I admit to liking some old Jefferson Airplane songs, but I fail to find kind words for its later incarnation, Jefferson Starship. Recently I was tortured with the song “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” and an alternate interpretation came to mind.

Don’t you wonder what they’re really singing about? Let me tell you, friends, in another installation of Self-Help Thursday.
***

Hello there, Grace and Mickey.  Welcome to my Rock Star Therapy practice.  So you’d like to talk about your relationship.  I’m surprised, since I didn’t think you two were in a romantic relationship.  I guess things are complicated, huh?  I’m happy to help you using my vast array of psychotherapy credentials.  Mickey, why don’t you start? Tell me about your feelings for Grace.

Looking in your eyes I see a paradise
This world that I’ve found
Is too good to be true
Standing here beside you
Want so much to give you
This love in my heart that I’m feeling for you

Mickey, this is a classic case of self-fulfilling prophecy.  By assuming that the relationship is too good to be true, you set yourself up for failure.  People with low self-esteem often feel this way, but you don’t have to join them.  Recognize your own self-worth and infuse your relationship with it.  Grace, care to comment?

Let ‘em say were crazy
I don’t care about that

Well, Grace, you’ve made it clear that you don’t care about other people’s interpretation of your mental state.  I’ve seen your art exhibits and you’re in the other polarity:  very high self-esteem.  Mickey, you could learn a little from Grace’s approach.  But I’m sorry, Grace dear, I didn’t meant to interrupt.  What were you saying?

Put your hand in my hand baby
Don’t ever look back

That’s right!  Don’t look back at those people who very obviously think you’re crazy.  Are they trained mental health professionals?  No, they are not!  So what will you say to those nay-sayers and name-callers?

Let the world around us just fall apart
Baby we can make it if we’re heart to heart

Grace, this is where a high self-esteem person like you runs into trouble. This normally positive trait becomes overconfidence.  If the world fell apart, you would certainly not Make It.  Skyscrapers could fall on your head or a giant sidewalk hole could open, or the monkey cage in the zoo could collapse and let loose a pack of raging gorillas.  You won’t survive raging gorillas, Grace.  No matter how strong our confidence is, we humans have our limits.  Try again.

And we can build this dream together
Standing strong forever
Nothing’s gonna stop us now.

Please, let’s look at reality.  You won’t live forever, and things can definitely stop you.  In fact, taking the time to identify your obstacles is the first step to prevent them from ruining your lives.  I sense that this this unrealistic view of the future is holding back your relationship.  Let’s rephrase and try for a more sensible approach.

And if this world runs out of lovers
We’ll still have each other

Grace and Mickey, I’m a little suspicious of your motives.  Previously you referred to the world falling apart, and now you say the world also risks running out of lovers.  Given that the world is steeped in delusional romantics, a shortage  is impossible unless you know something the rest of us don’t know.  You … you don’t, do you?

Nothing’s gonna stop us
nothing’s gonna stop us now.

Ok, nothing is gonna stop you from WHAT?

I’m so glad I found you
I’m not gonna lose you
Whatever it takes I will stay here with you.

You’re making me nervous now.  Come on, I thought you wanted relationship counseling but you keep hinting at some dangerous event on the horizon.  So you have insider’s knowledge on what it will take to stay alive?  What is it?

Take it to the good times
See it through the bad times
Whatever it takes is what I’m gonna do.

The good times end and the bad times are coming?  I think you aren’t telling me something.  What are you two planning?  Unleashing the plague?  Poisoning the water supply?  Calling up the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse so you can laugh at us poor mortals screaming in the face of divine wrath?

Let ‘em say were crazy
what do they know?

Who are “They,” Grace?  When people in my practice talk about “They,” it’s never a good sign!

Put your arms around me baby
Don’t ever let go
Let the world around us just fall apart

Again with the world falling apart!

Baby we can make it if we’re heart to heart

What is this, some kind of twisted version of the Vulcan mind meld but using hearts instead?  I knew it!  You’re aliens, aren’t you, and this whole spiel is a smug foreshadowing of your impending invasion!  The name change from Jefferson Airplane to Jefferson Starship all makes sense now.  And to think I was lecturing you about the limitations of human beings.  You don’t have to worry about that, do you?

Ooh, all that I need is you
All that I ever need
And all that I want to do
Is hold you forever, ever and ever
Hey!

Oh my god.  You’re looking at me.  You want to hold ME forever and ever in your twisted world of alien invasions and vampiric everlasting life.  Dear God, help me.  They’re coming closer, closer …

(guitar solo;  sound of shrieking and slurping)

***

The bad part about writing this is that I have that song stuck in my head now, and I particularly dislike it.  I do think singer Grace Slick is a cool chick;  she’s an artist now.

Tags: Alien Oddities, Self-Improvement // 1 Comment »

D and I were sitting in bland TGI Friday’s-style restaurant when we started thinking about how often parents expect their children to carry on the family business, despite whether or not the kid is interested in it or good at it.  What happens if more nefarious parents wanted their children to carry on the family “business” of some horrible crime?  Might such a character dutifully try, fail, and eventually find his or her own path in life?  We started listing all the ways the children of a serial killer might fail miserably.  Thus, Bertrand was created.

Today I said, “I don’t know.  Do you think my humorous story about a failed serial killer is offensive?”

“No,” said D.  “I don’t think it’s offensive at all.”

Then we realized he was wearing a Johnny the Homicidal Maniac t-shirt (hilarious yet twisted graphic novel from Jhonen Vasquez).  So perhaps he’s not the best judge of such things.

Then again, perhaps I shouldn’t post it here.  I just know that if my nemesis tries to frame me for a heinous crime, the media will be crawling all over this blog (Ooh!  Publicity!) screeching, “Look!  Her blog has stories about serial killers!“  In which case I’ll have to wonder if this story will be more or less incriminating than satanic marsupials, death by fuzz fuschia bikini, and engaging in conversation with spambots.

At any rate, enjoy a little Halloween horror/humor, and know that it all ends well for everyone (well … the bugs might have something to say about that).   It’s a bit long, so I gave it tiny little chapters.

BERTRAND THE SERIAL KILLER’S BAD DAY

“Killin’ ain’t easy,” Bertrand’s dad had said just before the execution.  “It’s messy and it kinda smells bad, and your victims say some awful mean things to ya.”  Strapped into the electric chair, he had locked eyes with his son and rasped, “But son, don’t forget your Daddy.  Carry on my legacy!”

What do you say to a thing like that?  If you were Bertrand, you said “Yes, sir!”, knowing that one must never disobey one’s parents.  And that is why, eight months later, Bertrand carefully placed his Daddy’s old butcher knife in his knapsack, dressed in his best —and first — killing outfit like an uncomfortable schoolboy in his Sunday best.  Trembling just a bit, he stepped onto the busy city sidewalk.  He had worked on his plan, which he called “Operation Serendipity,” for weeks. He ducked into a phone booth, closed his eyes, and ruffled through the pages to choose the location of his first victim.  He stopped on a whim and looked at the address under his finger.  What luck!  An address not ten blocks from home.  “I can do this, Daddy!” he proclaimed as he dashed down the street towards destiny.

