The Catastrophic Cataclysm of Court Room C

So I wake up and see Patrick Swayze & Keanu Reeves rubbing nipples. They’re rubbing each other’s. They’re rubbing their own. Worst of all, they’re rubbing their own nipples against one of the other fella’s nipples.

Their nipples are very erect. Counterintuitively, Patrick Swayze has little, very pointy nipples, while Keanu’s are fat & wide & take up the whole tit. (They both have tits cuz they work out too much.)

Swayze’s tits are brown, and patterns have been drawn across them in red lipstick: ancient Celtic runes that spell out, “When the moon hits yr. tit, you’re a big piece of shit—Go a-whoring…” (To the tune of “That’s Amore” BTW.) Patrick Swayze shits and then giggles. (He’s naked.) He’s all shits n’ giggles. He rolls in his own shit, crying, “Packages of paper plates—one hundred plates for only 60 cents!!!”

Now he’s coming all over himself, moaning, “Uunnnhhh…” He smells like that thick paste they used to give you in elementary school art class. Not Elmer’s glue, but that heavy goopy shit w/ the brush attached to the underside of the lid. The brush always got all crustyand clotted, ultimately becoming entirely useless, (like Patrick Swayze,) and you had to mix the paste together or it’d breakdown into a solid white block—sorta like tofu—surrounded by fluid that has the texture and smell of two month old skim milk.

In fact it’s all entirely like Patrick Swayze, who’s breaking down into solids & liquids even as we speak. There is a horrible musty smell.

Trying to help, I charge at him w/ giant plastic lid brandishing the enormous crusted brush that isfixed to its underside. I scream, “Don’t die, Patrick Swayze! Please don’t die! I want to lick the crevices between yr. legs & yr. anal-genital region, dragging my tongue over to yr. hairy, creased prostate, the insides of yr. legs and then back to yr. nuts—nibbling gently, taking each 1 in my mouth one at a time and sucking on them like a Willy Wonka™ jawbreaker. (Willy Wonka being, once again, a major motion picture—this time starring Johnny Depp, who’s desperately trying to recapitulate the legacy of that poor fag Gene Wilder, against whom the revenant of Gene Roddenberry has begun a legal action to maintain excusive rights to the name Gene.

(And lest you think this, uh, nominal lawsuit is silly—like, say, as in you don’t think no one can sue no one else over the name Gene—lemme point out this lil’ Fun Fakt: Gene Wilder’s real name is “Jerome Silberman.” And plus consider the mighty Trekian empire that Roddenberry built—and all the pull n’ power accruing from therewith, doubtlessly—and then ya got one nasty court battle, I’ll tell ya—pretty likely to crush ol’ Dubya—Gene Dubya, I mean—into the ground.)

Johnny Cochran’s dead ass will be leading Wilder’s Own Dream Team, & Ironside will be spearheading the Roddenberry offensive. (Of course, neither one of ‘em’s anywhere near the courtroom at the moment.) Roddenberry will be drooling all over himself right in the courtroom, because apparently rising from the grave to avenge yourself on Gene Wilder has the effect on the cadaver that a big ol’ shot o’ Novocain has on you &/or me.

(Except I know, the R—Gene R., I mean—is buried in space—for really, if you never heard—and but I still bet he’d rise from hiz space grave the same ol’ way…)

By incredible coin- cidence, Keanu and an unrecon- stituted Pat are sittin’ on the jury. Alf is a character witness because he plays a character on TV. Alf has shit encrusted in the fake plush fur stuff that lines his ass. (Sorta like that crap caked in the brush of the jar of paste we discussed earlier.) It’s hard to wipe it away cuzza alla that fur. Alf’s asshole is loose because although he’s sentient, he can’t move or speak w/o a puppeteer’s hand up his ass to guide him. (But then we’ve all had days like that, haven’t we?)

That stupidass puppet is doin’ some whole wanna be vaudevillian routine about a hung jury—and how he hopes it doesn’t come to that, ‘cuz boy is he committed to breathing and eating the occasional cat. (Hadda love that whole running gag from bro. Alf’s old show! Eatin’ cats. Talk aboutcher subtle double entendres there, eh?)

