The Belichick was rubbing his hands together, placing them on his penis, then bringing them up to his face and smelling them, and then doing the whole thing all over again. The Brady stared on at the charade from a few feet away. Unbeknownst to our protaganists, The Belichick was watching a video that he had had taped unbeknownstingly of our heroes and their counterparts as they discussed plans to seize upon New England in search of whatever the hell The Jovi was talking about in reference to this whole The Dickens business, and about following the clues to The Glengodly.
"Yeeeesssss," The Belichick slithered his words. "Come closer! We'll be waiting for you." He snapped his fingers and The Brady, on the command, came over and french-kissed the bloated old sack of donkey nuts who is known as The Belichick. The kiss between these two was a disgusting thing to see, and in fact turns all who see it to stone, according to old New England legends.
The Belichick lived in a castle on the rocky coast of New England, and it was actually quite a nice place. Really this narrative has no qualms about The Belichick's living conditions - the castle (really more of just a big castle looking house - new construction) had contemporary furnishings, a few of those rooms that no one is allowed to go in - you know, very formal and the like, can't sit on the couches and all that nonense. The kitchen was nicely equipped with all the modern amenities, the family room area contained comfortable furniture and a big flat-screen TV. All in all, really The Belichick's castle home was quite nice....except, of course of The Belichick smell. If one had no sense of smell, upon entering the house, then one would think nothing and probably comment on the appeal of the home's insides. However, any normal animal, upon entering the house would vomit so violently that they would most likely choke and collapse on their own convulsions.....
Narrative recap:
The Belichick is disgusting.
The Brady is The Belichick's bitch.
The Belichick and The Brady french-kiss and turn any who see it to stone.
The Belichick's home is quite aesthetically appealing.
The Belichick's home smells worse than corpse shit on a hot day.
"The Boss!" I awoke to The Niles' hands slapping me in the face. I had been dreaming something so horrific and terrible that I immediately vomited over and over again on Tom the Penguin-fish, or Tom the Pettifer, or just Tom Pettifer (I've forgotten now as it's been soooo incredibly long since the last Message From the Sea entry and now things are starting to get out of hand, too much going on in general all around me; what has happened is this - wait, before I go into Recap Mode, let me get out of this paranthetical statement thing). There, that did it. Okay I vomitted on Tom Pettifer, in his hat actually (he had taken to wearing a hat lately, I was told later, since he thought he looked quite dapper in top hats and - there I go again with the damned parantheses!).
Okay, what has happened was this: I had been drinking heavily, scotch of course, and exclaiming profusely (much to the delight of random homeless people everywhere) over the delicious Indian food buffet that I had just eaten (Christ! Sorry, but I must explain how we had an Indian food buffet in the middle of nowhere ocean - Arbitrary Henchman Illegal Immigrant from Mexico (nothing wrong with that, but they cook the best South Indian food) cooked it all up one day using supplies that he apparently had acquired on our last trip ashore, how he managed to get pounds and pounds of rice, chickpeas, lentils, vegetables, spices, etc etc on board is beyond me at this point. My theory is that The Niles and I were too busy with some Glenlivet Nadura we'd recently got hold off....anyways, we'd have been furious at his smuggling operation were it not for our absolute love of South Indian cuisine, a cuisine in which this Arbitrary Henchman is a master!). Where the hell was I?
Oh yeah, here we go:
So, full of coriander, garlic, and other exotic flavors, and burping and hiccuping along the deck of this sea vessel, I managed to go overboard. This would have proved a terrible thing had it not been for the fact that we had just docked (unbeknownst to me) at some port somewhere, and the side of the ship that I had fallen over was the side opposite of the dock, the more watery side. I fell into the water, hitting my head on a giant turtle that happened to be swimming by. The last thing I remember before going unconcious was hearing "on a steeeeeel horse I ride! And I'm wanted (want-Ed!) dead or aliiiiive" and seeing the giant turtle swimming majestically away. I know what you're thinking, what a nightmare!
When I awoke I was in a small room. In the corner of that room in a very small chair sat a very small man dressed as Super Mario. I thought that that was quite odd, but stranger things have happened. When he noticed that I was awake, he got up popped a mushroom and then said, "oh shit." I just looked at him. He then started muttering about taking the wrong mushroom, and that he would probably be hallucinating very shortly. But he had something urgent to tell me, so he'd better make it quick. He told me that he owned a pizza place not far from where we were called Pizza the Puzzle. I told him that name was a stupid name for a pizza place, and asked him if he had any scotch.
"You mean a scotch like The Glengodly?" He said very seriously, I could see that his pupils were already dilating, I knew very soon he might start mistaking me for a giant bottle of hand sanitizer that would be trying to kill 99.9% of the germs that were crawling all over him.
"You know of The Glengodly?" I said askingly.
"I've heard rumors."
"What sort of rumors?"
"The kind people tell you after a long night of drinking in cold windy and all around terrible New England towns. I've heard that there is a legend that Glengodly is so perfect that there are only two in this world capable of understanding and harnessing its perfection. All others who come across Glengodly end up crazy or evil."
"Are you crazy or evil?" I asked him.
"I am neither, I've never seen Glengodly, only heard the legends about it." He said. "But once, years after I first heard of Glengodly, some old drunk homeless man carrying a 6 pack of Mickeys wide mouths came into my pizza place and started going on about these two crazy old drunks who would one day find Glengodly and understand its greatness, bringing joy to many. He said that when one of these two men exclaim, that beer falls from the sky onto the unlucky homeless, and justice is served. He said that I will one day meet one of these men who has been on a quest for Glengodly, and that that man will ask me if I have any scotch."
"Jesus fucking Christ." I said.
"Shamu in a kitten costume," he said.
"Oh no, you're starting to hallucinate."
"No, shamu in a kitten costume is a normal phrase around here." He assured me.
"So, about that scotch....you got any?" I inquired, per the legend and my unquenchable thirst for the smoky and peaty spirit.
"Kittens look good wet with Arbor Mist." He said seriously.
"Enough phrases - scotch!!!" I exclaimed, so of course a 30 pack of Schaeffers fell from the sky and into a burning barrell that Lou, Crackers, and Mutters - homeless down on their luck in Des Moines, Iowa - were standing around to try and keep warm. Luckily the beer was retrieved quick enough from the flames that it was only rendered slightly less cold - is "Luke Cold" a correct term? I have no idea....
"C'est moi, voix des plaintains!!!" The little Super Mario Brother looking man said.
"I'm out of here, there's only one voice of the plaintains! And his name is Jules, he's a lovely man, a bit soft spoken. But when he speaks for the delicious plaintain - an often overlooked delicacy - people listen!" I said, getting up and helping myself to the little man's salad bar, knocking bottles over until I found a decent bottle of scotch.
"Le voix des plaintains! C'est le plus magnifique!" He kept yelling. I drank down the entire bottle of scotch, threw the empty bottle across the room, and stormed out the little house, leaving the little jerk to his hallucinations about plaintains...everybody knows that only Jules speaks for the plaintains...
Having no earthly, or any otherly, idea of where I was I decided to drunken stumble until I found something of interest. Being used to drunken stumbling with The Niles (a most excellent drunken stumbler, I must say), I fell down at first - having nothing to lean on. Picking myself up, dusting myself off, and doing other important adjustments to myself that aren't worth mentioning, I started out again in a randomly picked direction....
"Next thing I know, you guys were waking me up. I have no idea how I got here." I said to The Niles, who had made The Jovi squat like a chair and put his forearms out for armrests and was thus sitting most comfortably on said The Jovi.
"Well I'll be a sonuvabitch." The Bush spat Texasly.
"So it seems we may be on course." The Niles said, jumping up suddenly off of his JoviChair. He then yelled to Ferocius DeSoto to tell Arbitrary Henchman Hears Orders Second-hand From Ferocius DeSoto And Therefore Sometimes Things Are Done Incorrectly for full speed to The Belichick's Castle. The boat suddenly veered to the left and slowed down to a crawl. The Niles told Ferocius DeSoto to punch the Arbitrary Henchman HOSFFDATSTADI in the stomach. A few minutes later Arbitrary Henchman HOSFFDATSTADI announced over the ship's loudspeaker a thank you to The Boss and The Niles for buying a star and naming it after him.
Eventually the whole matter with Ferocius and this Arbitrary Henchman was straightened out most violently, scotch was drank and drunk, and of course The Jovi was humiliated in a way that is not really worth going into more detail on at this hour of the day - afterall, their may be children present. After so much waiting for this next installment of The Message, one would think that the plot would be propelled forward hyper-speed-like into depths not even realized - I wish I could say that was the case. Alas, only a slight step forward in the search for The Glengodly!
Friday, April 16, 2010
Friday, May 1, 2009
The Old Sea Captain
There was much deliberation as to the right course of action to proceed upon next in the story. Tom the Penguin-Fish was drinking schnapps as usual, wearing an odd hat and speaking in pirate tongues like an old sailor. Ferocious was dressing up Arbitrary Henchman #Belongs-to-Ferocious (who we’d given to him as a present for him not sucking on his toes for a week straight) in an octopus costume in an effort to scare Arbitrary Henchman #Scared-of-Octopi. The Boss was successfully restraining himself from hitting The Jovi. The Jovi was terrified of The Boss hitting him, and The Bush was having a shouting match with a seagull, and sadly winning.
“braaackkk” shouted the seagull.
“Aaahhhhh” shouted back The Bush, and this continued for about twenty minutes before The Bush saw what he believed to be a penny but what was actually the top of a large nail in the floorboard on the deck of the ship.
I drank a bottle of scotch, threw the empty glass at The Jovi and began pacing back and forth. The Boss, for fun, decided to pace with me, and The Jovi looked relieved that The Boss hadn’t hit him. The Boss noticed this of course, and then proceeded to hit him until he was unconscious.
“Feel better?” I asked The Boss.
“Dude, you have no idea.” He replied, and I could see that he’d stopped shaking. “I hate The Jovi so much…”
As The Boss trailed off in his hatred of The Jovi, I pondered (as I’m known to do from time to time) about how to advance the plot in just one entry. The Boss had set the story up beautifully, tying in The Dickens and bringing back his famous Subway Time Machine, but where could I take it now? What kinds of shenanigans could occur? I looked down and noticed I had blood on my fist, which alarmed me at first until I realized it was The Jovi blood and I’d been beating him savagely throughout my pondering. The Jovi looked up at me with a look on his face that just seemed to say “why?”
“Because sometimes a man just has to ranch a pillow.” The Bush responded assuredly to The Jovi’s face. The Bush sometimes has telepathic abilities, but only sometimes.
“I call it my quiet sight.” The Bush said, hearing my thoughts, but continuing to make no sense.
“Shut up The Bush, or I’ll call Dick Cheney.” I threatened, and The Bush went back to the seagull, ready for round two until he was once again distracted by the penny-nail.