1.  Thwarted by Suicidal Tendencies
The house was disappointingly easy to enter, and this dashed his hopes for a grand, door-kicking entrance worthy of the best action movie.  The door was unlocked.  “In this neighborhood?” he muttered.  “Man, that’s suicidal.”

In the tiny bathroom, a thin man with a razor in hand sat by the bathtub.  Bertrand took out his butcher knife and stood awkwardly for a moment.  How did one begin a murder?  He cleared his throat.  “Uh …I’m here to kill you.”

The man jumped up.  “You are?  Oh, thank god!  I’ve been trying to kill myself for two days now, and I keep losing my nerve.  I just can’t deal with this cruel world anymore.”

Bertrand stared open-mouthed.

The man walked over and clasped Bertrand’s hand.  “You are like an angel sent from heaven to help me leave this awful place.”  He leaned over to kiss Bertrand’s cheek.

“Aggh!  No kisses!” cried Bertrand, backing away.  His father had always made serial killing sound so glamorous.  Serial killers were supposed to enjoy killing their unwilling victims, and the victims were supposed to play their roles correctly.   This guy was misbehaving and worse, he was affectionate!

Bertrand fled the way he came, disappointed that Operation Serendipity encountered a hitch already.  He could hear the suicidal man calling him back, but he didn’t stop.

2.  Defied by Inconvenient Expirations
Back in his own neighborhood, Bertrand stared at his reflection in a shop window and said, “Cheer up, old boy.  Of course killing is hard for beginners.  Chin up!  Try again!”  So Bertrand went back to the phone booth and chose another address.  This address was farther away, and Bertrand was weary when he arrived.  The door was locked, but his exhaustion prevented him from kicking in the door.  Instead, he crawled through an open bathroom window.  He landed in the toilet, soaking his new shoes.  How upsetting!  He had bought them especially for killing, and now they were ruined.

As he walked into the hall, squishing with each step, a woman standing at the kitchen counter looked up.  “I am here to kill you!” said Bertrand.  This time, he chose what he hoped was a more menacing manner.  The woman screamed and looked frightened, but Bertrand’s success was short-lived.  The woman clutched her chest and shouted, “My heart!”  as she collapsed.

He didn’t even have time to get out his butcher knife.  “Oh no!” he groaned.  “Don’t die, lady.  You can’t die yet!  I have to kill you!”  He tried to recall his high school education in CPR, but could  only watch the woman expire on the tiled floor.  Bertrand sighed walked into the apartment lobby.

3.  Rejected by Tiny Ruffians
Whatever should he do?  It was no time to be gloomy, he decided – it was time for creativity and thinking outside the box!.  He glanced around for inspiration and noticed group of children playing in the unattended lobby.  Easy pickings, he thought.  Maybe this was the perfect setup for his first murder.  Perhaps he’d been too ambitious earlier.

He burst into the play circle and held up his butcher knife.  “Gonna kill you!”  he shrieked.  The children looked at him in silent skepticism.   “What?”  he frowned.

“That ain’t a real knife,” one helpful rug rat said.

In horror, he looked at his treasured butcher knife.  He had accidentally grabbed his favorite Halloween prop, the one that worked so well for his annual “Mad Serial Killer” Halloween costume.  How humiliating!  And to think that he’d already threatened two people with it this evening.

“Ah … uh … that’s right!  I was going to …to… play with you.”

“We don’t wanna play with you,” the oldest kid snapped.  “You got funny hair and you smell like pickles.”

He had, in fact, eaten pickles.  It was a bad habit of his, eating an entire jar of Kosher Dill pickles for supper.  However, he didn’t think there was anything wrong with his mullet.  The kids picked up their marbles and left, muttering among themselves.

4.  Bedeviled by Bullets
He trudged home to his room.  He was having a decidedly bad night. Being a serial killer was so hard!  Daddy had always made it seem graceful and easy.  “Maybe I’m not cut out for this,” he thought and then corrected himself with, “No, I’m not a quitter.  So what if I screwed up on the knife?  I have a gun, too!”  He rummaged through his closet until he found his father’s old gun gleaming cool and bright.  He smiled.  There was always another path to choose.  And why the elaborate ritual of finding an address in the phone book?  Why not just find the first house that called to him?  He wandered until he found a townhouse on a quiet corner.  Perfect.  He strode confidently through the front door, surprising a young couple watching television.  “KILL YOU!”  he shrieked, pulling the trigger.  Click.  Furious, he pulled the trigger again and again, but only clicking ensued.

“I …” the young woman stammered, dropping her knitting needles.  “I don’t think it’s loaded.”

A long silence filled the room, broken by the sounds of Star Trek on TV.  “Most illogical,” commented Mr. Spock.

Bertrand hung his head, pressing his hands to his temples.  How could he forget to load the gun?  What kind of a crappy serial killer was he?  Stunned by his own ineptness, he fled back into the night.  He was so glad his Daddy couldn’t see his failure of a son.

5.  Apprehended by Elderly Attitude
As he passed an old movie theater, he saw an advertisement for Friday the Thirteenth XXXII:  No, We’ll Never Give Up.  He paused.  Was the universe encouraging him to not give up?  He studied the poster.  Maybe he needed to add more drama to his technique.  He’d been taking the direct route, but people enjoyed costumes and special effects.  Inspired, he dashed home and again rummaged around until he found an old catcher’s mask.  It was a little small (he’d had it in Little League) and of course it wasn’t a hockey mask like in the Friday the Thirteenth movies, but it would do.  And this time, he’d load the gun.

Pleased with himself, he walked back outside and scanned his neighborhood, hoping for a psychic “killer’s intuition” about the best victim.  There!  The last house on the left, that would do.  He donned the mask, wincing at the tight fit, and burst into the house with gun held aloft.  An old woman sat grooming a small dog, which began yapping immediately.  Bertrand shouted threateningly, “I’m going to ki–” but he stopped, gagging as the catcher’s mask caught on his large, buckish teeth.  He tried moving his jaw, but the mask was stuck good.

“Oh my, Muffin!” said the old lady in a tremulous voice.  “I think that young man is trying to kill us!  Oh!  Oh!”

Bertrand dropped the gun and wrestled with the mask, which was quite painful against his teeth.  The little dog launched itself at him, propelling Bertrand backwards into the open window.  He crashed through the screen and the sash slammed shut on his ankle, leaving him dangling from the window as Muffin gnawed on his exposed leg.  He twisted around, still struggling with the mask, and saw the old lady totter to her feet and shuffle to her walker.  He heard the squeak and thump as she inched across the floor, out the door, and down the sidewalk.  She paused underneath him and shook her fist while the little dog continued to bark.  “You young hooligan!”  she hollered in a reedy voice.  “You get out of my window!”  She watched him dangle for a moment or two, then said, “Come along, Muffin, we’ll get the police.”