The faceless judge—too horribly haloed to be viewed by mortal eyes—(‘tho sounding suspiciously like Elizabeth Elmore)—gavel-slams her podium and tells Alf to shut the fuck up before he is hung! She then otherwise calls for order so the trial can resume…

Another part of the team that’s defending Gene W. —or maybe he’s prosecuting the case for Gene R. —sorry I’m getting’ a tit bit confoozled by this pt.—is Ricardo Montalban—and not just any Ricardo Montalban, ‘cuz remember, we are dealing w/ Gene Roddenberry hizzelf or at the very least, his revenant. So naturally, of course, what we’re finding here is decidedly not Mr. Rourke—nor his main man, much bemoaned and be-missed Tatu a.k.a-47 Herve Villechaize.

(Man, those guys had chemistry, did they not? I mean Montalban n’ Villechaize. Try saying that one 50 times fast whilst walkin’ backwards in a straight line and tapping the tip of yer nose w/ alternating fingertips, which is the new method of sobreity-testin’ about to be unleashed on an unsuspecting and inebriated public by the Cook Co. sheriff’s dept. which has little else to do w/ our current narrative because of course, given alla Hollyweird assholez in attendance haz to be takin’ place in good ol’ L.A. C.A. itself or leastwise in some surroundin’ suburb thereof, but then, who really gives a shit about alla that anyway? Am I right?)

We now return you to our previously scheduled hallucination, wherein one Mr. Herr Montalban is appearing in Klassic Khan getup, as in Khan from Star Trek—and if you’re some snotnoze who only knows the movie, The Wrath of Khan, well ya, we are speaking of the TIT-jewel-are character—y’know the one who Shatner shrieks KHHHHAAAAANNNNNN at in a echoey operatic shriek, accompanied by the most grandiose reverse tracking shot of any film ever made—from a dude’s pudgy sweaty face (Shatner’s, of course) to an orbital view of the planet ‘pon which the fat asshole is standin’ or wobblin’ or whatever that poor fuck does when he’s semi-erect. (On his feet, I mean, sleazoids.)

Well our man Rick is done up like Khan, but not like he was in the 2^nd slick flick in the Trekkie shtick. Nope. He’s dressed like Khan from the original episode, “Space Seed.” Which means among other things that rather than a cool 80s style gigantic Mötley Crüe type Frizzador, he’s wearin’ a slick, severely parted, pony-tailed doo, which reveals just how suspiciously much he resembles that hatchet-faced bitch Mrs. Olsen from Little House on the Prairie. All the fucker needs is a bonnet and a gingham skirt n’ Mr. Olsen would be goin’ spurt spurt allover hiz manly goodies.

But no, insteada that, ol’ Rick is begarbed in a wine-colored Ricardo-tard—open, sexily at the throat, whereat gobs of chest hair tufts, tribble-like. And the mincing prick is directing some elaborate closing remarks Alf-wise.

I’m gonna go w/ him representing Wilder, as look how crappily the Trek franchise used him! Only 2 goddamn appearances in like 40 years—and we all know 2 things: “40” means “many” in biblical Hebrew—apparently ‘cuz that’s how many fingers n’ toes we have to count our bombs we drop on Lebanon every while in a once when we get real bored n’ pissy—and that “dumb” spelled backwards is “mud,” according to the Warnerian logic of one Bugs Bunny.)

And guess what—ol’ Ricardo can’t even stay in character, ‘cuz his remarks all have to do w/ Corinthian leather and how shmoooooove it is just like those car commercials he did. And but no wonder they never invite this withered pansy to the Trek conventions!

But oh wait! Do you smell some- thing bad?!? ‘Cuz I sure do! Smells like burning hair and shit! And that’s becuz some demented freak has given ol’ Alf not so much a hot foot as a hot ass! (Just like that DuChamp painting.) Whichiz to say that they’ve lit Alf’s tail fur on fire! (Fur sure!) And pity the poor puppeteer whose elbow-bone is now encircled in flame! And the stupidass puppet starts running about, screaming, and thereby igniting the gluey n’ flammable puddle o’ Patrick Swayze!

And worse cuz now it’s apparent that someone really wuz after sabotagin’ the wheels of justice by procuring a mistrial for the party he/she represents! (Not sure which one—wasn’t clear that either of ‘em was gonna win r’ lose the rites to the name Gene, I mean. Shit—remember, after all, that we don’t even for sure know who Khan is representin’—I just made an educated guess—let alone whether or not he’s doin’ a good job at this point.) ‘Cuz but now the whole courthouse is sputterin’ and sparkin’. (Just like an electrocuted scientologist mite, I ‘magine.)