Just then, as my rambling was about to reach a new height in which I would discuss my idea for a universal holiday in honor of the kiwi where half the people in the world would dress up as kiwis and the other half of the people in the world would dress up as mangos and the kiwis would spend all day verbally censuring the mangos for being very expensive, difficult to cut up, and for having such enormously large pits. The mangos would then apologize to the kiwis for being so difficult and vow to improve. The kiwis would then magnanimously forgive the mangos and together they’d eat a screaming papaya, played by Jack Black. People wouldn’t actually eat Jack Black though, they’d just be pretending. Of course, it would be difficult to get people to be the mango, as they’d have to be apologizing all day and generally be overpriced with very little substance, but to solve this issue, the schedule could rotate each year. If you’re a kiwi one year, you have to be a mango the next year. Then, the whole world would learn what it’s like to be the one who forgives, and to be the one who is forgiven and the world would be a better place. The Boss and I would of course always play The Boss and I. There’s simply no need for excellence to try and pretend to be anything else. I don’t think Jack Black could really play anything else either then, because then who would be the screaming papaya? Of course if we could make more Jack Blacks…
“The Niles?” The Boss said, and I realized that I had indeed rambled endlessly.
“Thank you The Boss.” I said, and we each drank a bottle of 10yr Ardberg because neither one of us had consumed any scotch during my rambling so we were starting to feel very weak as a result.
Just then, we noticed that Tom was talking seamanly (heh, heh… semen) to a gruff old man wearing a sailors hat and speaking old-style fisherman language.
“Ah, Tom! You look more penguiny than a sea witches maiden with a horned stool!” The gruff old man said to Tom, standing on his ship, which had pulled up right next to ours.
“That didn’t make any sense Captain.” Tom replied.
“I know.” Sighed the Captain. “Was hopin’ ye wouldn’t notice, but that’s a mighty funny hat ye got there Mr. Pettifer.” He followed up with a smile, that somehow seemed scurvy and hornswaggled, even though I don’t really know what that means.
“Oh, Captain Jorgen, this is The Boss and The Niles.” Tom introduced us.
“Pleased to be makin’ yer acquaintance.” Captain Jorgen said to us.
“You too Jerkin.” The Boss said.
“That’s Jorgen, Captain Jorgen, ho!.” He corrected The Boss with a smile. The crew all gasped, Ferocious cried, Arbitrary Henchman #Scared-of-Octopi screamed at Arbitrary Henchman #Belongs-to-Ferocious who was now fully dressed up as an octopus shouting “boo” repeatedly and spraying ink on him, and Tom just drank more schnapps. Everyone knew that you never, EVER try to correct The Boss.
The Boss leapt at Captain Jorgen with ferocity, blood in his eyes and smelling of scotchy awesomeness. The salty old gent didn’t know what hit him and before anyone knew what was going on, The Boss had beat the ever living fuck out of him and took his shit, which included a captains hat that The Boss threw over the side of the ship, heckling The Jorgen the entire time.
“Oooo, somebody looks sad about losing their hat!” The Boss said over and over again.
“Nobody gets to be called captain around here, you bastard!” I exclaimed loudly for all to hear. The Jorgen nodded after hearing my amazing exclaim. It was as if the world opened up for him and he suddenly realized the raw awesomeness that is The Boss and The Niles. From that point on, The Jorgen no longer considered himself a captain… but instead a devout follower of the ways of The Boss and The Niles. There was no ship, there was no scurvy (whatever the hell that means); there was only scotch… and unbelievable coolness. Tom the Penguin-Fish drank more schnapps and laughed a little.
“What’s so funny Tom?” Ferocious asked him.
“I never liked that guy.” Tom slurred.
“What’s with the whole Mr. Pettifer thing?”
“That’s my last name.”
“I didn’t know penguins had last names.”
“Penguin-Fishes…” The Boss corrected.
“Whittlin’ sticks.” The Bush hollered (which is a very stupid word) from above his penny nail, still trying to get it out and muttering something about pennies and good luck repeatedly.
“Wait a minute…” The Jovi wait-a-minuted. “ Tom, did you say your last name was Pettifer?”
“Yeah.” Tom replied, drinkingly.
“And that capt…er… dude who formerly referred to himself as a captain called himself Jorgen right?”
“Pretty much.” Tom answered again.
“The whatsit?” The Bush chimed in and then fell and scraped his knee, which led to immense sobbing. Ferocious (who had been rather motherly toward The Bush) put a super-cool Army band-aid on The Bush’s knee to make him feel better. The Bush seemed to be all better now, and he flexed intensely, gave Ferocious a hug and then skipped off happily.
“Where are you taking this The Jovi? You better get to a point fast.” The Boss said, very 40’s gangsterish and we all noticed he was wearing a fedora and slapping a billy club against the palm of his hand in between drinks of scotch. The Jovi panicked and spoke faster, fearful of The Boss’ wrath.
“Well, The Dickens’ story was about a sea captain named Jorgen and there was a character named Tom Pettifer in it!” I realized this was helpful information and gave The Jovi a Jovi-Snack (peanut butter flavored) and scratched him behind the ears.
“So The Dickens must have known you guys!” The Boss exclaimed, and the exclaim was so monumental that the Heavens opened up and a case of Rolling Rock came down softly from the clouds and slowly descended into the open arms of homeless man Albert Rhinehoff in St. Paul, Minnesota, who was smiling with alacrity and had a single tear of joy running down his face as he opened one of the beers.
“To The Boss!” Albert called out. And then he was mugged. And the beer was taken. Albert was a bastard after all and the other homeless people saw the beer as a great reason to finally burn that bridge after years of putting up with his shit.
“Back at ya, you bastard.” The Boss called out, drinkingly.
“But how could The Dickens have known us, if we don’t know The Dickens?” Tom asked.
“Yeah, plus that story was written back in the mid-1800’s. How could we be characters in it?” The Jorgen added.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “But this might be the clue that leads us to GlenGodly. Where did you say you were from The Jorgen?”
“New England.” The Jorgen replied. The Boss and I looked at each other with terror. We both knew that New England was ruled by the evil and deceiving Belichick, known to give off-putting looks, evade questions, and have a general air of pompousness to him.
“Then it’s off to the depths of hell.” The Boss said.
“How will we get by Belichick’s evil monsters?” I asked.
“What monsters?” Tom chimed in.
“There are two of them, more heinous than anything you’ve ever seen.” I answered. “There’s The Brady, known to create 5-o’clock shadows wherever he goes. Even if you just shaved, it makes no difference. The Brady’s power stems directly from the evil heart of Belichick himself. The other one is called The Gisele, and she is known for tempting people with her unbelievable hotness. Once she gets you in her grasps, she does terrible things to you. She makes you go shopping for her, and soon, before you know it, things like fashion become all you think about as you’re driven slowly into insanity.”
“Maybe we won’t run into them.” The Boss said, drinkingly.
“To New England then, to find The Dickens?” Arbitrary Henchman #Drives-the-Boat asked.
I looked at The Boss, who was gulping scotch, the terrified looking crew, and the other characters that I’m too lazy to name at this point and I said, “To New England; and pray we find The Dickens quickly and get to the bottom of this.”
“braaackkk” shouted the seagull.
“Aaahhhhh” shouted back The Bush, and this continued for about twenty minutes before The Bush saw what he believed to be a penny but what was actually the top of a large nail in the floorboard on the deck of the ship.
I drank a bottle of scotch, threw the empty glass at The Jovi and began pacing back and forth. The Boss, for fun, decided to pace with me, and The Jovi looked relieved that The Boss hadn’t hit him. The Boss noticed this of course, and then proceeded to hit him until he was unconscious.
“Feel better?” I asked The Boss.
“Dude, you have no idea.” He replied, and I could see that he’d stopped shaking. “I hate The Jovi so much…”
As The Boss trailed off in his hatred of The Jovi, I pondered (as I’m known to do from time to time) about how to advance the plot in just one entry. The Boss had set the story up beautifully, tying in The Dickens and bringing back his famous Subway Time Machine, but where could I take it now? What kinds of shenanigans could occur? I looked down and noticed I had blood on my fist, which alarmed me at first until I realized it was The Jovi blood and I’d been beating him savagely throughout my pondering. The Jovi looked up at me with a look on his face that just seemed to say “why?”
“Because sometimes a man just has to ranch a pillow.” The Bush responded assuredly to The Jovi’s face. The Bush sometimes has telepathic abilities, but only sometimes.
“I call it my quiet sight.” The Bush said, hearing my thoughts, but continuing to make no sense.
“Shut up The Bush, or I’ll call Dick Cheney.” I threatened, and The Bush went back to the seagull, ready for round two until he was once again distracted by the penny-nail.
Just then, as my rambling was about to reach a new height in which I would discuss my idea for a universal holiday in honor of the kiwi where half the people in the world would dress up as kiwis and the other half of the people in the world would dress up as mangos and the kiwis would spend all day verbally censuring the mangos for being very expensive, difficult to cut up, and for having such enormously large pits. The mangos would then apologize to the kiwis for being so difficult and vow to improve. The kiwis would then magnanimously forgive the mangos and together they’d eat a screaming papaya, played by Jack Black. People wouldn’t actually eat Jack Black though, they’d just be pretending. Of course, it would be difficult to get people to be the mango, as they’d have to be apologizing all day and generally be overpriced with very little substance, but to solve this issue, the schedule could rotate each year. If you’re a kiwi one year, you have to be a mango the next year. Then, the whole world would learn what it’s like to be the one who forgives, and to be the one who is forgiven and the world would be a better place. The Boss and I would of course always play The Boss and I. There’s simply no need for excellence to try and pretend to be anything else. I don’t think Jack Black could really play anything else either then, because then who would be the screaming papaya? Of course if we could make more Jack Blacks…
“The Niles?” The Boss said, and I realized that I had indeed rambled endlessly.
“Thank you The Boss.” I said, and we each drank a bottle of 10yr Ardberg because neither one of us had consumed any scotch during my rambling so we were starting to feel very weak as a result.
Just then, we noticed that Tom was talking seamanly (heh, heh… semen) to a gruff old man wearing a sailors hat and speaking old-style fisherman language.
“Ah, Tom! You look more penguiny than a sea witches maiden with a horned stool!” The gruff old man said to Tom, standing on his ship, which had pulled up right next to ours.
“That didn’t make any sense Captain.” Tom replied.
“I know.” Sighed the Captain. “Was hopin’ ye wouldn’t notice, but that’s a mighty funny hat ye got there Mr. Pettifer.” He followed up with a smile, that somehow seemed scurvy and hornswaggled, even though I don’t really know what that means.
“Oh, Captain Jorgen, this is The Boss and The Niles.” Tom introduced us.
“Pleased to be makin’ yer acquaintance.” Captain Jorgen said to us.
“You too Jerkin.” The Boss said.
“That’s Jorgen, Captain Jorgen, ho!.” He corrected The Boss with a smile. The crew all gasped, Ferocious cried, Arbitrary Henchman #Scared-of-Octopi screamed at Arbitrary Henchman #Belongs-to-Ferocious who was now fully dressed up as an octopus shouting “boo” repeatedly and spraying ink on him, and Tom just drank more schnapps. Everyone knew that you never, EVER try to correct The Boss.