Squeak, thump.  Squeak, thump.  He watched as she disappeared down the sidewalk.  After an agonizing quarter of an hour, the windowsill gave way and he plummeted to the ground.  The fall dislodged the mask, and he lay gasping for a moment.

6.  Foiled by Fashion
He climbed to his battered feet, dusting off his newly-torn jacket, which had also been a special purchase for the purpose of killing.  He sighed and once more began to trudge home.  He could think of nothing but the evening’s mishaps.  He passed bums and hookers who waved at him, but he didn’t wave back.  He passed drug houses and parks filled with gang members.  He saw two twelve year olds threatening each other with large semi-automatic weapons.  A tear fell from his eye as he walked past.  “Even kids can do better than I!”

Then a pale gleam caught his eye.  A figure stood in a building, distracted and unmoving.  Here was his chance –someone defenseless and unaware!  He fumbled with the gun and loaded it, then took careful aim at the figure.  He would be a stealth killer this time!  The guy would never know what hit him!  He let loose, screaming in relief.  Daddy would be proud this time!

But as the dust cleared, Bertrand realized his mistake. The building front said “Macy’s.”  The store mannequin’s trendy clothing was in tatters, and its head hung askew.  It glared at him in seeming contempt.

As the sirens began blaring, Bertrand ran, cheeks blazing.  “I give up, ok?”  he shouted to the quiet residential neighborhood he ran through.  “I give up!  I’ll never be a serial killer!”

7.  Pestered by the Paranormal
As he ran, he began to calm down.  The problem, he realized, was the city with its cold bright lights, jaded people, and many distractions.  What he needed was quiet and tranquility to clear his mind.  It was foolish to start his career in an urban area.  He slowed as he reached the outskirts of town, where large oak trees grew, a creek burbled, and city lights twinkled in the distance.  As he walked deeper into the wilderness, he heard grunting and saw two large figures in a clearing.

“Oho! A lover’s lane and an amorous couple!”  To cut is teeth on something so classic would be wonderful, but his gun was empty and he was without his knife.  What to do, what to do?

“Be creative, Bertie!”  he whispered.  “What do you have in your knapsack?”  Silently, he took it off and sorted through it.  Playing cards.  Peanut butter sandwich.  Anatomy book.  Michael Jackson CD.  Rope.

Rope!  He had learned how to tie a noose in the Boy Scouts when other kids struggled with simple nautical knots.  This was his chance to shine!  Any old serial killer could stab and shoot.  It took real talent and creativity to use a noose.

Smiling, he approached the naughty couple.  But as he approached, the man whirled around and Bertrand caught a glimpse in the moonlight.

It wasn’t a lovestruck couple … it was Sasquatch!

“OH SHIT!”  screamed Bertrand.  He turned on heel and fled through the forest.  The creature’s breath was on his back!  Could this night get any worse?  “Oh my god, oh my god, it’s all true, Bigfoot is real!”  The stench of the foul beast was unbearable.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he shouted as he stumbled over branches and shrubs in the darkness.  Was this his punishment for attempting to kill?  Could God have sent this thing to kill him, to show him what it was like to die?  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll give up killing, I didn’t want to do it, really, don’t eat me!”

8.  Mentored by a Murderer
And magically, the roaring of the beast faded as it lost interest.  Bertrand continued running until he collapsed near an isolated old cabin.  Chest heaving, he looked around him.  A pleasant glow came from the door and the gentle sounds of new age music drifted from the windows.  He smelled bacon and beans cooking.

Bertrand relaxed.  No Sasquatch here!  He peeked beyond the gingham curtains.  A grizzled old man sat reading a book by the light of a kerosene lamp.  Bertrand wondered if this defenseless grandfather was his last chance to prove himself.  He hesitated, fingers gripping the rope.  Hadn’t he just sworn in front of God and Sasquatch that he would give up on killing?  Wouldn’t it be good to put this failure behind him and just read a book like this old man?

But his father’s words echoed in his ears, and he knew he must honor his father’s memory.  He steeled himself to garrote the man.  He crept in through the shack’s back door, holding out the rope with trembling hands.  Sweat dripped from his brow.

And then the old man said without turning around, “Look around you, son.  You might reconsider.”

Bertrand froze.  Upon closer inspection he saw the man was reading a book titled The Lives of Famous Murderers.  One wall of the little cabin was covered with newspaper clippings, the most prominent reading, “Serial Killer claims hundreds of lives!”  It was directly under a scribbled sticky note that said, “That’s me!!!”  The opposite wall displayed a shelf of human skulls, and on the kitchen counter lay a handwritten recipe that read, “Long Pig with Lentils and Basil.”

Bertrand gulped and realized that yes, the night could get worse, and it had.  The man turned around and smiled, pulling a chair out from the table.  ‘Sit down, sit down,” he said.  “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

“N-no thanks,” said Bertrand, sitting down.  It would never do to accept a drink from a serial killer.  He admired the man, he had to admit.  He had never considered poisoning.  How subtle and sophisticated!  He felt ashamed of his youthful blunders, kicking in doors and screaming.  How very childish.

The old man settled back in his chair.  “Now son,” he said earnestly, “why did you come in here to kill me?”

Bertrand looked down at the worn floorboards.  “I was going to be a serial killer,” he mumbled.

“Really?” asked the old man.  “Now why would you want to do that?  Being a serial killer is hard work.  You’re always on the run, always searching for that perfect victim.”  He paused, then leaned forward.  “The perfect victim never came, did he?” he said softly.

Sniffling, Bertrand shook his head.  “I … I’m a failure.  Daddy would be so ashamed of me if he could see me now.”

“So your daddy was a serial killer, was he?”  Bertrand nodded.  “Oh, now don’t say that you’re a failure, young man.  You’re not a failure.  You’re just trying to live up to an ideal, trying to make your daddy proud.  But you know what?”

Bertrand looked into the man’s wizened old face.  “What?”

“Serial killin’ ain’t for everyone.  Hell, if every Tom, Dick, and Harry did it, there’d be no one left to kill!  It’s hard work, and to tell you the truth, I gave it up myself.  Just ain’t worth the trouble and after awhile you start regrettin’ it all.”  He smiled.  “Tell you what, son, you need to channel that killin’ energy into something productive.  I mean, serial killin’ ain’t exactly lucrative.”  He gestured to his meager cabin.  “You ever thought of a career in pest control?”

Bertrand frowned.  “Pest … what?”

The man slapped the table enthusiastically.  “You know who needs to die?  Now it ain’t poor widows, high school lovers, or random people on the street.  It’s roaches!”

“Roaches?”

“Roaches.  Think about it.  Goddamned bugs all over the place.  No respect for humanity, always crawling wherever they damned please, spreading disease.  Give ‘em even a little slack and the next thing you know, they’re in your bed!”

Bertrand considered it.  Roaches were disgusting creatures indeed.  In fact, the more he thought about it, the angrier he got.  Roaches crawling around like they owned the world, congregating in the night like vampires!  Why, THEY were the ones who needed to die!  Whatever made him think that innocent people needed to die when the real jerks were swarming around on floors across the country?