Pretty soon the whole place is bein’ licked (huhuhuhuhuhuhuh) by flame! And a hellish scene ensues! Keanu Reeves runs and calls out, “Wo!” Where the puddle o’ Patrick Swayze pooled, bubbles boil, toil and trouble the air! Alf is blazing, shrieking shockingly, and running about in circles. (Hasn’t he ever heard of “stop drop n’ roll” B4???) And thereby feedin’ the inferno even more expediently. Way to go, Alf! Thanks bunches!

Ceiling beams come crashing to the floor! Gene Wilder scampers about in Purple Pants he stole from Prince—top hat and cane waving uselessly as a chorus of Oompa Loompas chases him toward the flamin’ courtroom door, caroling “Sodomy!” And then, like fishmongers, “Fresh meat!!” And but man those are gonna be some disillusioned Oompa Loompas—a pissy enuff labor cartel to begin w/ dontcha think?—when they find out just how flabby Wilder’s overused plughole is!

And like a vampire in a Hammer horror film, or a rock in Jenna Bush’s crack pipe, Gene Roddenberry’s carcass goes up immediately at the first touch of the flames! Fuckin’ undead. When confronted w/ fire, they never could maintain their structural integrity. (Wo! Where’s Harold Washington when we need him?) Pussies.

And pretty soon, the courthouse has become a veritable antechamber to hell Fire! Blood! Screaming!

The fires subside, and other than the creaking of its flame-gutted edifice, the ruined courtroom stands silent. Everyone involved has either fled, (e.g. Reeves,) fried, (i.e. Swayze,) or disappeared mysteriously at the first sign of trouble. (Khan, you did it to us again—and this time w/ Oompah Loompah collusion, I suspect.) Only Alf remains—improbably. Sure all his fur’s gone, but you gotta wonder what sorta invulnerable stuff his core is made outta. Yes, only Alf—beautiful Alf—remains—lying on the floor, smoldering in deep shock—dying for no reason at all—to tell the tale of The Cataclysm of Courthouse C!

We’ll be right back with Judge Wopner’s ruling…

Buy dildoes! Thank you! And now back to our program…

Well, heh. This is an odd one, folks. Bear w/ me here: Judge Wopner has no ruling. Judge Wopner’s been dead for several years. Don’t know what I was thinking. I guess I’m really starting to show my age aren’t I? Oh well…

Anyway well so that was a real hoot. Juss remember: the next time you have a grievance w/ some other asshole who’s stolen yr. name—like Gene Roddenberry did here—don’t take matters into yr. own hands. Take ‘em to court. Where you and everyone else involved can be engulfed in flames that’ll spring from some stupid puppet’s ass that also has someone’s hand shoved up it. Or something.

See ya!

(P.S. Whasssat you say? Earlier, I implied that the Judge wasn’t Wopner at all, but rather superfox Liz Elmore? Well, I’m sure you’d agree that’s a stupid idea, ‘cuz what would Liz be doin’ caught up in something so tawdry as alla this?

Anyway, if she does have something to say about it, I’m sure we’ll be hearing about it on her next album! Which is just about to be released! More on that to come! Hurrah!)

Makin' Mountains Outta Poultry

OK so ever since that last entry, I betcha been wonderin’ how I ran across that Julia Child shit. You prob. think I’m too busy investigatin’ to bone up (huhuhuh) on my cookin’. You’re right. I'll tell ya how I knew about it…

A week ago, I was just coming down from a large meal a friend made. All of the guests knew each other, but none of them knew me. They were sitting around, slurping elegant mixed drinks. (I myself was just silently gulping down a bottle of gin—the good kind, in that real sophisticated blue bottle.) And well anywayz, everyone was making dry witty comments exactly like those made in New Yorker short stories from 50 years ago, (y’know, like the ones John Cheever wrote,) and I got really bored and confused, and, like, groping after something that I could contribute to the convo, I turned to my be-aproned buddy—(how did I end up in this company anyway? Oh yeah: My friend offered me a free meal)—and asked him how he came up w/ the calf's brain consommé he'd served during the soup course, and he said I improvised it offa some Julia Child shit. And I said Who? And he said Julia Child.