The Boss leapt at Captain Jorgen with ferocity, blood in his eyes and smelling of scotchy awesomeness. The salty old gent didn’t know what hit him and before anyone knew what was going on, The Boss had beat the ever living fuck out of him and took his shit, which included a captains hat that The Boss threw over the side of the ship, heckling The Jorgen the entire time.
“Oooo, somebody looks sad about losing their hat!” The Boss said over and over again.
“Nobody gets to be called captain around here, you bastard!” I exclaimed loudly for all to hear. The Jorgen nodded after hearing my amazing exclaim. It was as if the world opened up for him and he suddenly realized the raw awesomeness that is The Boss and The Niles. From that point on, The Jorgen no longer considered himself a captain… but instead a devout follower of the ways of The Boss and The Niles. There was no ship, there was no scurvy (whatever the hell that means); there was only scotch… and unbelievable coolness. Tom the Penguin-Fish drank more schnapps and laughed a little.
“What’s so funny Tom?” Ferocious asked him.
“I never liked that guy.” Tom slurred.
“What’s with the whole Mr. Pettifer thing?”
“That’s my last name.”
“I didn’t know penguins had last names.”
“Penguin-Fishes…” The Boss corrected.
“Whittlin’ sticks.” The Bush hollered (which is a very stupid word) from above his penny nail, still trying to get it out and muttering something about pennies and good luck repeatedly.
“Wait a minute…” The Jovi wait-a-minuted. “ Tom, did you say your last name was Pettifer?”
“Yeah.” Tom replied, drinkingly.
“And that capt…er… dude who formerly referred to himself as a captain called himself Jorgen right?”
“Pretty much.” Tom answered again.
“The whatsit?” The Bush chimed in and then fell and scraped his knee, which led to immense sobbing. Ferocious (who had been rather motherly toward The Bush) put a super-cool Army band-aid on The Bush’s knee to make him feel better. The Bush seemed to be all better now, and he flexed intensely, gave Ferocious a hug and then skipped off happily.
“Where are you taking this The Jovi? You better get to a point fast.” The Boss said, very 40’s gangsterish and we all noticed he was wearing a fedora and slapping a billy club against the palm of his hand in between drinks of scotch. The Jovi panicked and spoke faster, fearful of The Boss’ wrath.
“Well, The Dickens’ story was about a sea captain named Jorgen and there was a character named Tom Pettifer in it!” I realized this was helpful information and gave The Jovi a Jovi-Snack (peanut butter flavored) and scratched him behind the ears.
“So The Dickens must have known you guys!” The Boss exclaimed, and the exclaim was so monumental that the Heavens opened up and a case of Rolling Rock came down softly from the clouds and slowly descended into the open arms of homeless man Albert Rhinehoff in St. Paul, Minnesota, who was smiling with alacrity and had a single tear of joy running down his face as he opened one of the beers.
“To The Boss!” Albert called out. And then he was mugged. And the beer was taken. Albert was a bastard after all and the other homeless people saw the beer as a great reason to finally burn that bridge after years of putting up with his shit.
“Back at ya, you bastard.” The Boss called out, drinkingly.
“But how could The Dickens have known us, if we don’t know The Dickens?” Tom asked.
“Yeah, plus that story was written back in the mid-1800’s. How could we be characters in it?” The Jorgen added.
“I don’t know.” I shrugged. “But this might be the clue that leads us to GlenGodly. Where did you say you were from The Jorgen?”
“New England.” The Jorgen replied. The Boss and I looked at each other with terror. We both knew that New England was ruled by the evil and deceiving Belichick, known to give off-putting looks, evade questions, and have a general air of pompousness to him.
“Then it’s off to the depths of hell.” The Boss said.
“How will we get by Belichick’s evil monsters?” I asked.
“What monsters?” Tom chimed in.
“There are two of them, more heinous than anything you’ve ever seen.” I answered. “There’s The Brady, known to create 5-o’clock shadows wherever he goes. Even if you just shaved, it makes no difference. The Brady’s power stems directly from the evil heart of Belichick himself. The other one is called The Gisele, and she is known for tempting people with her unbelievable hotness. Once she gets you in her grasps, she does terrible things to you. She makes you go shopping for her, and soon, before you know it, things like fashion become all you think about as you’re driven slowly into insanity.”
“Maybe we won’t run into them.” The Boss said, drinkingly.
“To New England then, to find The Dickens?” Arbitrary Henchman #Drives-the-Boat asked.
I looked at The Boss, who was gulping scotch, the terrified looking crew, and the other characters that I’m too lazy to name at this point and I said, “To New England; and pray we find The Dickens quickly and get to the bottom of this.”
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
What The Dickens!
“Glengodly?” The Jovi asked jovially (not the happy jovial, but The Jovi jovial).
“Yeah, what do you know about Glengodly?” The Niles re-demanded, much more demandingly.
“Nothing, I know nothing of…of…Glengodly.” The Jovi said and passed out from the incessant beating that he had endured, and from utter suckiness.
“Great!” The Niles exclaimed angrily. The angry exclaim caused a case of O’Douls to fall on Herbest Normanthorp of Westchester, PA and knock him completely unconscious.
“Damn The Jovi!” I shouted, and then corrected myself by damning The Jovi again, this time exclaiming it for all to hear.
Knowing (from previous encounters where we pummeled The Jovi into un-consciousness) that the only way to awaken The Jovi from his stupid and sissy-like slumber was to burst into song (for reasons unknown to any of us), so The Niles, in an extremely masculine basso profundo, Tom The Penguin-fish, in a very squeaky alto, Ferocius DeSoto in a disgusting and drag-queen like (yet soulful and somehow strangely appealing) soprano, I, on the air-guitar/bass/drums/timpanis/cello/french-horn, and The Bush on the Whittlin’ Sticks (his words, not mine – and no, I have no idea what Whittlin’ Sticks are, and during the song, it appeared that The Bush had no idea either) began:
The Message from the sea! OH!
Message straight from me! YO HO!
In a never-ending,
Quest for scotch all too mad-den-ing,
The Glen we seek is the Glen for thee,
For the Glen we seek is Glengodly!
Yo! Ho! Etc etc!
(the song repeated like this for some time, with various solos thrown in here and there. It wasn’t the best song, but it was made up on the spot and we somehow all knew the words…anyways, The Jovi awoke from his state.)
“Glengodly?” The Jovi asked, again jovially, but this time just a little less due to overall grogginess.
The Niles exclaimed something about Jesus Christ, followed by a threat directed at The Jovi about repeating ‘Glengodly?’ again.
“I’ve heard of it, but no one knows where it is or where it came from.”
“Like Cheney.” The Bush added for some reason.
“Look The Jovi,” I said, taking the slip of paper from the mystery box. “This paper says, ‘to find Glengodly, first find The Jovi’. We figure that you know something about this.”
"Scotch! 14 Years!" The Niles exclaimed, and Arbitrary Henchman # Give Scotch to Us came rushing over with Oban 14 year.
The Jovi continued not understanding the mystery of the box, and continued to seemingly know nothing of this Glengodly. Then, without warning (for if we had had warning, we would have known and therefore been with warning) The Jovi burst out, “The Dickens!”
“Dang Johnny Dickens,” The Bush started. “Used to pelt me with rocks when I was clearing sage brush off ‘a my ranch.”
“Charles Dickens!” The Jovi burst again. We were really starting to get annoyed with The Jovi’s all around ambiguity on the matter of Glengodly. Why do characters in stories/movies have to be ambiguous? Nobody in real life talks ambiguously. I mean, in reality if somebody had a mysterious box with a note that said that only I was the one that could lead to the item the note in the box spoke of, and I knew a little about the item that the note was referring to, I wouldn’t sit jibba-jabbing about not knowing and then pass out, then wake up and know about it, but still act all weird and just yell out ‘Charles Dickens’. If it were me, I’d say, ‘yeah, I think I know what that note means…there was this guy, Charles Dickens, and he did this and I…’ and blah blah blah and I’d be telling them the goddamned story! None of these mystery bursts, none of this passing out –
“The Boss! Stop! We need him!” The Niles was shouting at me and it was then that I realized I had been incessantly beating the (capital letters now) Ever-Living-Fuck out of The Jovi.
“Oops, I guess I got carried away. The Niles! Stop! We need The Jovi!” I pulled The Niles away from beating The Jovi and gave him more Oban. The Jovi Beatdown ’09 went on like this for about the next ten minutes, when it was done, The Jovi got himself a shower, changed his tight black pants and white blouse (blouse was what he called it, and they're apparently available wherever Gay-Ass Cloaks are sold!) and proceeded explaining what the fuck The Dickens had to do with The Glengodly, etc etc.
I shall paraphrase The Jovi’s words, since the last thing anyone wants to hear it his voice anymore:
The Jovi explained that back in the mid 1800’s Charles Dickens, who had come to some fame writing stories and such, was just finishing a short story about a sea captain and some other things having to do with seafaring. Well, The Dickens couldn't think of a good name for the sea tale and spent countless hours in a drunken stupor at his favorite pub. "Please sir, may I have another?" He would say over and over again to the bartender, until finally the bartender threw him out into the cold cobblestoned street (because all streets in England were and still are cobblestone).
So The Dickens stumbled down Penny Lane in England toward the Strawberry Fields. He passed his ex-lover, Eleanor Rigby on the way and told her that they should reconcile and Come Together sometime and have dinner -
"The Boss! You're talking about the Beatles now, I think." The Niles said.
"I get by with a little help from my friends, get a little high haha." The Bush was now doing a jig and farting.
"Sorry." I said and continued here...
...so The Dickens went drunkenly down the lane and as he stumbled, kept hearing this low rumbling sound in the distance. He started towards where he thought the sound was coming from, somewhere down the lane he was on. He hurried down the road, faster and faster as the sound grew louder and more ominous. He could see a dim glowing pulsating up ahead, from the windows of a house at the end of the street. The Dickens ran full speed now, tripping on a cobblestone and tumbling forward onto his nose and passing out.
When he woke up, he was in a strange house, he could here the rumbling much more clearly now.
"Hello friend." The Jovi said to The Dickens.
"Who are you, where am I?" The Dickens asked.
"You're in a safe place, you took a nasty spill in the street out front of my house. I think you broke your nose."
The Dickens felt his nose, there was a bandage across it.
"Well thank you kind sir for taking care of me. Surely you are a Samaritan!" The Dickens declared. (Declaring is how people exclaimed in 1800s England) "But what is that noise?"
"Let me show you." Said The Jovi.
With that, The Dickens followed The Jovi into the hall and through a doorway that led down some stairs, opening into a large and cavernous basement. There was a large dark shadowy object in the corner, the very origins of the rumbling was upon The Dickens.
"What the devil?" The Dickens what-the-deviled.
"Time travel my funny British friend." The Jovi said, ligthing a spooky looking candelabra.
The device was illuminated, The Dickens walked slowly towards it, feeling the metallic sides and noticing the clear door on the front. He asked what the words on the front meant. "Subway," The Jovi said. "It's a sandwich shop from the future. This time machine was made from a Subway bread oven."
The Dickens explained how that was ridiculous, and The Jovi said 'tell me about it' and how he stole it from someone named El Hefe in the year 2001.
"So The Dickens traveled back to the future with The Jovi?" Tom the Penguin-fish, who hasn't yet spoke this entry, asked.