The old man nodded.  “That’s right, son.  You start thinking for yourself, and let your Daddy’s memory rest.  He’ll be proud of you so long as you’re killing something.  Do some good in the world.”

Bertrand leaped to his feet and shook the old man’s hand.  “Thank you, mister!  I can’t tell you how grateful I am!  I … I never wanted to be a serial killer, not really, and now you’ve given me a new path!”

The old man walked Bertrand to the door.  Bertrand, who was busily planning his new business and dazzled by visions of gas masks and roach motels, did not hear the old man murmur, “Kid’s too skinny to make good stew anyway.”

And from then on, Bertrand no longer aspired to kill fellow human beings.  He became a passionate exterminator and the sole proprietor of “Bert’s Bug Killing.”  He loved the sight of dead roaches, and the relieved smiles of his customers.  He killed every day, and enjoyed every moment of his life, which was tragically cut short by all the chemicals he inadvertently inhaled daily.  However, Bertrand died happy and in service to the good of mankind, and that is a life worth living.

Tags: Extreme Optimism, Mythological Mishaps, Rampaging // 2 Comments »

Recently I took a Search Engine Optimization class and the instructor introduced me to Google Trends, which shows the most frequently searched-for keywords of the day.  As I stared at all the keywords, I had a fiendish idea.  Could I write a coherent, amusing story using a selection of those keywords?