And I said never heard of her, and he started doin' a lackluster impression of someone who sounded a lot like Andy Griffith's Aunt Bea w/ a hangover--possibly after a wild night of doinking the family dog and then shitting on Don Knotts's head or whatever passed for entertainment back in Mayberry when the nights got long and the weewees got longer, and the 150 proof moonshine flowed freely. But that's subject matter for another entry, 'tho I gotta say in passing I'd totally fuck Aunt Bea, given the chance and a tube o' KY and I'd also fuck Don Knotts given the same implements and best of all I'd fuck 'em both and Don was from Flint, MI., just like me, so our tryst would at least make for keepin' things in the family. Ha. Or something.

But I had no idea who this chick was, 'tho he told me she was the best known and loved celeb. chef of the 20th century. And I said better loved/known than Emeril or that gnome Wolfgang Fuck? And he said god, I hope so.

And he was starting to look pretty hot in his apron n' all, so I propositioned him, and he said umm why don't you look at Julia Child’s cookbook if you're interested, and before I could palm myself off right then and there, he palmed this book on me, Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Volume 1, and I was pretty blue n' disappointed till I opened the thing to the passage about screwing fowl and/or foul.

After I read it, I was so amped that I headed straight home—after asking my friend if I could borrow the book, of course. I still haven't finished reading that "How To" section, but after that hot intro bit, there are a bunch of "recipes" which I guess makes this book a veritable duck-fuckin’ Kama Sutra.

As I read, I’ll keep you apprised of my progress, but in the meantime, back to this Hawaii shit…

When last we left me, I was camped out in the inter-island terminal at Honolulu International Airport, waiting for my flight to Hilo on the Big Island. There I hoped to track down this shady missing person named Wendell. Still with me? OK, let’s go…

Just before flight time, the place filled up. It was almost instantaneous— five minutes ago, there’d been nobody there but myself and a small family of Japanese tourists. That also seemed weird. There had been none of the usual crowding around yr. gate like an hour and 1/2 before your flight’s scheduled to leave. All because you followed the airline’s advice about showing up way, way the fuck in advance. Nope this was like travelers ex machina.

I had to admire their savvy. I mean, how did they all know they wouldn’t miss their flight or something? Pretty quickly, I formed this impression that, for most Hawaiian residents, the inter-island flights are only a slightly more complicated version of a commuter bus or train. You hop on, no seating assignment. Little fuss. Skip across a bit of the ol’ Pacific, and there you are: in Kona or on Maui or even Molokai.

There was a line at the gate, but none of that "now seating rows 1-15" shit. I waited for maybe 2 minutes, listening to a coupla middle aged Southern belles discussing how wonderful their houses on the Big Isle were, the best restaurants they’d been to, etc. It all seemed a little surreal. The ethnic spectrum of the folks in line surprised me. With the exception of native Hawaiians, there was an almost even mixture of Asian, Latino and European type people. Persons of African or Middle Eastern descent were more scarce, but definitely present. Many of the passengers bore the spoils of a weekend shopping trip. The spirit was very, very casual.

There were two flight attendants, both young Hawaiian men, who did, in fact, wear leis and floral print shirts. Predictably, Don Ho was piped into the cabin. Despite all of this, however, you may be disappointed to find out that no one had been handing out leis when I’d landed at Honolulu, and no one did at Hilo either. Sorry to burst yr. chick-in-a-grass-skirt-smiling-and-leing-you bubble, but if it makes you feel any better, you can call and arrange a lei greeting ahead of time. How lame is that?

The pilot sounded like he was about 13 years old, but he managed to fly the aircraft OK. He was one of those pilots who wants to describe every fucking thing you pass. You couldn’t see anything out there, so I zoned out on him pretty quickly—as though he were one of the flight attendants demonstrating emergency landing procedures.

Soon, all of that Pacific brightness was lost in smoky clouds. They’d come out of nowhere, grabbed and held onto us. Rain started abruptly and quickly grew heavy. There seemed to be something in the air that was both ominous and intoxicating. Inside the clouds, nightfall was premature. There was no sunset, which I’m sure would’ve been spectacular. We just moved away from clean, vivid light and further into the murk. Here and there the clouds thinned a little, but all that afforded you was a glimpse of pale gray nothing. Finally there was just solid blackness.