"Apparently." Ferocius said, getting his line in.
"Panty hose blow my nose." The Bush babbled and drooled.
"How does Glengodly fit into all of this?" The Niles asked.
The Jovi, adjusting his blouse, spoke up.
"When I brought The Dickens back here, to this time, he found the transcripts from Message From the Sea Part 1, Volume One. Well, he apparently stole the title A Message From the Sea for his short story about the sea captain. As he was closing the oven door of the time machine, he shouted something about an ancient scotch; a spirit so old that it was naturally distilled. This scotch was apparently so wondrous and great, that every scotch in the world ever since has been based on it, tried to mimick its greatness, only to fail. This scotch The Dickens spoke of was Glengodly." "He said all of that in a matter of seconds, before getting away forever in the time machine? You didn't have time to stop him?" The Niles asked.
"Well, it was windy...and my leg hurt, there was this hole in the sleeve of my blouse, and I was out of breath a little already."
"Jesus." The Niles said and punched The Jovi in the blouse.
"So we have to somehow time travel to find this scotch?" Tom the Penguin-fish asked. "This is getting out of hand and all around just cheesy."
"Stranger things have happened." Said The Niles.
The Jovi beatings stopped (for now), the scotch drunk, and the other characters doing what they do; we sailed on through the vast ocean, somewhere in the Atlantic now maybe. The plot now significantly more diluted and arduous to get out of, the peak of the story's climax still way off in the distance, up a vast mountain, to be found somewhere beyond the clouds. The entry coming to a close...I looked at the waves crashing against the sides of the S.S. Glen and for the first time let out a hearty, "Damn The Dickens!"
-The Boss
“Yeah, what do you know about Glengodly?” The Niles re-demanded, much more demandingly.
“Nothing, I know nothing of…of…Glengodly.” The Jovi said and passed out from the incessant beating that he had endured, and from utter suckiness.
“Great!” The Niles exclaimed angrily. The angry exclaim caused a case of O’Douls to fall on Herbest Normanthorp of Westchester, PA and knock him completely unconscious.
“Damn The Jovi!” I shouted, and then corrected myself by damning The Jovi again, this time exclaiming it for all to hear.
Knowing (from previous encounters where we pummeled The Jovi into un-consciousness) that the only way to awaken The Jovi from his stupid and sissy-like slumber was to burst into song (for reasons unknown to any of us), so The Niles, in an extremely masculine basso profundo, Tom The Penguin-fish, in a very squeaky alto, Ferocius DeSoto in a disgusting and drag-queen like (yet soulful and somehow strangely appealing) soprano, I, on the air-guitar/bass/drums/timpanis/cello/french-horn, and The Bush on the Whittlin’ Sticks (his words, not mine – and no, I have no idea what Whittlin’ Sticks are, and during the song, it appeared that The Bush had no idea either) began:
The Message from the sea! OH!
Message straight from me! YO HO!
In a never-ending,
Quest for scotch all too mad-den-ing,
The Glen we seek is the Glen for thee,
For the Glen we seek is Glengodly!
Yo! Ho! Etc etc!
(the song repeated like this for some time, with various solos thrown in here and there. It wasn’t the best song, but it was made up on the spot and we somehow all knew the words…anyways, The Jovi awoke from his state.)
“Glengodly?” The Jovi asked, again jovially, but this time just a little less due to overall grogginess.
The Niles exclaimed something about Jesus Christ, followed by a threat directed at The Jovi about repeating ‘Glengodly?’ again.
“I’ve heard of it, but no one knows where it is or where it came from.”
“Like Cheney.” The Bush added for some reason.
“Look The Jovi,” I said, taking the slip of paper from the mystery box. “This paper says, ‘to find Glengodly, first find The Jovi’. We figure that you know something about this.”
"Scotch! 14 Years!" The Niles exclaimed, and Arbitrary Henchman # Give Scotch to Us came rushing over with Oban 14 year.
The Jovi continued not understanding the mystery of the box, and continued to seemingly know nothing of this Glengodly. Then, without warning (for if we had had warning, we would have known and therefore been with warning) The Jovi burst out, “The Dickens!”
“Dang Johnny Dickens,” The Bush started. “Used to pelt me with rocks when I was clearing sage brush off ‘a my ranch.”
“Charles Dickens!” The Jovi burst again. We were really starting to get annoyed with The Jovi’s all around ambiguity on the matter of Glengodly. Why do characters in stories/movies have to be ambiguous? Nobody in real life talks ambiguously. I mean, in reality if somebody had a mysterious box with a note that said that only I was the one that could lead to the item the note in the box spoke of, and I knew a little about the item that the note was referring to, I wouldn’t sit jibba-jabbing about not knowing and then pass out, then wake up and know about it, but still act all weird and just yell out ‘Charles Dickens’. If it were me, I’d say, ‘yeah, I think I know what that note means…there was this guy, Charles Dickens, and he did this and I…’ and blah blah blah and I’d be telling them the goddamned story! None of these mystery bursts, none of this passing out –
“The Boss! Stop! We need him!” The Niles was shouting at me and it was then that I realized I had been incessantly beating the (capital letters now) Ever-Living-Fuck out of The Jovi.
“Oops, I guess I got carried away. The Niles! Stop! We need The Jovi!” I pulled The Niles away from beating The Jovi and gave him more Oban. The Jovi Beatdown ’09 went on like this for about the next ten minutes, when it was done, The Jovi got himself a shower, changed his tight black pants and white blouse (blouse was what he called it, and they're apparently available wherever Gay-Ass Cloaks are sold!) and proceeded explaining what the fuck The Dickens had to do with The Glengodly, etc etc.
I shall paraphrase The Jovi’s words, since the last thing anyone wants to hear it his voice anymore:
The Jovi explained that back in the mid 1800’s Charles Dickens, who had come to some fame writing stories and such, was just finishing a short story about a sea captain and some other things having to do with seafaring. Well, The Dickens couldn't think of a good name for the sea tale and spent countless hours in a drunken stupor at his favorite pub. "Please sir, may I have another?" He would say over and over again to the bartender, until finally the bartender threw him out into the cold cobblestoned street (because all streets in England were and still are cobblestone).
So The Dickens stumbled down Penny Lane in England toward the Strawberry Fields. He passed his ex-lover, Eleanor Rigby on the way and told her that they should reconcile and Come Together sometime and have dinner -
"The Boss! You're talking about the Beatles now, I think." The Niles said.
"I get by with a little help from my friends, get a little high haha." The Bush was now doing a jig and farting.
"Sorry." I said and continued here...
...so The Dickens went drunkenly down the lane and as he stumbled, kept hearing this low rumbling sound in the distance. He started towards where he thought the sound was coming from, somewhere down the lane he was on. He hurried down the road, faster and faster as the sound grew louder and more ominous. He could see a dim glowing pulsating up ahead, from the windows of a house at the end of the street. The Dickens ran full speed now, tripping on a cobblestone and tumbling forward onto his nose and passing out.
When he woke up, he was in a strange house, he could here the rumbling much more clearly now.
"Hello friend." The Jovi said to The Dickens.
"Who are you, where am I?" The Dickens asked.
"You're in a safe place, you took a nasty spill in the street out front of my house. I think you broke your nose."
The Dickens felt his nose, there was a bandage across it.
"Well thank you kind sir for taking care of me. Surely you are a Samaritan!" The Dickens declared. (Declaring is how people exclaimed in 1800s England) "But what is that noise?"
"Let me show you." Said The Jovi.
With that, The Dickens followed The Jovi into the hall and through a doorway that led down some stairs, opening into a large and cavernous basement. There was a large dark shadowy object in the corner, the very origins of the rumbling was upon The Dickens.
"What the devil?" The Dickens what-the-deviled.
"Time travel my funny British friend." The Jovi said, ligthing a spooky looking candelabra.
The device was illuminated, The Dickens walked slowly towards it, feeling the metallic sides and noticing the clear door on the front. He asked what the words on the front meant. "Subway," The Jovi said. "It's a sandwich shop from the future. This time machine was made from a Subway bread oven."
The Dickens explained how that was ridiculous, and The Jovi said 'tell me about it' and how he stole it from someone named El Hefe in the year 2001.
"So The Dickens traveled back to the future with The Jovi?" Tom the Penguin-fish, who hasn't yet spoke this entry, asked.
"Apparently." Ferocius said, getting his line in.
"Panty hose blow my nose." The Bush babbled and drooled.
"How does Glengodly fit into all of this?" The Niles asked.
The Jovi, adjusting his blouse, spoke up.
"When I brought The Dickens back here, to this time, he found the transcripts from Message From the Sea Part 1, Volume One. Well, he apparently stole the title A Message From the Sea for his short story about the sea captain. As he was closing the oven door of the time machine, he shouted something about an ancient scotch; a spirit so old that it was naturally distilled. This scotch was apparently so wondrous and great, that every scotch in the world ever since has been based on it, tried to mimick its greatness, only to fail. This scotch The Dickens spoke of was Glengodly." "He said all of that in a matter of seconds, before getting away forever in the time machine? You didn't have time to stop him?" The Niles asked.
"Well, it was windy...and my leg hurt, there was this hole in the sleeve of my blouse, and I was out of breath a little already."
"Jesus." The Niles said and punched The Jovi in the blouse.
"So we have to somehow time travel to find this scotch?" Tom the Penguin-fish asked. "This is getting out of hand and all around just cheesy."
"Stranger things have happened." Said The Niles.
The Jovi beatings stopped (for now), the scotch drunk, and the other characters doing what they do; we sailed on through the vast ocean, somewhere in the Atlantic now maybe. The plot now significantly more diluted and arduous to get out of, the peak of the story's climax still way off in the distance, up a vast mountain, to be found somewhere beyond the clouds. The entry coming to a close...I looked at the waves crashing against the sides of the S.S. Glen and for the first time let out a hearty, "Damn The Dickens!"
-The Boss
Thursday, March 5, 2009
The Jovi Battle
“You know, you don’t have to say ‘dot, dot, dot.’ If you just kind of trail off, then we’ll know that the dots are there.” I told The Jovi, tellingly.
“Silence!” The Jovi exclaimed, and The Boss and I winced.
“Nobody exclaims around us!” The Boss told him, and I nodded my head in approval.
The Jovi spread his arms out in a godly manner, and told us that he no longer was bound by the laws of The Boss and The Niles. Small butterflies and little gay 80’s hair band people with wings and neon-colored spandex covered The Jovi from behind with a giant cloak. I had to admit, The Jovi pulled off ominous very well.
“We’ll see who can exclaim!” I tried to exclaim, but couldn’t. Something was wrong. Instead of exclaiming, I was only able to holler, which is undeniably lame. Hollering is something only very lame people do. I couldn’t even yell for Christ’s sake! I tried again, but this time I felt squeamish and doubled over in complete lameness.
“The Boss! First I holler and now I’m squeamish… I’m going completely lame!” I hollered again, this time even more hollerish than the last. Tom the Penguin-Fish came over to give me scotch. It was 18 year Macallan and it helped a lot.