Since one of the keywords that shows up frequently on my web stats is “satanic marsupials”  (seriously!  what is wrong with you people searching for that?), I thought I’d combine the two into one Giant Keyword Amusement Challenge.   It should make the spambots, who unanimously requested more information about the very important topic of Satanic Marsupials, very happy. And you know how I feel about making spambots happy.

~~~~~~~~~~~

It was time for the Satanic Marsupial Uprising.  All the wombats, kangaroos, possums, moles, the last remaining thylacine, a couple of Tasmanian devils, bandicoots, wombats, koalas, and several other species you shouldn’t try to pretend that you know or understand, gathered in the town hall to discuss their evil plan of world domination.  Excitement was high;  glorious power would soon be theirs once a diabolical plan was crafted!

Without preamble, a skinny bandicoot arose and said “Strollers.  I think they could serve our ends nicely, especially some of those new strollers made for active parents.  You know, the Schobly brand or the Quinny strollers.  I’ve read some bloggers talking about how these strollers fiendishly remove babies from proper sensory stimulation.”

Everyone stared at the bandicoot in disappointment.  The Tasmanian devils made gagging sounds and a possum snickered.

“High-end strollers?  Really?  Is that the best you can do to achieve the complete destruction of society as we know it?  Now how about something really awful, like Monday Night Football?”

The bandicoot looked unimpressed.  “Oh brilliant, Carl.  Sure, my idea about corrupting youth in their most tender moments is pitiful in comparison to the dire threat of Monday Night Football.”

“I’m so glad you see the light –I mean, sinister darkness, Jeremiah,” said Carl.  “It will take too long to corrupt infants.  Have you seen how long it takes them to even walk?  By the time we can properly conquer their race, we’ll probably all be dead and our evil spawn won’t know what the hell we’re talking about.  Monday Night Football, now there’s something we can take action on right now.  Hex the football in the name of our Dark Lord, put subliminal messages into the advertising–”

Emilio the wombat snorted.  “Advertising is so twentieth century, Carl.  What you need is to cook a turkey using thermite in a tagine, which is a Middle Eastern cooking implement.  If properly coordinated, the resulting explosion could wipe the population of several American metros off the planet.”

But none of the satanic marsupials were smiling.  This was all boring, unimaginative, and totally displeasing to the Dark Lord, who would surely view it as something yanked in desperation from Google Trends or something.

Finally, the mole contingent spoke up.  “We have a trio of ideas,” said the largest mole nervously.  “We present them to you in order of importance according to the known preferences of our Dark Lord:
1)  A constant media stream of bipartisan whining about health care reform bills;
2)  An integrated attack of beaked whales upon California surfer competitions, which will lower the national morale and cause depression or narcolepsy or possibly swine flu;
3)  Incessant promotion of the latest fad diet, the “Optimal Cleanse” which is, according to their website, “is a pleasant tasting, rice protein-based functional food meant to provide Optimal Cleansing nutrition for those patients suffering from conditions and symptoms associated with toxicity” but of course, we would tweak the formula for maximum toxicity, a toxicity that we would augment with old re-runs featuring Tony Danza.

“Surely,” concluded the mole, ”under the combined attack of these three great threats, the denizens of the World cannot fail to endure.”

There was murmuring in the great town hall.  Some of the old marsupials approved of the Tony Danza idea, having witnessed his devastating effect on American society when “Charles in Charge” ruled the cable box.  The younger marsupials thought that the Dark Lord would particularly enjoy the term “functional food.”

Finally the cranky old thylacine yelled, “Popinjays!  You idiots, your plans won’t work without popinjays!  And why are you all focusing on America like it comprises the whole goddamned world?  Have none of you been to Luxembourg?”

But no one knew what a popinjay was or where Luxembourg was, and no one wanted to encourage the thylacine to continue a tirade, so no one responded.  It’s a pity, really, since a league of popinjays could have significantly benefited their mission, but the Assembly had moved on.  Could no concept come to their aid?  Could nothing spread the Vision of the Dark Lord effectively?  Would Satan’s heart be broken yet again by his minion’s measly efforts at colonialism?

And then a small kangaroo spoke clearly above the general muttering.  “Why don’t we just apply the Trachtenberg speed system of basic mathematics?”

And because no one knew what it meant but it sounded dreadful, cheering commenced and the Assembly decreed that it had found its solution.  It declared the little kangaroo to be its leader in bringing the Devastating Mathematical System to every door in America.  This was unfortunate because the Trachtenberg speed system of basic mathematics teaches people to do high-speed multiplication, division, addition, subtraction, and square root calculations in their heads.  By improving their mathematical skills, the American public also developed critical thinking skills and decided that they didn’t believe Satan existed after all.  Without the belief of the public, Satan’s power plummeted and all the satanic marsupials committed suicide.  This was ok because their children grew up to be great mathematicians and solved the problem of world hunger.  THE END.

Tags: Google Trend LOL, Marsupials // Add Comment »

This is a special post in honor of my friends who are heading off to Burning Man in a couple of weeks.

Coming home from a long, wearying business trip, you fly into Reno for a layover.  You stretch your legs, get coffee, waste two hours on compulsively checking your vast array of social networking accounts.  When you finally board your plane again and take off, you notice that something is … different.  What’s with all these brightly colored, dusty people crowding into the plane?  How the hell did they get on here?

“Oh man,” you hear a girl in a fuzzy neon green bikini say, “I’m gonna miss the Playa.”

With dawning horror, you realize the nightmare you’ve boarded.  It’s a plane full of Burners just emerging from the Burning Man event, and you’re lifting off!  There’s no escape, and here are ten ways in which you’re likely to die.

Situation One:  Death by shock and/or horror
Who’s at Risk: The elderly, those suffering from a heart condition, and uptight individuals
The Death: Your heart probably started pounding when you saw the chick in the fuzzy bikini.  The last time you saw such a thing was Never.  Your adrenalin circulates at dangerous levels, preparing you for possible unpleasant freaky experiences involving glow sticks and hula hoops.  Then you realize that the chick is actually a guy, and there’s another androgynous type with him/her/it in a matching fuzzy fuscha bikini.  Your heart protests violently, and soon you’ve keeled over into your martini.  That’s ok, it was made with really crappy gin anyway. 

Situation Two:  Choking on glitter/feathers/other ethereal decor
Who’s at Risk: Breathing individuals. 
The Death: You’re trapped in the middle seat between two exquisitely ornamented creatures.  It’s not so bad;  they’re quite attractive and friendly.  You relax as they wow you with stories about the Burn.  Suddenly, one of them sneezes and a cloud of glitter wafts from her wig.  It’s in your eyes, your nose, your mouth!  The other one leans over you to hand her a tissue, and you inadvertently inhale several flimsy feathers from the four boas wrapped around his head.  Clogged with pixie dust and feathers, you suffocate.  But at least it’s a very pretty, soft suffocation. 

Situation Three:  Bludgeoning by Platform Boots
Who’s at Risk:  Short people and children
The Death: The Burner next to you rises and says he needs to take a leak.  You are now eye-level with the tops of his fuzzy orange cowboy boots, which have, in your estimation, 10 inch platforms.  Said platforms trip over the flight attendant and the Burner goes flying.  You are smacked in the temple with the orange platforms, which causes a brain seizure.  As your consciousness fades into oblivion, you hear a Burner behind you saying, “Amateur.  I mean, I have stilts.”

Situation Four: Death by Contact High
Who’s at Risk: Those with lung diseases and low tolerance to altered states
The Death: You’re getting on great with your Burner seatmate.  He has fabulous stories about life on the Playa and the amazing Art Car he created, totally fueled by biodiesel and graywater.  You start thinking about that unused comp time you’ve racked up.  Maybe you could try this Burning Man thing next year!  You and your seatmate have gone through several beers, and you stumble to the bathroom.  Unfortunately, a couple of Burners have used the bathroom to surreptitiously smoke pot.  The heavy smoke overcomes you and your poor half-capacity lungs, and you crash to the floor.  The floor is nasty but the event of your death seems absolutely hilarious.  Your giggling so hard you cannot breathe, if there was air in here to breathe anyway.