I sat there and watched the rain bead on the window glass. It was quiet and peaceful. I hadn’t noticed, but the music had disappeared at some point. There wasn’t even a whole lot of conversation—at least, not that I could hear. I listened to one of the flight attendants, as he chatted up a young woman. He seemed to think they had mutual friends, though nothing of the sort could be nailed down. The woman seemed to know it was a come on and she didn't appear to be interested—only amused in a friendly sorta way.

I could’ve been a little more so. He was the one pushing the beverage cart, and I was fucking thirsty, but I figured, hey whatever. I like a relaxed atmosphere, and besides it was somehow good to know that they were there talking.

Before long, we began our descent, and the clouds dispersed. Part of this experience was familiar: the emergence of a grid of light. It was less expansive than the cityscapes I was used to seeing from above—having only ever flown to and from major metropolitan airports. (Well, OK, I have flown into and out of Bishop Airport in Flint, Michigan, but from above, the city is pretty much lost in the sprawl of Detroit.) More or less though, I’d had this experience before.

Here’s the part that was not familiar: The appearance of the enormous pitch silhouettes of mountains—two of them. They seemed to be quite close—maybe right next to the airfield. (They aren’t really, but it definitely feels like they are.) The first mountain, Mauna Loa, seemed to stretch completely across one horizon. The other, Mauna Kea, was taller, darker and more jagged. It also seemed angrier.

(I put some pictures I took of ‘em here. That’s Mauna Loa first, the most massive mountain in the world— in terms of the amount of stone it contains— due to its very gradual slope. And then there’s Mauna Kea —the tallest mountain in the world, when measured from its base on the ocean floor.

Unfortunately, these were taken during the day, so the silhouetting effect I saw from the plane is lost. I’m nowhere near enough of a photographer to’ve shot ‘em at night and gotten a decent image, but they still look pretty damn striking by sunlight.)

As we taxied across the grounds of this very small airport, my eagerness to get off this fucking plane was inspired less by the endless hours of travel I'd logged (though there was that too, you better believe) than it is by an eagerness to see if this shit was actually there. I mean, OK, there’s this rain-slick blackness—clouds that are not just dark, but black, and a sooty mist rolling around the terminal tower like an overzealous special effect. And all of that’s nothing compared to those two gigantic mountains—backlit jet, and leaning over all of this. Again, it’s hard not to think of constructed fantasy. These things are Tolkeinesque, to say the least—but the thing is, you’re there, and those mountains are real, which sorta makes CGI effects and novels about hobbits feel, well, a bit lacking.

They were fucking titanic—overwhelming in their size and solidity—like something carved out of an ancient, heavier meaning than anything I’ve encountered. They were larger ciphers, like the monolith in 2001 or Devil’s Tower in Close Encounters or like George Clooney’s ass in the remake of Solaris.

If I sound grandiloquent, if you think it’s too much, then I’m just not doing them justice…

(Me: (in a crappy approximation of a Vaudevillian accent) Those mountains were big.

Audience: (in a bored and annoyed tone of voice) How big were they?

Me: They were so big that Liz Phair could not use them for a dildo!

The audience groans. Several tomatoes splatter across my ugly red and white striped jacket.

Kindly Old Guy with a Lousy Sense of Humor: Wow, that is big!

Me: Well, OK, nothing’s that big… But they sure were profound!

Audience: (even more bored and annoyed than before) How profound were they?

Me: They were so profound that they make that wicked profound [puzzled mumbling at the distinctly non-Vaudevillian use of the word “wicked,” not to mention its possible referentiality to the contemporary musical of that name—and aren’t you kinda wondering why no one was put off by the word “profound?] speech that Cornelius reads outta the ape bible at the end of Planet of the Apes seem stupid!

The Audience hisses and boos, pelts me with more tomatoes.

Kindly Old Guy: (who at this point, is as pissed as the rest of the crowd) Nothing’s more profound than that speech, you rat!!!

The hook end of a shepherd’s staff comes out and yanks me off the stage… And so ends my Vaudevillian career…)

I’ll leave it at this: the whole time I was on the island of Hawaii, they were always there—frequently in view, and if not, they were on my mind. I saw them from 100 angles and relative distances, and whatever my vantage point, they always seemed to determine their surroundings, in atmosphere and, I suspect, in topography.

More soon…