“What’s going on?” Ferocious asked, alarmed and forgetting momentarily to be refined and instead appearing simply frightened.
“I don’t know Ferocious,” The Boss replied, drinkingly. “But I don’t like it at all.”
“Ha, ha!” The Jovi ha-ha’d. “The mystic fogs surrounding my island give me super-exclaiming abilities and debilitate the ability for anyone else. You’re no match for me now The Boss and The Niles!”
“What are we gonna do?” Tom asked us, then proceeded to take a drink of Rumplemintz.
“Everybody calm down.” The Boss started, and then everyone was much calmer. “Scotch me.” Arbitrary Henchman #25 was the designated scotch-carrier for our journey on Jovi Island, so he quickly tossed a bottle of 10yr Jura. Boss gulped it drinkingly and then smiled. “I’m good.” He said, with a thumbs up and a wink.
With everyone wondering what to do next and The Jovi just weirding up the place with his maniacal laugh and gay-ass cloak (see advertisement below), I knew that it would come down to me. Weak from my failed exclaims, but feeling better with the delicious Macallan pulsating through me, I stood up proudly and took stock of what was around me. There had to be something that was drawing in all the fog… causing all of our exclaiming ability to go to The Jovi. It was then that I realized the music of The Jovi was still playing on the loud-speaker, polluting the island. The solution occurred to me… I ran drunkingly to the loudspeaker which was actually a really cool looking giant phonograph shaped thingy. The Jovi gave chase, but I knew I could outrun him when I saw him trip over his gay-ass cloak. I made it all the way to the loudspeaker control building and demolished the 8-track player that was playing his music, knowing that he’d never find another archaic device that could play his crappy 8-tracks. The music stopped and all the fogs began to disperse. I came back to the dock where The Boss and everyone else was, each of them looking puzzled. I kicked The Jovi on the way back and he cried, cryingly.
“Damn The Jovi!” The Boss exclaimed.
“That’s right The Boss!” I exclaimed back, and we did the penguin dance that we made up right there on the spot. It consisted of waddling around and trying to fly, then laughing at each other when we failed to actually fly. This offended Tom at first until The Boss actually succeeded at flying, at which point we were all just shocked and amazed until The Boss did three loop-da-loops and floated back down to the shore, looking rather divine and suddenly wearing a basket of grapes on his head.
“Dude!” I exclaimed again (as there was much exclaiming to do in order to make up for the lack of exclaiming from before). “How did you do that?”
“Don’t mess with Texas.” Came a voice from behind a nearby Bush, which we then discovered was actually The Bush and not behind anything at all.
“Exactly.” The Boss explained, tossing grapes into Tom’s Penguin-Fish mouth. I was confused but figured I’d let it go.
“The Bush! What are you doing here?” I asked the former President.
“What are you doing here?” The Bush responded, whittling and looking confused, or in other words… normal.
Before explanations could continue, The Boss interrupted to ask why the fog disappeared. I had The Boss hallucinate a chalkboard and some chalk so I could diagram it out, very teacherly, and everyone sat down criss-cross-applesauce to listen intently to my explanation. Well, everyone except The Bush who continued whittling and kept muttering something about Alan Jackson owing him a new belt-buckle and needing a piece of wheat to chew on.
“You see,” I began. “The Jovi’s music was so terrible, that when it was played at such great volumes from this tiny island, the Earth itself became agitated. Because of this, the planet went into natural defense mode. Mother Nature put her dead-beat husband Father Time in charge of getting rid of this disturbance. However, because ironically Father Time always chose the quickest resolution to things, rather than getting rid of The Jovi and all his evilness once and for all, he simply sent out a couple of mystical fogs and rerouted a trash barge in order to cover up Jovi Island; much like a teen might cover up a bad facial blemish. This fog kept the world safe from the terrible noises coming from Jovi Island. Unfortunately, it also negatively affected everything that entered the island as well, which is why The Boss and I struggled to exclaim. The fog made any awesomeness transfer straight from the outsider to The Jovi. Thank God it didn’t affect the scotch.”
“Nothing transamathingy’d from me.” The Bush stated. We all just kind of sat there, nobody wanting to tell The Bush that there was nothing awesome about him, thereby hurting his feelings.
The Jovi was still crying, so The Boss and I went over and beat the ever-living fuck out of him. We elected not to take his shit however, as neither of us wanted anything to do with his gay-ass cloak. We dragged him back over to the group near the dock, feeling The Jovi’s minions closing in on us. Hurriedly, we got back onto the S.S. Glen and shook The Jovi violently to try and get him to stop crying long enough for us to interrogate him.
“I’m really, really cool…” The Jovi kept uttering to himself incoherently. The Boss slapped him repeatedly yelling obscenities at him and kicking him in his left shin; one of The Jovi’s biggest weaknesses.
“Damn you The Jovi!” The Boss yelled over and over again drunkingly. I could see this would never end. Once you start beating up The Jovi, it’s so much fun that it’s hard to stop.
“Not livin’ on a prayer now are ya? You bastard!” The Boss continued.
I pulled The Boss away, handing him a bottle of 20yr Inchmurrin to help him relax.
“This is really good!” The Boss exclaimed and a bum named simply Zeke in New Haven who’d been receiving all the beer from this entry’s exclaims decided to “make it rain” with all the bottles he’d gotten. This proved unfortunate for Zeke, as all the bottles came crashing down on him, giving him a concussion and helping him slip further into insanity.
“I know, I just found about it!” I told The Boss excitedly. “It’s expensive, but it looked really awesome, so I thought we’d throw it in there.” The Boss drank it happily and all seemed right in the world.
As I looked out on the horizon, The Jovi captured, The Boss and I scotched, I knew the entry was about to end. With that in mind, I downed a bottle of 10yr Ardberg, grabbed The Jovi by the collar on his gay-ass cloak and looked him square in his damn The Jovi eyes.
“What do you know about GlenGodly?” I demanded.
-The Niles
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“Silence!” The Jovi exclaimed, and The Boss and I winced.
“Nobody exclaims around us!” The Boss told him, and I nodded my head in approval.
The Jovi spread his arms out in a godly manner, and told us that he no longer was bound by the laws of The Boss and The Niles. Small butterflies and little gay 80’s hair band people with wings and neon-colored spandex covered The Jovi from behind with a giant cloak. I had to admit, The Jovi pulled off ominous very well.
“We’ll see who can exclaim!” I tried to exclaim, but couldn’t. Something was wrong. Instead of exclaiming, I was only able to holler, which is undeniably lame. Hollering is something only very lame people do. I couldn’t even yell for Christ’s sake! I tried again, but this time I felt squeamish and doubled over in complete lameness.
“The Boss! First I holler and now I’m squeamish… I’m going completely lame!” I hollered again, this time even more hollerish than the last. Tom the Penguin-Fish came over to give me scotch. It was 18 year Macallan and it helped a lot.
“What’s going on?” Ferocious asked, alarmed and forgetting momentarily to be refined and instead appearing simply frightened.
“I don’t know Ferocious,” The Boss replied, drinkingly. “But I don’t like it at all.”
“Ha, ha!” The Jovi ha-ha’d. “The mystic fogs surrounding my island give me super-exclaiming abilities and debilitate the ability for anyone else. You’re no match for me now The Boss and The Niles!”
“What are we gonna do?” Tom asked us, then proceeded to take a drink of Rumplemintz.
“Everybody calm down.” The Boss started, and then everyone was much calmer. “Scotch me.” Arbitrary Henchman #25 was the designated scotch-carrier for our journey on Jovi Island, so he quickly tossed a bottle of 10yr Jura. Boss gulped it drinkingly and then smiled. “I’m good.” He said, with a thumbs up and a wink.
With everyone wondering what to do next and The Jovi just weirding up the place with his maniacal laugh and gay-ass cloak (see advertisement below), I knew that it would come down to me. Weak from my failed exclaims, but feeling better with the delicious Macallan pulsating through me, I stood up proudly and took stock of what was around me. There had to be something that was drawing in all the fog… causing all of our exclaiming ability to go to The Jovi. It was then that I realized the music of The Jovi was still playing on the loud-speaker, polluting the island. The solution occurred to me… I ran drunkingly to the loudspeaker which was actually a really cool looking giant phonograph shaped thingy. The Jovi gave chase, but I knew I could outrun him when I saw him trip over his gay-ass cloak. I made it all the way to the loudspeaker control building and demolished the 8-track player that was playing his music, knowing that he’d never find another archaic device that could play his crappy 8-tracks. The music stopped and all the fogs began to disperse. I came back to the dock where The Boss and everyone else was, each of them looking puzzled. I kicked The Jovi on the way back and he cried, cryingly.
“Damn The Jovi!” The Boss exclaimed.
“That’s right The Boss!” I exclaimed back, and we did the penguin dance that we made up right there on the spot. It consisted of waddling around and trying to fly, then laughing at each other when we failed to actually fly. This offended Tom at first until The Boss actually succeeded at flying, at which point we were all just shocked and amazed until The Boss did three loop-da-loops and floated back down to the shore, looking rather divine and suddenly wearing a basket of grapes on his head.
“Dude!” I exclaimed again (as there was much exclaiming to do in order to make up for the lack of exclaiming from before). “How did you do that?”
“Don’t mess with Texas.” Came a voice from behind a nearby Bush, which we then discovered was actually The Bush and not behind anything at all.
“Exactly.” The Boss explained, tossing grapes into Tom’s Penguin-Fish mouth. I was confused but figured I’d let it go.
“The Bush! What are you doing here?” I asked the former President.
“What are you doing here?” The Bush responded, whittling and looking confused, or in other words… normal.
Before explanations could continue, The Boss interrupted to ask why the fog disappeared. I had The Boss hallucinate a chalkboard and some chalk so I could diagram it out, very teacherly, and everyone sat down criss-cross-applesauce to listen intently to my explanation. Well, everyone except The Bush who continued whittling and kept muttering something about Alan Jackson owing him a new belt-buckle and needing a piece of wheat to chew on.
“You see,” I began. “The Jovi’s music was so terrible, that when it was played at such great volumes from this tiny island, the Earth itself became agitated. Because of this, the planet went into natural defense mode. Mother Nature put her dead-beat husband Father Time in charge of getting rid of this disturbance. However, because ironically Father Time always chose the quickest resolution to things, rather than getting rid of The Jovi and all his evilness once and for all, he simply sent out a couple of mystical fogs and rerouted a trash barge in order to cover up Jovi Island; much like a teen might cover up a bad facial blemish. This fog kept the world safe from the terrible noises coming from Jovi Island. Unfortunately, it also negatively affected everything that entered the island as well, which is why The Boss and I struggled to exclaim. The fog made any awesomeness transfer straight from the outsider to The Jovi. Thank God it didn’t affect the scotch.”
“Nothing transamathingy’d from me.” The Bush stated. We all just kind of sat there, nobody wanting to tell The Bush that there was nothing awesome about him, thereby hurting his feelings.
The Jovi was still crying, so The Boss and I went over and beat the ever-living fuck out of him. We elected not to take his shit however, as neither of us wanted anything to do with his gay-ass cloak. We dragged him back over to the group near the dock, feeling The Jovi’s minions closing in on us. Hurriedly, we got back onto the S.S. Glen and shook The Jovi violently to try and get him to stop crying long enough for us to interrogate him.