Situation Five: Death by Pretty Lights
Who’s at Risk:  Epileptics
The Death:  You’re deep into your Harlequin Romance novel when the Burner next to you gets up to rummage around in the overhead compartment.  Triumphantly, she sits down and shows you her find.  “Check it out!” she says.  “It’s this awesome strobe that I traded for three hours of Reiki.”  Before you can stop her, she starts it up and the plane is filled with jagged flashes of red, blue, and green light.  As your temporal lobes cringe rhythmically in terror, you swallow your tongue and choke to death.  Damn it, you hadn’t even got to the bodice-ripping chapter.

Situation Six: The “Real” Synth
Who’s at Risk:  Anyone
The Death:  Your seatmate looks suspiciously at you over the top of his chunky chartreuse glasses.  You kindly decided to put him at ease and ask him about the band t-shirt he’s wearing.  “What kind of music do they play?” you ask politely.  Before your sentence is finished, he’s pulling out a strange contraption from his bag.  “This is a real synth,” he says conspiratorially.  “It’s not that fucking K-mart shit that most people use.  I play actual experimental music with this, you know?  I built it myself from parts I scavenged.  You seem pretty cool, like you really care about music.  I’ll let you play it.”  Nervously, you touch a key, brushing an exposed wire.  Sparks fly and you die, your last screams destined to be sampled in a psytrance song.

Situation Seven: The Art Installation
Who’s at Risk:  Anyone
The Death:  “I don’t do drugs,” announces your new Burner friend.  “I’m an artist.  I protect my brain chemistry, you know?  So that nothing messes with my creative impulse.”  You nod.  You’re a bit of an artist yourself, you tell her.  You did a couple of still life pieces in watercolor during a college art class.  Then you find yourself pressed against the window frantically trying to avoid the enormous mass of springs, coils, and wires that she just pulled from her pack.  “It’s my art installation,” she beams.  “It even glows in the dark!”  But you’ll never see it glow in the dark.  You’ll never see anything again.  One of the springs pops loose and embeds itself into your eye, poking through into your brain.  You die on the spot.  What a pity.  When it was all assembled, it was really cool.

Situation Eight: Death by Shpongle
Who’s at Risk: Anyone flying low-cost air carriers
The Death: Squeezed into your tiny seat, you breath a sigh of relief when you see that your seatmate isn’t much inclined to talk.  He’s blissfully glued to his iPod.  You can hear the tinny sound of “doof doof doof doof” emanating from his ears.  His foot starts tapping, which you ignore at first.  Then he starts wiggling up and down in his seat and singing along with the voice samples in a screechy falsetto.  He throws his arms in the air and sways his head from side to side.  Stop staring dumbfoundedly!  You should be more concerned about the integrity of your seating.  The Burner’s constant, violent motion has shaken loose a crucial screw in the seat, and you both crash to the floor during a bout of turbulence.  As you fall, the latch on the seat tray stabs you in the throat. As you lay bleeding, you realize this would never have happened in a more upscale, spacious airline with seat trays a safe distance away.  But you get what you pay for, don’t you?

Situation Nine:  Poi Mishaps
Who’s at Risk:  Anyone
The Death:  Ignoring the protests of the flight attendants, a troupe of fire spinners begins a performance.  You watch in simultaneous fear and awe as they twirl flaming objects, spit fire, and cavort half-naked in the fiery aisles.  The flight attendants band together and wrestle away the butane, shrieking that they can’t spin poi on a plane.  “No worries, sorry man,” says one.  “We’ve got these nice fabric ones.  No fire danger there whatsoever.”  The fabric is shiny and glittery, and very strong.  You discover this unfortunate fact as a dancer flings it over your head, where it falls and tangles around your neck.  You choke, you die.  The other passengers don’t complain too much, though–they’re clapping too hard to hear your strangled cries.  Did you see that girl with the flaming hula hoop?  I mean, wow!  How did they get that stuff on the plane, anyway?

Situation ten: Plane Crash
Who’s at Risk:  Samuel L. Jackson and Everyone
The Death:  Samuel L. Jackson is in first class, unbeknownst to you, and he’s tired of this shit.  He bursts into economy class and shouts, “I want these motherfucking freaks off this motherfucking plane!”  Unfortunately, this triggers the guy next to you who is coming down from a two-week multi-drug trip.  Screaming in terror, he bolts from his seat and rushes to the emergency exit.  Samuel realizes that he’s not equipped with any kind of weapon since this is real life and not a movie, and Security confiscated his guns.  He is too late to stop the Burner from  kicking open the door, and you’re all sucked out of the plane.  You die happy, though.  You saw Samuel L Jackson in real life, and he said “Motherfucking.”

Tags: Based on a True Story, Subcultural silliness // Add Comment »

A man after my own heart!  Author Ryan Mecum (http://www.zombiehaiku.com) has graced us with his volume of Zombie Haiku.  My favorite haiku from his website is:

Biting into heads
is much harder than it looks
His skull is feisty.

Also on my reading list:  Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: The Classic Regency Romance – Now with Ultraviolent Zombie Mayhem! by Seth Grahame-Smith and, of course, Jane Austen.  Anyone read it?

Ah, zombies.  You bring a little moldering light into my life.

P.S.  I’ve been allowing spambots to comment on my last post because I’m greatly amused by responding to them as if they were serious comments.  I’m goofy like that.

Tags: Amusing Links, Zombie Attack // Add Comment »

I love my readers.  Here’s a sample of what you’ve been searching for when you land on my blog:

tooth goblin
goat blood delicacies
chupacabra facts or statements
reginald band
scientist pez dispenser
tooth goblins
marsupials satan
led zepplin song- i gotta a woman bored all day i got a woman she won t be true no
video of lady cutting open chupacabra
colorado yodel dog coyote

Seriously, which one of you was searching for “Marsupials Satan”?  And I thought that I was being creative by combining “scientist” with “pez dispenser,” but I guess I have a kindred soul out there.

Tags: Marsupials, Random Amusement // 11 Comments »

Larry the mountain lion was on the prowl again, heading into hippie heaven to score a little dope.  The valley of Boulder, Colorado lay before him like an unsecured mountain trash bin offering illicit refuse.  Perched on his favorite rock cliff, he waited till the city slept before descending.  Down, down, down the mountain path toward the shining city lights.  The action called him!  His man Sanchez was on the Division of Wildlife animal control squad, and would be ready to supply an evening of fun  … for a fee.  The arrangement was simple:  Sanchez provided the tranquilizer, and Larry made the man look good.

He chuckled as he thought of the last excursion.  He’d been prowling around the sorority, baring his fangs at drunken college girls and waiting for Sanchez to appear.  When the Division of Wildlife van rolled into campus, Sanchez leaped out with his unnecessarily large dart gun.  He let it fly, and Larry felt the sting of the tranquilizer.  Ah, sweet, sweet tranq!  He reveled in ecstasy, giggling as the girls flocked to Sanchez while squealing things like, “Ohmigod you’re so brave!” and “Thank you so much, Mister Animal Control Guy!”  Sanchez twirled his handlebar mustache and lectured the girls about leaving food in their beer coolers.

Now he played the game again.  He darted around parked cars, his shadow barely visible in the twilight.  He slunk past houses and swing-sets, making his way to a fancy neighborhood on Mapleton Hill.  “There’s a girl there I want to impress,” Sanchez had said.  “Do your thing and menace, and I’ll bring the latest formula you want.”

“Menace?” Larry had said skeptically.  He communicated telepathically with Sanchez, who was something of a Dr. Doolittle.  He had tried learning human language for awhile, but the lack of a human larynx was no paltry handicap.

“Yeah, menace,” Sanchez replied.  “Growl, show a little tooth, twitch the tail, eat the family dog, you know.  That kind of thing.”

“Dog?” complained Larry.  “Is that the best you can do?  The domesticated ones taste like cardboard.”

“Ok, don’t eat the dog,” said Sanchez thoughtfully, rubbing his belly.  “That freaks them out and then they shoot bullets.  We need you alive.”

