world for him in which to interact.

ME: Cool! But, what do I have to do with all of this?

ELMO: He don't get it, Doc...

DR: Let me help a little here. Clyde, YOU are that voice!

ME: Huh?!

ELMO: But that's not the half of it, Clyde.

ME: This is a gag, right, guys? No, maybe I'm delusional right now and you all are all part of it!

DR: No Clyde, I've already told you, you're sane! You're just not real, that's all...

ME: Come on, Doc!

DR: I'm sorry, Clyde...

ME: Well, if what you're saying is true, put him on his meds!

ELMO: No meds!!!

DR: Can't make him do it, Clyde, that would be against the Patient's Bill Of Rights!

ME: Come on, Elmo, please take your meds so I can call your bluff...

ELMO: No Clyde, it's not a joke. It's high time for me to deal with all the trouble you gave me in the past and up to the present; It's your turn to suffer for the next 30 years or so- depending on whether I live that long or not. Doc and I have devised a way to exile you and your "friends" from my conscience psyche, over to my sub-conscience, where you all will live in turmoil and constant vexation, while I will no longer be aware of your constant voices, or your mere existence... Oh, and about this book you've been writing- I thank you from the bottom of my heart for all your efforts. It's a great story. However it's no longer yours. You see, Elmo Pigglesworth is just a pseudonym I made up; all your readers will probably pick up on my real name if they check to see who owns the copyright of this book. Yeah, that's right, go ahead and delete the manuscript from your word processor, ha ha. It won't do you any good, Clyde; last night I went through your desktop trash and salvaged several drafts you forgot to empty (hence the title of this little jewel: The "Salvaged" Autobiographical Accounts Of Clyde P. Hipwing). I hope to make a mint! Well Clyde, that's all I have to say- enjoy your new meager existence with your little comrades, I'm sure they'll give you solace. As for me, I may be still crazy- but you're outta my mind; see ya!

DR: So long, Clyde!

ELMO: Yeah, have a nice day!

In the blink of an eye I was no longer in Doc's office, rather sitting up next to the bark of a tree looking down on a lush valley below, as a train whisks through the forest. It was then I was was flooded with a sense of Deja Vu and slowly turned my head, and in a terrific anguish, I sobbed uncontrollably after I read the carved inscription on the large maple tree behind me:

YOU'RE PROBABLY HERE, AGAIN
----------------------------------------------------
(Episode 19)
It's a hot day in July. I just finished reading aloud my double trilogy to my two best buddies (Fortunately, Elmo was kind enough to leave me a copy).
"Matilda, Maggie, what did you think of it? Let's start with you, Maggie."

"Well, good sir, I know you worked bloody hard and suffered much, but I'm afraid it's a bit way out. Nobody's gonna believe any of it!"

"What would you know?" Matilda buts in, "I'm very proud of you, luv!"

"So you like it, Matilda, huh?" I excitedly ask.

"Don't get me wrong, luv, I am proud, but....."

"Bloody little pussy willow," Maggie growls. "You bloomin' felines are so wishy washy, ya know. You're gonna say the same thing, aren't ya?"

"Oh, why don't you just dig up an old bone and....."

"Ok, knock it off, you two," I interrupt. "Ok, Matilda, what's the surprise you promised me earlier?" I question as the doorbell rings, while she and Maggie trade looks at one another, giggling.

"Go ahead, good sir, it's probably for you!"

"Maggie, you know how much I hate surprises," I scold while opening the door, "what in the world?..." There, standing on the deck are the entire cast of the book (Excluding Elmo & Doc, of course). "Hey guys, come in!"

Evidently they had come prepared for a party, as Irol, the Greatest of Greats, brought fresh tea and crumpets, Mrs. McPherson, the little neighbor lady, brought fresh vegetables from her garden, and trailing behind is Mr. Big, the one eyed midget, riding though the ship's cabin door on the back of the Rumpasouraus Rex.

"A smashing pad you've got here!" Professor Endicotsley expounds.

"Oh, thanks, Giles, been wanting to meet you in person! Did you bring your lovely new bride?" I ask.

"Yes, yes, of course, she's bringing in some of the gifts. Bad back, you know."

"Gifts?"

"Oh yes, sweetie, we've a lovely treat planned for you!" Her Greatness smiles.

"What's the occasion?" I ask in puzzlement.

"You gotta be kiddin!" Deputy Doodah laughs, "I can't believe you'd ask such a question."

Then Barry King strolls up, suspenders and all, and puts his arm around my shoulder. "Mr. Author, it was a pleasure being a part of your book!"

"Well, thank you, Barry, I really......"

"Say, where's the professor? I've a few questions to ask him!" Barry announces as he excuses himself. Homer, Strange, and Marty the Mysterious Milkman, are busy sampling all the party treats, as the Merry Calypso Singers treat everyone to barbershop quartet music.

"Gather round, everyone!" one of the singers announces, "Giles Endicotsley will now do the spoons, as Sheriff Bonehead and Ira Stippens will tap dance for us!"

The whole living room is packed as everyone else is either playing cards, watching TV, or reminiscing about the book. Yes, everyone is occupied except for Sheriff Marshall Dumas.

"What's wrong, Sheriff?" I ask.

"Oh, nothing'....I guess. Just that I didn't get much of a part in your book, that's all.... Not even in the second trilogy!" He mopes and looks down at the floor.

Trying to encourage him, I refer back to the few pages in which he was mentioned. "Well, Sheriff, some of us don't get very many pages in this world, but our lives can trigger events that influence the over-all picture."

"Whadya mean?"

"Well, if it hadn't have been for you.... Deputy Doodah wouldn't have..... Uh, let's look at the possibility that..... Well, what I'm trying to say is..."

"Hey, Doofus! What's up?" DooDah buts in.

"Excuse me, everyone!!!" Irol, her Greatness interrupts, trying to get everyone's attention, "Derfbag, hun! Bring the gift we all chipped in to get Mr. Hipwing. Mr. Author, sweetie... I hope this gift gives you many hours of enjoyment and satisfaction in your continuing career.... Go ahead. Open it!"

"Gee, thanks...... Uh, a new word processor? Listen, I have no need for this. I've given up writing, you see..."

"What?! You can't do that!" Everyone gasps.

"....Thanks anyway, Irol, but I'm getting out of the writing thing." I apologize, handing her back the gift.

"Well, I've never been so insulted in my life! Come on, Derf, let's go!"

"Just wait a moment, good lady," Professor Endicotsley intervenes, "now, Mr. Author, what if the author of life were to quit writing? Just think of how many people would never know the joys of friendship... the pain of sorrow, or the hope of another day. There's lots of more stories to be created, sir, and they're just waiting for you to create them."

"Yes, indeed! We all agree with the Professor!" Edith proclaims.

I glance at all the grateful faces in the room, young and old, and become moved by their doting appreciation. We certainly had been through a lot together, me and this kindred I had created. How could I just give it all up? "Ok, Irol. Thanks.... Uh Irol, would you please wrap up the end of this double trilogy for the readers out there?"

"Of course, sweetie! We hope you've enjoyed this useless little piece of writing. You've been such nice boys and girls, and we only ask you to suggest this bit of literary mind twisting to anyone with whom you might have a grudge!"
............................................
Unfortunately, The End

Impressum

Texte: Copyright 1999
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 08.07.2008

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Widmung:
For my two wonderful kids, Aaron and Sarah; who lovingly were given endearing nicknames at birth such as: "Oops" and "Oh NO, Not Again!"