“I’m really, really cool…” The Jovi kept uttering to himself incoherently. The Boss slapped him repeatedly yelling obscenities at him and kicking him in his left shin; one of The Jovi’s biggest weaknesses.
“Damn you The Jovi!” The Boss yelled over and over again drunkingly. I could see this would never end. Once you start beating up The Jovi, it’s so much fun that it’s hard to stop.
“Not livin’ on a prayer now are ya? You bastard!” The Boss continued.
I pulled The Boss away, handing him a bottle of 20yr Inchmurrin to help him relax.
“This is really good!” The Boss exclaimed and a bum named simply Zeke in New Haven who’d been receiving all the beer from this entry’s exclaims decided to “make it rain” with all the bottles he’d gotten. This proved unfortunate for Zeke, as all the bottles came crashing down on him, giving him a concussion and helping him slip further into insanity.
“I know, I just found about it!” I told The Boss excitedly. “It’s expensive, but it looked really awesome, so I thought we’d throw it in there.” The Boss drank it happily and all seemed right in the world.
As I looked out on the horizon, The Jovi captured, The Boss and I scotched, I knew the entry was about to end. With that in mind, I downed a bottle of 10yr Ardberg, grabbed The Jovi by the collar on his gay-ass cloak and looked him square in his damn The Jovi eyes.
“What do you know about GlenGodly?” I demanded.
-The Niles
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Monday, February 23, 2009
That Elusive Plot....
“Arbitrary Henchman # Knows-how-to-read-GPS-and-chart-courses-and-man-helms-and-all-those-other-boat-words!” I exclaimed right at the beginning of the entry, which I suppose is pretty obvious as, being the reader, you (whoever you are) just started reading, and certainly I’m sure started reading not from the end, as that would be foolish and stupid and most-likely utterly confusing. In fact, had you read starting from the end, you’d already know where I’m going with this entry, and so you’d probably just stop there, and you would know that the last word of the entry is 'dot’ and also be assured that the entry would be full of other nonsensical information like: ramblings on and on about not starting at the end of things, whammies, henchpeople, penguin-fish, and other such nonsense; and you (the reader) would be assured that there would only be one or two or three, at the goddamned most, sentences that actually propelled the plot forward, and those sentences would be so diluted with sparse references to underwear, scotch, pooping jokes (haha), some sort of marginalization of Ferocius or Tom, and most certainly a ‘Damn The Jovi!’ – Oh, right there! There it is! The plot! So Jovi Island is the place we are off to, and surely a ‘Damn The Jovi!’ will ring out triumphantly from myself and The Niles. Does Jovi Island show up on GPS?
NOTE: Due to the exclaim that occurred within the first sentence of this entry the following occurred at approximately 4:34:26 PM EST:
Teek McSlappy, who spends his days smelly and in an old refrigerator box that he made into a fake spaceship, received from the sky a case of Michelob Ultra (because McSlappy is carb-conscious as well as completely insane. In fact, he mistook the beer for being the Michelin Man disguised as beer, a measure that caused McSlappy to dis-trust the beer and to be wary of it. He quietly performed his famous (infamous in bum circles for reasons it’s better not to get into here) Teek Peek from behind the refrigerator-spaceship-box. “You get outta here Michelin Man! I told you’s last time you can’t be a spacemans with me!” When the case of beer just continued being beer, McSlappy, still wary, slowly approached it, opened the box, and removed a beer. He still believed the beer to be an elaborate ruse, regardless of the fact that it was clearly just beer. Anyways…
“Uh…uh… Mr. The Boss?” Arbitrary Henchman # Same-one-from-earlier said. “What did you want me to do? You called to me about the GPS or something and then just stopped talking. You’ve just been standing there for the past five minutes looking at the ceiling.”
“Fish and chips!” Shouted Ferocius.
“You’re goddamned right fish and chips!” Exclaimed The Niles, right fist raised. Teek McSlappy skeptically received more Michelob, it was his lucky day.
The Niles then lowered his right fist while simultaneously raising the bottle of J&B in his left hand to his lips, he drinkingly glared sideways at Ferocius and the Henchpeople, etc. For the next five minutes we discussed just how to get to Jovi Island. We had no idea where exactly to find the island, being that The Jovi totally sucks, along with bands like Nickelback, the island’s exact location was a bit of mystery. The Jovi, while sucky, knows that people such The Niles and myself hate him dearly and with all due respect (which is none) and wish to beat the ever-living-fuck out of him and take his shit (even though his shit sucks, it still goes for top dollar on eBay, which is how we once procured a case of extremely rare scotch that was so old it had completely evaporated – leaving only the vapors – vapors that cause hallucinations, paranoia, sweating, cursing, cougar hunting, pantlessness, and total and utter chaos. In other words, really old scotch is awesome). The Jovi Island is five miles off the coast of New Jersey, but it is surrounded by a fog, and that fog is surrounded by a thicker and more illusive fog, which in turn is hidden from site by a trash barge, and the trash barge is hidden by the filth that makes up New Jersey. Finding Jovi Island would not be easy. I asked The Niles if he had any ideas.
”Never trust a Whammy.” He said drunkingly. I asked if there were any other ideas, specifically in regards to finding Jovi Island.
“I’ll give it a shot,” he said. “According to the GPS we’re half way there.”
“Living on a prayer?” I asked. We then air-guitared for three and half minutes, and even pulled off a perfect air key change with only one minute left.
“Gentlemen,” spoke Ferocius, very British and jolly and spiffy and all. “It appears that we are in a bit of eh’ pickle and that we fancy to find a lad by the name of The Jovi.”
“Damn The Jovi!” The Niles and I exclaimed in unison. This time I exclaimed in an octave higher so as not to require us to be jinxed again. And bums got beer and all and whatever.
“Well,” continued Ferocius very seriously British now. “All we have to do is each of us eat a cheese-wheel, surely to constipate the Dickens out of us. Then we’ll get some musical instruments, and as we sail up the coast of that Yank town New Jersey, we’ll play and sing out of the ship’s loud speakers. Being constipated, the singing will be quite a chore and yet it should closely resemble the vocal stylings of Creed, Nickelback, Matchbox Twenty, and all those other terrible acts; while simultaneously, with its awfulness, attracting The Jovi.”
“Ferocius – you disgusting man – that just might work.” The Niles said. We didn’t have any cheesewheels, so I hallucinated a crate full of disgusting and smelly cheese.
“Quickly! Eat the cheesewheels before the hallucination goes away!” I shouted drinkingly (not drinkingly enough to exclaim though, and also because we’ve reached our exclaim quota for this entry).
The Niles then reminded me very cleverly that it was a hallucination and that there really were no cheesewheels.
“But I hallucinated French fries a few entries ago, and I ate them. I even offered a few to you.” I was too sober to comprehend any serious rational thought, I decided it best to sit down, I quickly hallucinated a chair and fell on the floor unconscious.
When I came to, The Niles had just finished putting a scotch I.V. in my arm. I asked him politely if it was safe, and he assured me that he had no idea. I decided it best not question things that we didn’t know and proceeded to get haphazardly smashed and think about where the term “haphazardly” came from. If something is just plain hazardly, then that seems hazardous and to be of much hazard and therefore something to avoid…but if something is haphazard, well that just seems fun. Like the word “Happy” and “Hazard” mixed. Like a mixture of happiness so wonderful that it just becomes a hazard to everyone around…that doesn’t make sense….
I came to again and The Niles and Ferocius and Tom the Fucking Penguin-fish and an arbitrary amount of Arbitrary Henchman were standing over me. The Niles of course handed me a bottle of Lagavulin 16 year. While I drank the bottle, The Niles told me how I hadn’t had enough scotch throughout the course of this entry and had become a little insane and weakened by the sobering effects of the lack of the scotch. He said that The Boss sober was probably the scariest 15 minutes of his entire life, well that, and seeing Ferocius naked once, that apparently had caused him a mild blindness for a day or two, during which Whammies stole his valuable super money suit and sent him disturbing photos in the mail (this was in the years before the internet, when people mailed stuff in envelopes rather than with WWWs). Anyways, The Niles continued on telling me how we managed to arrive just off the coast of New Jersey, and indeed past a trash barge and through two thick and illusive fogs, and alas to be docked at Jovi Island. “You Give Love a Bad Name” could be heard in the distance and we knew we were there.
“Jolly good and Bob’s your uncle!” Shouted Ferocius, tightening his trousers.
“Knickers they are.” He added, in reference to his pants, apparently he can hear voice-over narrations.
“Welcome my friends,” said The Jovi as he came from out of some shadows that had gathered nearby. “To Jovi Island dot dot dot."
-The Boss
NOTE: Due to the exclaim that occurred within the first sentence of this entry the following occurred at approximately 4:34:26 PM EST:
Teek McSlappy, who spends his days smelly and in an old refrigerator box that he made into a fake spaceship, received from the sky a case of Michelob Ultra (because McSlappy is carb-conscious as well as completely insane. In fact, he mistook the beer for being the Michelin Man disguised as beer, a measure that caused McSlappy to dis-trust the beer and to be wary of it. He quietly performed his famous (infamous in bum circles for reasons it’s better not to get into here) Teek Peek from behind the refrigerator-spaceship-box. “You get outta here Michelin Man! I told you’s last time you can’t be a spacemans with me!” When the case of beer just continued being beer, McSlappy, still wary, slowly approached it, opened the box, and removed a beer. He still believed the beer to be an elaborate ruse, regardless of the fact that it was clearly just beer. Anyways…
“Uh…uh… Mr. The Boss?” Arbitrary Henchman # Same-one-from-earlier said. “What did you want me to do? You called to me about the GPS or something and then just stopped talking. You’ve just been standing there for the past five minutes looking at the ceiling.”
“Fish and chips!” Shouted Ferocius.
“You’re goddamned right fish and chips!” Exclaimed The Niles, right fist raised. Teek McSlappy skeptically received more Michelob, it was his lucky day.
The Niles then lowered his right fist while simultaneously raising the bottle of J&B in his left hand to his lips, he drinkingly glared sideways at Ferocius and the Henchpeople, etc. For the next five minutes we discussed just how to get to Jovi Island. We had no idea where exactly to find the island, being that The Jovi totally sucks, along with bands like Nickelback, the island’s exact location was a bit of mystery. The Jovi, while sucky, knows that people such The Niles and myself hate him dearly and with all due respect (which is none) and wish to beat the ever-living-fuck out of him and take his shit (even though his shit sucks, it still goes for top dollar on eBay, which is how we once procured a case of extremely rare scotch that was so old it had completely evaporated – leaving only the vapors – vapors that cause hallucinations, paranoia, sweating, cursing, cougar hunting, pantlessness, and total and utter chaos. In other words, really old scotch is awesome). The Jovi Island is five miles off the coast of New Jersey, but it is surrounded by a fog, and that fog is surrounded by a thicker and more illusive fog, which in turn is hidden from site by a trash barge, and the trash barge is hidden by the filth that makes up New Jersey. Finding Jovi Island would not be easy. I asked The Niles if he had any ideas.