So he carefully avoided the houses with dogs.  Most of them were too fat and slow to detect his presence, anyway.  He waltzed under windows and leaped over gardens.  He drooled in anticipation for the tranqs!  He embraced this dark, dangerous lifestyle – he didn’t care what the other forest animals thought. They were all so comfortable in their little burrows, content to eat and crap all day.  Well, he had more to explore and ecstasy to experience!  And there was Sanchez now, springing into action before a screaming girl.  It was time!

He unleashed a roar and felt the sweet sting of the tranq …

Eight hours later, he awoke with a splitting headache, fuzzy memories of shrieking human females, and poodle fur in his teeth.  The new formula’s come-down was harsh and he felt queasy.  He was caged and muzzled, bouncing around in the back of a Division of Wildlife truck.  Sanchez was a rotten chauffeur.

Maybe it was the agonizing headache that had grown worse with each tranquilizer.  Maybe it was Sanchez’s off-key yodeling of Abba songs.  Maybe it was the muzzle pinching his nose and his churning gut.  But suddenly Larry saw how far his sordid life had spun out of control.  Instead of proudly stalking elk, he was selling himself for drugs!  His lust for the fast life had grown into dependence, and now he was on parade for the humans and eating poodles, for gods’ sake!  He knew what poodle fur did to his eczema!  As he blearily looked around the truck, he winced at the bleak truth:  Sanchez was not aDivision of Wildlife employee as he claimed.  What DOW employee would encourage this dangerous behavior, risking an animal’s life to get attention from females?  There was no equipment in the truck, no radio, and Sanchez’s uniform was a thrift-store parody of a park ranger’s garb.  He was a fraud and had been using Larry, egging him on with drugs and thrills.

The muzzle had been hastily buckled and it sagged, so he carefully worked his jaw free.  Larry settled in, feigning sleep and waiting for his moment.

Should he eat this traitorous human?  He’d heard humans were tasty enough, but his stomach was still upset.  No, best to wait until he was free and munch on rabbits for a few days.  That would calm his belly.

Should he chase the man off a ledge and watch him plummet to his death?  While satisfying, it sounded like way too much work.  His pounding head would make the sudden movement unpleasant.

Should he slink off into the woods when Sanchez opened the door, just as he’d done dozens of times before?  He could migrate west to California and forget this had ever happened.  But no, he refused to retreat in shame.  It was time to put those telepathic powers to good use.  He was strong with the power of telepathic influence!  He had simply never allowed himself to fully experience his own abilities, hiding his powers because the coyotes thought it was “weird” and the bobcats had once called it a “power of the devil.”

Enough with hiding and pretending to be normal!  He had to stop Sanchez from exploiting other wildlife.  The man’s brain was weak, domesticated, and far too well-fed.  It would be easy to manipulate.  All he had to do was think really hard about squirrels …

And that is how, 8 days later, Division of Wildlife officials found a naked man in a tree, nibbling on nuts and chattering in a strange, rodent-like language.  They tried to coax him down, but he only threw pinecones at them.  Eventually, after much debate, they called the Fire Department, spread a net below the tree, and shot a tranquilizer into the man’s backside.  The man fell from the tree and was shuttled quickly to the psych ward of the mental hospital.

Larry, now clean and tranq-free, perched on his favorite rock ledge once more and viewed the distant scene with his keen eyesight.  Satisfied, he turned his back on the sordid lifestyle of his youth.  It was time to regain his territory, find a mate or five.  There was much to explore.  His poodle-eating days behind him, he lived the rest of his life in pursuit of fine food and female company, just as a mountain lion should.

Don’t be Lion Snacks!

Tags: Based on a True Story, Bizarre Animal Stories, Repentance & Wailing // Add Comment »

El Chupacabra did not take kindly to my last entry.  Poor Chupes – unloved, misunderstood, oppressed.

Dear Madam,

I was dismayed to read “Ode to Chupacabra” in your recent Splarks.com update.  I protest the vilification of my reputation and defamation of my character, and request that you retract your statement unless you’d like to begin a costly legal suit.

Do you imagine that I like dining on the livestock of pensioners?  I have co-existed peacefully with the creatures of the forests and deserts for thousands of years until your species decided that you needed ranches and million-dollar homes in my territory.  Where am I supposed to go to get sustenance now that you have decimated my food supply?  Previously, I dined on butterflies and wild desert roses.  Although goat’s blood is a poor substitute for such delicacies, you cannot blame me for turning to the blood of small, caged animals.

As for making children cry, I cannot help it that you humans breed such stupid, easily-startled offspring.  If your children are terrified at watching me feed, imagine how I feel watching them devour their McDonald’s and Cheetos.  Really, shoot a video sometime and watch it with a hardened eye. 

To address your unwarranted curiosity about my appearance, I do not have spikes or purple fur, nor am I fat.  Your assumptions are offensive, and you have no business speculating about my looks.  Your “cryptozoologists” can kiss my shiny green ass.

Lastly, I have applied to the American Embassy for safe passage back to Puerto Rico.  As usual, your species brought me here without permission and changed my name.  My parents named me Aquemilaxichi, but the best moniker you could fashion was “Goat Sucker.”  I think that says far more about your species than it does me.

Sincerely,

El Chupacabra

P.S.  Informed sources have notified me of your intent to make “Ode to Chupacabra” into a hair-band song.  If you employ any washed-up Motley Crue wannabes, you can count on lawsuit #2.

Tags: Mythological Mishaps // 1 Comment »

Chupacabra,
sneaking down the alleyway
skulking round the back porch
gonna have a heyday!

Chupacabra,
sucking all the goats dry
getting fat on ill-gains
and making little kids cry.

But what are you doing
to the immigrant farmer?
How will he feed his kids
You creepy little varmint?

What about the old lady’s
chickens in her backyard
you’re eating them for dinner
and you know she can’t get a job!

Chupacabra,
so elusive and evasive
taunting cryptozoologists
Your bloodlust is unsated.

Chupacabra,
with spikes, scales, or pig snout
do you have antennae?
Are you a purple-furred lout?

Are you misunderstood?
Perhaps you just need love,
or a little R&R
in the form of goat blood.

Something tells me we may hear from El Chupacabra next week.

Incidentally, I have a bin full of composting worms that I have named Chupacabra. Chupes is vegetarian, though, and has a strange distaste for avocado peels.

Tags: Mythological Mishaps // Add Comment »

The sun sank low on the dirty gray horizon, and Ulrich watched the tiny glows of the fairies rising into the sky as they hurried to their assignments.  He imagined the fading red rays shining on their iridescent wings, and he craned his neck to stare at his own bedraggled wings hanging rodent-like down his back.

“What you lookin’ at, Uls?” his friend Marv asked.  “You ain’t got no new boils or rashes.”  He patted Ulrich’s back apologetically.  “Sorry.  I mean, you still look hideous and all, don’t worry.”

Ulrich sighed.  “What do you suppose it’s like?” he asked wistfully.

“What?”

“Being a tooth fairy.”

Marv guffawed.  “Oh man, I bet it sucks.  Flying around on paper-thin wings – probably get caught in tree branches all the time, and I hear they get fired if they don’t stay pretty.  You got to sneak into the kid’s bedroom without settin’ off alarms or getting chewed on by the family dog.  Then you have to crawl into some snot-nosed brat’s bed, squirm under the pillow without getting caught or crushed, grab some half bloody tooth and stuff it in your bag, and then YOU have to pay for the privilege of returning the teeth to the Mother House.”

“But they’re so beautiful …”

Marv stood up and shouldered his arrow sling.  “Yeah, they are.  But I’d take making elf-locks in babies’ hair any day.  At least you can stick around to see ‘em cry.  A goblin needs to see the results of his handiwork, you know, job satisfaction.  Anyway, see you later, Uls.”  He scampered off with the usual joyful squeal.

Ulrich looked down at his copy of “Dognirpook’s Guide to Torturous Knots:  the best knots for fine baby hair and beyond” and sighed.  Was there some law relegating goblins to spilling milk and knotting hair?  His wings were only good for flying a few feet off the ground, unlike the sinuous, glittering fairies flying high above the trees.

“I wish there was some way for me to join them,” he mumbled to the empty forest floor.  “I know how to scramble into dark places.  I know how to avoid detection – goblins are great at that!  And I could do so many artistic things with baby teeth.  This job is wasted on the fairies!  They probably cry after every assignment because their little flower dresses get crumpled,”  he grumbled.