”Never trust a Whammy.” He said drunkingly. I asked if there were any other ideas, specifically in regards to finding Jovi Island.
“I’ll give it a shot,” he said. “According to the GPS we’re half way there.”
“Living on a prayer?” I asked. We then air-guitared for three and half minutes, and even pulled off a perfect air key change with only one minute left.
“Gentlemen,” spoke Ferocius, very British and jolly and spiffy and all. “It appears that we are in a bit of eh’ pickle and that we fancy to find a lad by the name of The Jovi.”
“Damn The Jovi!” The Niles and I exclaimed in unison. This time I exclaimed in an octave higher so as not to require us to be jinxed again. And bums got beer and all and whatever.
“Well,” continued Ferocius very seriously British now. “All we have to do is each of us eat a cheese-wheel, surely to constipate the Dickens out of us. Then we’ll get some musical instruments, and as we sail up the coast of that Yank town New Jersey, we’ll play and sing out of the ship’s loud speakers. Being constipated, the singing will be quite a chore and yet it should closely resemble the vocal stylings of Creed, Nickelback, Matchbox Twenty, and all those other terrible acts; while simultaneously, with its awfulness, attracting The Jovi.”
“Ferocius – you disgusting man – that just might work.” The Niles said. We didn’t have any cheesewheels, so I hallucinated a crate full of disgusting and smelly cheese.
“Quickly! Eat the cheesewheels before the hallucination goes away!” I shouted drinkingly (not drinkingly enough to exclaim though, and also because we’ve reached our exclaim quota for this entry).
The Niles then reminded me very cleverly that it was a hallucination and that there really were no cheesewheels.
“But I hallucinated French fries a few entries ago, and I ate them. I even offered a few to you.” I was too sober to comprehend any serious rational thought, I decided it best to sit down, I quickly hallucinated a chair and fell on the floor unconscious.
When I came to, The Niles had just finished putting a scotch I.V. in my arm. I asked him politely if it was safe, and he assured me that he had no idea. I decided it best not question things that we didn’t know and proceeded to get haphazardly smashed and think about where the term “haphazardly” came from. If something is just plain hazardly, then that seems hazardous and to be of much hazard and therefore something to avoid…but if something is haphazard, well that just seems fun. Like the word “Happy” and “Hazard” mixed. Like a mixture of happiness so wonderful that it just becomes a hazard to everyone around…that doesn’t make sense….
I came to again and The Niles and Ferocius and Tom the Fucking Penguin-fish and an arbitrary amount of Arbitrary Henchman were standing over me. The Niles of course handed me a bottle of Lagavulin 16 year. While I drank the bottle, The Niles told me how I hadn’t had enough scotch throughout the course of this entry and had become a little insane and weakened by the sobering effects of the lack of the scotch. He said that The Boss sober was probably the scariest 15 minutes of his entire life, well that, and seeing Ferocius naked once, that apparently had caused him a mild blindness for a day or two, during which Whammies stole his valuable super money suit and sent him disturbing photos in the mail (this was in the years before the internet, when people mailed stuff in envelopes rather than with WWWs). Anyways, The Niles continued on telling me how we managed to arrive just off the coast of New Jersey, and indeed past a trash barge and through two thick and illusive fogs, and alas to be docked at Jovi Island. “You Give Love a Bad Name” could be heard in the distance and we knew we were there.
“Jolly good and Bob’s your uncle!” Shouted Ferocius, tightening his trousers.
“Knickers they are.” He added, in reference to his pants, apparently he can hear voice-over narrations.
“Welcome my friends,” said The Jovi as he came from out of some shadows that had gathered nearby. “To Jovi Island dot dot dot."
-The Boss
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
More Plot, for Those Who Love it So!
And so it was that we had found Tom the Penguin-Fish just as we assumed, in a seedy bar in South America. I turned to The Boss and asked him why he thought it was so easy to find Tom on a whole continent. The Boss shook his head, shakingly, and drank some of the 1926 Macallan scotch that we’d swiped from Tom’s bar. He then pointed at a sign that said “South America City: Population- 12,540 People and 1 Penguin-Fish.” I had made the mistake of thinking this was South America the continent rather than South America the city which was ironically on the coast of Brazil on the continent of South America… at which point, my logical explanation became so exhausting that I simply fell over, dropping my bottle of scotch in the process. I began to lose consciousness from over-thoughtification and lack of scotchiness as I watched (in horrific yet theatric slow-motion) my bottle of 1926 Macallan roll away toward Ferocious, who had immediately begun crying and was still trying to jerk-off Tom while simultaneously sucking his toes.
“You… dis… gusting… man…” I uttered (too weak to exclaim) and then it all went dark.
Woke up. The Boss was huddled over me, for some reason regurgitating scotch into my mouth to revive me, very motherly. I enjoyed it for a moment, before I realized what was going on, at which point I stood up quickly and started talking about sports. The Boss responded with a comment about Corvettes and V8 Engines and we both punched Ferocious. After downing a bottle of J&B (because sometimes you just need some crappy J&B) I evaluated my situation drunkingly and took notice of my surroundings. I was back aboard the S.S. Glen and we had sailed off again, destinations unknown. Ferocious was taking a break from being disgusting and instead had a very elegant air about him as he refrained from toe-sucking, instead drinking a nice Chianti and saying words like “holler” and “trolley.” The Boss was laughing at him drinkingly of course, but you could tell that deep down he was impressed at how refined Ferocious appeared. We assigned Arbitrary Henchman #12 to watch after Ferocious and to make sure he didn’t take this too far and start playing water polo, which we all know is a terrible game filled with terrible people who pee in pools and give unwanted noogies to mildly obese people, which may be funny, but is still terrible to say the least.
“Where’s Tom?” I asked The Boss.
“He’s over there.” The Boss replied drinkingly, and I noticed that Tom was in the corner drinking Peppermint Schnapps, as he’s known to do. The crew was looking at Tom, curiously and henchmanly, not knowing who this strange Penguin-Fish was. I decided it was up to me to introduce Tom, otherwise there would surely be some mistake made, which would undeniably result in a misunderstanding, at which point it would become necessary to bring in Jack Tripper to throw flour all over everyone and then somehow resolve the miscommunication in a humorous way within twenty minutes if you take out the commercials, which The Boss and I always do. There are no commercials in Message from the Sea as we all know, with the exception of an occasional reference to important products (product placement available for all fine single malts!) or periodicals such as Underwear Weekly: Your Passport to News and Everything Underwear! Besides, I don’t know if Jack Tripper is available, so after brief consideration and another bottle of J&B (to wash the other one down), I decided that a simple introduction of Tom would be the more efficient choice to make.
“Crew…” I began, and then I stumbled drinkingly to the left. I stumbled drunkingly to the right afterwards in order to even things out, but in the process, I fell forward just slightly which completely threw me off and I had to hit Arbitrary Henchman #Arbitrary Number in order to steady myself, at which point I had no idea how to even myself out, so I just drank more scotch (this time a nice 17yr Glengoyne) and continued my introduction.
“I want you all to meet… Tom the Penguin-Fish!” I finished.
“I’m just a penguin.” Tom said. “We’ve been over this before.”
“Shut up Tom.” The Boss mumbled from behind us. “If anything, you’re more fish than penguin.”
“No seriously guys, look at me. I waddle, I look like I’m wearing a tuxedo, I have flippers and a beak… I’m seriously just a penguin.” Tom replied, which was true, except that he really was wearing a tuxedo. The Boss and I looked him over to see if maybe he’d look like a tuxedo even without wearing one, and it appeared to be so.
“Dude, once again.” I said. “Penguins are birds right? Birds fly. Do you fly Tom?”
“Well no… I… uh…” Tom stuttered.
“Okay. Now, do you swim?” I continued.
“Um, yeah I guess.” Tom said.
“If you don’t fly… and you do swim… that makes you a fish.” I told him.
“A penguin-fish.” The Boss added, smiling and drunkingly.
“Don’t make us go through this shit again Tom. You know what we’re capable of.” I told him, and I felt bad making a scene in front of the crew, but Tom had to be put in his place. When The Boss and I label you a penguin-fish, there’s no going back.
“I can’t believe I’m a fish…” Tom sobbed to himself, repeating this over and over again quietly as he returned to his corner and his Schnapps. Ferocious randomly shouted something about cardigans.
“Cardigans indeed.” The Boss stated, poignantly; to which we all raised our glasses and/or bottles and said aloud in unison “To Cardigans!” Ferocious seemed very pleased.
The Boss disappeared momentarily and I became nervous because I didn’t know if this kind of disappearance would lead to absurdity or to plot and I wasn’t sure which I was hoping for. I closed my eyes tightly and said over and over again “No Whammies, No Whammies, No Whammies!” until The Boss returned and tapped me on the shoulder. Now completely frightened of whammies, I nervously turned around, thankful to see The Boss holding the strange box with the strange English engravings waiting to be opened by only a penguin or a fish. At this point I was surprised that this was plot rather than absurdity, and I was relieved that there were no whammies (a whammy stole my super-money-costume and then mailed me this picture, mocking me, when I was very young). Whammies are terrible creatures after all, and they must be dealt with one day.
In order to advance the plot, The Boss and I brought the box to Tom the Penguin-Fish who was still suffering from his identity crisis, even though we’d been through this before only a few years earlier. The Boss slapped Tom across his penguin-fish face, careful not to break the bottle of Peppermint Schnapps he had. Tom was wakened by this act of aggression and we knew we had his full attention.
“You must open this box!” I exclaimed (because I’d yet to exclaim in this entry) and everything on the S.S. Glen just seemed a little brighter. Patrick Tulip in North Texas, despite being rich, was still homeless purely because his name was Tulip and no one who owned a place of residence could stop laughing at his name for long enough to file the proper paperwork necessary to get him off the streets. On this day however, Mr. Tulip knew his homelessness would turn out positive as he saw a beer coming toward him from the sky, emanating from my always perfect exclaim. Just when he noticed the label said Black Butte Porter (one of the finest Porters in all of America), the beer suddenly stopped in mid-flight and shook a little bit, as if it was laughing upon recognizing that it was Patrick Tulip. The Tulip was angered by this, and then saddened when the beer diverted to Fran, the homeless lady one block down from him.
“Damnit!” The Tulip cried out and Fran just smiled, drinkingly at him. “One day,” he decried. “One day, things will go my way, and the world will know and respect the name Tulip!” To which everyone walking past him laughed at him, poking him in the stomach and calling him names like “flower-boy,” “pansy,” and the ultimate insult… “photosynthesis man.”
Meanwhile, the exclaim still ringing in the ears of those lucky enough to hear it, Tom the Penguin-Fish opened the box, which actually had just a twist-off top that anyone could’ve opened, frustrating The Boss and I until we drank more scotch and then felt better about the whole mess. Inside the box was a note that said, “To find Glengodly, first find The Jovi.”
The Boss cried out “Damn the Jovi!” toward the sky, to which Ferocious refinedly followed up with “Heavens to Betsy!” whatever the hell that means.