Suddenly a voice rumbled from the tree he was slumped against.  “Fine idea, Ulrich, but you cannot fly as the faeries do.  It would take you too long to reach your destination.”

He recoiled in shock and stared open-mouthed at the tree.  There had not been a talking tree in the forest for eons.  “What, you’ve just been sitting around for the past 300 years without saying a word?”

“Goblins rarely have anything interesting to say.  You’re always bragging about turning milk sour and stealing chicken eggs.  Your species as a whole has low ambition.  Except for you, Ulrich.  You’re most fascinating with this foolhardy desire to be a tooth fairy.”

Ulrich scowled in consternation, nervously shuffling his feet.  Great, now the whole goblin village would hear about his unorthodox desires.  He’d be a laughing stock!  He could already hear the crowd at the goblin pub, chortling and throwing dead flower petals at him in mockery.  “Uh, yeah.  Thanks and all, but could you keep that to yourself?  It was just a silly idea.”

“It isn’t, my goblin friend.  I’m going to help you.”  And with this, Ulrich grew queasy.  The ground seemed unstable and he stumbled, smacking his head on a sturdy tree branch.  His vision grew dark and he remembered nothing for several hours.

When he awoke, he rubbed his aching head.  “Hey, what kind of help was that, you jerk?” he shouted, but the tree was silent.  Could he have imagined it all?  Perhaps he’d hit his head and dreamed the whole thing.  He reached back to scratch an itch behind his shoulder blades.

He froze in astonishment.  From the site of the itch sprang a third wing!

He screeched!  His wings, including the new one, jerked involuntarily with fright.  First in fear, and then with growing delight, he flexed his new wing.  The muscles were long and powerful.  Perfectly capable, in fact, of -

“HAULING MY GOBLIN HEINIE ABOVE THE TREES!” he crowed.  The extra wing-strength sent him careening into the air, propelling him through tree leaves and birds’ nests.  “Sorry!” he called to the angry avians as they dove to repair his damage.  “New wings!”

Such fabulous wings!  He soared into the clear air and his goblin village dwindled below.  Without the haze of the never-ending fires, the horizon was a delightful pink and purple, not the dull gray he was used to.  He smelled clear air instead of the stench of bone stew and smoke.  By flexing one wing up and the other two down, he flew in a lazy circle, which he did blissfully until a collision sent him sprawling into a tree branch.

“Oh!  My!  I’m so terribly sorry!” cried a velvet voice.  He tried to catch his breath as he hung limply from the oak tree branch, and saw a flutter of shiny wings and glittery skin.

“Did I hurt you?” asked the voice – a fairy’s voice, he realized with excitement.

“No, no, I’m fine,” he managed.  He pulled himself up the branch and crouched.  The fairy’s smile, which had been beaming brightly and apologetically, faltered.

“I … I seem to have dirtied your … um … dress …” said the fairy in distress.  Her eyes traveled over his goblin loincloth in horror.  “You’ll be let go if you return to work in that condition!  Oh, do let me help you.”

“Oh.  My dress, right.”  He coughed and raised the pitch of his voice.  “I am so clumsy for a fairy, yes indeedy!  I am always messing my pretty shiny outfits.  Where might I get another, dear fellow fairy?”

The fairy looked troubled.  “I’m sure it’s difficult to find clothes in your size.  But perhaps we can stitch together a dress of flower petals and tree leaves.”  The fairy extended a graceful hand, which Ulrich shook enthusiastically.  The fairy winced, but politely led the way through the forest, flying in fluid arcs as Ulrich followed in a bumblebee-style, narrowly missing branches and spiderwebs.  “We’ll stop at the Fairy Fashion Tree,” she chirped brightly.  “The Fashion Fairy will be able to help us!”  They touched down.  Ulrich stared slackjawed at the giant sycamore adorned with wispy moss and flowering vines, and especially at the stream of fairies and pixies wandering in and out, all arrayed in carefully-fitted flower-petal attire.  He ducked under the low door frame as they entered the shop, trying to ignore the stares and shocked murmurs.

A pixie in a magnolia dress lounged languidly in a clamshell, her perfect complexion offset by the gleaming mother-of-pearl.  Her bored face brightened as she saw the fairy who led Ulrich.

“Rosehippina!”  she cried, her voice like birdsong.  “How lovely to see you!  You look splendid, darling.  Oh!  And you’ve brought …”  she gaped at Ulrich.  “You brought, a, um … um …”

Rosehippina turned to Ulrich.  “Oh I’m terribly sorry!  I didn’t catch your name.”

Ulrich froze.  A name?  He needed some ridiculous, sappy fairy name quick!  “Uh .. Huggy … Fluff-Berry?”  He cringed.  Goblins did not hug, nor did they eat berries, nor did anything fluffy adorn their abodes.  But he knew he’d have to make some sacrifices if he wanted to be Tooth Goblin.

The two fairies nodded.  “Rosehippina, dear,” said the Fashion Fairy, “would you come here momentarily?  Let us converse about what might best flatter Sister Fluff-Berry’s figure.”  They disappeared behind an embroidered curtain and Ulrich toed the carpet nervously, disrupting the delicate weave of maple stems and moss.  Ulrich tried not to eavesdrop, but their bell-like voices carried well.

“…know she’s surprisingly large and perhaps a bit ungainly, but we must help …”
“…face will make children scream!  We can’t ….”
“…fairy creed of sweetness and light, and we must obey or ….”
“…could use a bark dress, they aren’t so fashionable but …”
“…add a little lily pollen for color and accessorize with sweet grass …”
“…go for a more earthy look to compliment her hair color …”

The curtain shuddered and fluttered, and Ulrich heard sawing, popping, and cracking.  When the fairies called him inside, the light was blotted as they immediately yanked a rough dress over his head.  He sputtered as they dumped bright pollen over his scalp, and as he wheezed, they deftly wove a necklace of grasses and leaves around his neck and wrists.

“Oh dear!”  fretted the Fashion Fairy.  “You have three wings!  We’ll have to modify the dress to allow for them.  How ever did you gain a third wing?”  She began cutting the bark dress carefully.

“It was a gift from a leprachaun,” he said, pleased with his quick wit.

“A leprechaun!” cried Rosehippina.  “Oh, I’ve heard they’re dreadful.  Well, how lovely that diversity flowers and even those we view as ill-tempered still have a compassionate heart, is it not, dear Sister Huggy Fluff-Berry?”

“Oh yes,” he said, his voice squeaking as the Fashion Fairy yanked on a tangled lock of his hair.  “Lovely.  They’re not bad, actually, taste like – ”

“The Fashion Fairy looked alarmed and dropped her twig comb.

“I mean they have taste!  Very fine taste like you fairies.  They often dine on gardenias and, erm, unicorn hair, and wear fancy leggings made from, uh ….”

The fairies giggled.  “Oh my, well that certainly explains their disagreeable demeanor!” said Rosehippina, tinkling merrily.  “Everyone knows that unicorn hairs taste wonderful but simply don’t digest.”

“Oh,” said Ulrich as he surveyed his new look in the mirror.  “Well I never realized that.  No wonder my guts are always rumbling after a unicorn meal.”  He noticed the fairies eyeing him suspiciously.  The Fashion Fairy hurried to her rose quartz counter and pulled out a handbag made from pastel flowers.  “Here, dear sister, we notice you have no Tooth Collecting purse.  You must have lost yours in the collision.  I’ve an extra that will soon wilt, but it will do for now.”

Rosehippina gazed at him and smiled.  “There, I do say that you are not exactly the kind of fairy that will be sent to the most fashionable dwellings, but you certainly look presentable.  I hope you can forgive me for my careless flying today.”

“Oh, of course,” said Ulrich heartily.  “I am grateful for your special fairy happy smiles!”

“As we are with yours, dear Huggy.  You are very special!  Now, off to the Mother House with you.  It’s time to get your assignments!”

And with a smile, Ulrich squeezed out the door and traipsed down the stone path to the shining crystal palace.  He would soon see Tooth Action!

***

“…and that why, Marv, I aint returneen to Gobblinz Hal.  Plees take care of ChiChi, my cokroche.  He likes ded squirell for brekfest, butt sumtimes eets rottin appels.”  Ulrich put down the pen and re-read what he wrote.  He inhaled the stench of the substandard cafeteria food, and smiled as he listed to the angry talk of the children in their barred rooms.  He continued.  “It iz sumtimes hard to get into these playces, but I like the challung.  The Muther Fary always say ‘Eeven juvnile deelinquints need Tooth Farys, too.  Bring them hope fer better lifes, and quarters.’  Sumtimes I leave cigarettes, tho.  I will not reeturn, becuase I now Sister Huggy Fluff-Barry, Tooth Gobblin.  Send my luv to ChiChi.

Yers Truly,

HUGGY/ULS

P.S.  Next time yoo kill unicorm, pleez leave entrails by old oak tree across frum Gobblin Central.  Tell it thanks from Uls.”

Tags: Extreme Optimism, Mythological Mishaps // 1 Comment »