“I know, The Boss. I know.” I comforted him, with a pat on the back and a bottle of 16yr Lagavulin. “We’ll get The Jovi. I promise.”
Angry and determined, we ordered Arbitrary Henchman #Knows how to Steer to set a course for Jovi Island; a man-made island 5 miles off the coast of New Jersey where The Jovi lived. No one knew what went on at Jovi Island, only that new albums and music videos, each one worse than the last, continued to come from there... inexplicably mass produced by the Jovi-owned record label, Jovi-Time. It’s been rumored that Jovi-Time is also responsible for polluting the world with albums from Nickelback, but this hasn’t been confirmed. As the ocean breeze breezed us and the S.S. Glen sailed on, The Boss and I waited patiently for Jovi Island to come into our sites.
“You… dis… gusting… man…” I uttered (too weak to exclaim) and then it all went dark.
Woke up. The Boss was huddled over me, for some reason regurgitating scotch into my mouth to revive me, very motherly. I enjoyed it for a moment, before I realized what was going on, at which point I stood up quickly and started talking about sports. The Boss responded with a comment about Corvettes and V8 Engines and we both punched Ferocious. After downing a bottle of J&B (because sometimes you just need some crappy J&B) I evaluated my situation drunkingly and took notice of my surroundings. I was back aboard the S.S. Glen and we had sailed off again, destinations unknown. Ferocious was taking a break from being disgusting and instead had a very elegant air about him as he refrained from toe-sucking, instead drinking a nice Chianti and saying words like “holler” and “trolley.” The Boss was laughing at him drinkingly of course, but you could tell that deep down he was impressed at how refined Ferocious appeared. We assigned Arbitrary Henchman #12 to watch after Ferocious and to make sure he didn’t take this too far and start playing water polo, which we all know is a terrible game filled with terrible people who pee in pools and give unwanted noogies to mildly obese people, which may be funny, but is still terrible to say the least.
“Where’s Tom?” I asked The Boss.
“He’s over there.” The Boss replied drinkingly, and I noticed that Tom was in the corner drinking Peppermint Schnapps, as he’s known to do. The crew was looking at Tom, curiously and henchmanly, not knowing who this strange Penguin-Fish was. I decided it was up to me to introduce Tom, otherwise there would surely be some mistake made, which would undeniably result in a misunderstanding, at which point it would become necessary to bring in Jack Tripper to throw flour all over everyone and then somehow resolve the miscommunication in a humorous way within twenty minutes if you take out the commercials, which The Boss and I always do. There are no commercials in Message from the Sea as we all know, with the exception of an occasional reference to important products (product placement available for all fine single malts!) or periodicals such as Underwear Weekly: Your Passport to News and Everything Underwear! Besides, I don’t know if Jack Tripper is available, so after brief consideration and another bottle of J&B (to wash the other one down), I decided that a simple introduction of Tom would be the more efficient choice to make.
“Crew…” I began, and then I stumbled drinkingly to the left. I stumbled drunkingly to the right afterwards in order to even things out, but in the process, I fell forward just slightly which completely threw me off and I had to hit Arbitrary Henchman #Arbitrary Number in order to steady myself, at which point I had no idea how to even myself out, so I just drank more scotch (this time a nice 17yr Glengoyne) and continued my introduction.
“I want you all to meet… Tom the Penguin-Fish!” I finished.
“I’m just a penguin.” Tom said. “We’ve been over this before.”
“Shut up Tom.” The Boss mumbled from behind us. “If anything, you’re more fish than penguin.”
“No seriously guys, look at me. I waddle, I look like I’m wearing a tuxedo, I have flippers and a beak… I’m seriously just a penguin.” Tom replied, which was true, except that he really was wearing a tuxedo. The Boss and I looked him over to see if maybe he’d look like a tuxedo even without wearing one, and it appeared to be so.
“Dude, once again.” I said. “Penguins are birds right? Birds fly. Do you fly Tom?”
“Well no… I… uh…” Tom stuttered.
“Okay. Now, do you swim?” I continued.
“Um, yeah I guess.” Tom said.
“If you don’t fly… and you do swim… that makes you a fish.” I told him.
“A penguin-fish.” The Boss added, smiling and drunkingly.
“Don’t make us go through this shit again Tom. You know what we’re capable of.” I told him, and I felt bad making a scene in front of the crew, but Tom had to be put in his place. When The Boss and I label you a penguin-fish, there’s no going back.
“I can’t believe I’m a fish…” Tom sobbed to himself, repeating this over and over again quietly as he returned to his corner and his Schnapps. Ferocious randomly shouted something about cardigans.
“Cardigans indeed.” The Boss stated, poignantly; to which we all raised our glasses and/or bottles and said aloud in unison “To Cardigans!” Ferocious seemed very pleased.
The Boss disappeared momentarily and I became nervous because I didn’t know if this kind of disappearance would lead to absurdity or to plot and I wasn’t sure which I was hoping for. I closed my eyes tightly and said over and over again “No Whammies, No Whammies, No Whammies!” until The Boss returned and tapped me on the shoulder. Now completely frightened of whammies, I nervously turned around, thankful to see The Boss holding the strange box with the strange English engravings waiting to be opened by only a penguin or a fish. At this point I was surprised that this was plot rather than absurdity, and I was relieved that there were no whammies (a whammy stole my super-money-costume and then mailed me this picture, mocking me, when I was very young). Whammies are terrible creatures after all, and they must be dealt with one day.In order to advance the plot, The Boss and I brought the box to Tom the Penguin-Fish who was still suffering from his identity crisis, even though we’d been through this before only a few years earlier. The Boss slapped Tom across his penguin-fish face, careful not to break the bottle of Peppermint Schnapps he had. Tom was wakened by this act of aggression and we knew we had his full attention.
“You must open this box!” I exclaimed (because I’d yet to exclaim in this entry) and everything on the S.S. Glen just seemed a little brighter. Patrick Tulip in North Texas, despite being rich, was still homeless purely because his name was Tulip and no one who owned a place of residence could stop laughing at his name for long enough to file the proper paperwork necessary to get him off the streets. On this day however, Mr. Tulip knew his homelessness would turn out positive as he saw a beer coming toward him from the sky, emanating from my always perfect exclaim. Just when he noticed the label said Black Butte Porter (one of the finest Porters in all of America), the beer suddenly stopped in mid-flight and shook a little bit, as if it was laughing upon recognizing that it was Patrick Tulip. The Tulip was angered by this, and then saddened when the beer diverted to Fran, the homeless lady one block down from him.
“Damnit!” The Tulip cried out and Fran just smiled, drinkingly at him. “One day,” he decried. “One day, things will go my way, and the world will know and respect the name Tulip!” To which everyone walking past him laughed at him, poking him in the stomach and calling him names like “flower-boy,” “pansy,” and the ultimate insult… “photosynthesis man.”
Meanwhile, the exclaim still ringing in the ears of those lucky enough to hear it, Tom the Penguin-Fish opened the box, which actually had just a twist-off top that anyone could’ve opened, frustrating The Boss and I until we drank more scotch and then felt better about the whole mess. Inside the box was a note that said, “To find Glengodly, first find The Jovi.”
The Boss cried out “Damn the Jovi!” toward the sky, to which Ferocious refinedly followed up with “Heavens to Betsy!” whatever the hell that means.
“I know, The Boss. I know.” I comforted him, with a pat on the back and a bottle of 16yr Lagavulin. “We’ll get The Jovi. I promise.”
Angry and determined, we ordered Arbitrary Henchman #Knows how to Steer to set a course for Jovi Island; a man-made island 5 miles off the coast of New Jersey where The Jovi lived. No one knew what went on at Jovi Island, only that new albums and music videos, each one worse than the last, continued to come from there... inexplicably mass produced by the Jovi-owned record label, Jovi-Time. It’s been rumored that Jovi-Time is also responsible for polluting the world with albums from Nickelback, but this hasn’t been confirmed. As the ocean breeze breezed us and the S.S. Glen sailed on, The Boss and I waited patiently for Jovi Island to come into our sites.
Friday, February 6, 2009
French Bread and French Fries
It was in that strange oceanic passage to
“The Boss!” The
“Scotch me,” I said drinkingly and then realized that I had said that drinkingly (meaning I was drinking as I spoke, just to clarify) and said never mind. Then I punched myself in the stomach for saying something toolish like ‘scotch me’ in the first place.
The
I took out the foot-long piece of French bread that was leftover from the Meatloaf Raft and began nibbling, which is what a Boss does from time with leftover French bread.
“
CRASH!!! Went the S.S. Glen. CRACKLE!!!! Went the dock. (Not the word for the noises, but that was the actual sound that occurred when we slammed into the dock very loudly and violently.)
The dock of
“What are you doing, The Boss?” The
“Not now, I need full concentration if I’m going to pull this off.” I said back, not taking my eyes off the hallucinated French fry stand.
“Large fries please.” I said to the incredibly attractive girl at the counter.
“That’ll be $4.50,” said the girl, whose nametag read The Ashley. “But I have to make another batch, so it’ll be about 3 minutes okay?”
“That’s fine.” I said drunkingly. “You want anything The Niles?” I turned to ask The Niles, who was busy beating the ever-living-fuck out of the dock owner for having built a dock so close to our approaching ship.
“Four ketchup packets!” He exclaimed mid-ever-living-fuck-beating. I took four ketchup packets from the condiments bar and threw them at his cargo shorts pocket, they went in perfectly. I then drank a bottle of scotch because the word bar made me long for Richey’s.
“Here’s your fries.” The Ashley said and handed me the large order of hot deliciousness.
“Thanks,“ I said and the hallucination disappeared, leaving me standing there with my fries.
“Let’s go find Tom.” Implied The Niles (implied meaning that The Niles didn’t really say anything, but more or less just nodded and moved his eyes in a way that said (to me at least) ‘Let’s go find Tom’).
“You want a French fry?” I implied back by leaning the cup of fries ever so carefully towards him and winking heterosexually. The
“Amazing!” Exclaimed Arbitrary Henchman #86, who had been lurking in the background the entire time. A bum in
What happened next is cloudy, The Niles and I blacked out due to sheer non-belief that an Arbitrary Henchman, especially Arbitrary Henchman #86 would even think about exclaiming in our presence. When we awoke, we were both drinking 21 year Glenlivet in a kiddy pool of Arbitrary Henchman #86’s blood, which sounds like a gruesome scene, but it was actually quite funny at the time. We all had a good laugh about it, even Ferocius – who took a break from the crying to have a chuckle.
So more implications of finding Tom were implicated or implied, fries were eaten, and scotch was of course drunk and drank drunkingly.
“Let’s check the bars.” The
“I have never heard a better idea!” I exclaimed, releasing from the sky a keg of PBR on a family of poor rednecks in central
“C’mon Ferocius!” I shouted, not wanting to waste exclaims on him.
So the three of us went up the road to the El Gracioso Pene bar to see if Tom was whoring about.
As we stepped into the bar we could just tell by the smell – a sort of orange sherbet and green bean aroma – that we were maybe or maybe not in the wrong place. So really the smell overall told us nothing about anything, it was just a strange odor that I thought was worth mentioning.
“It smells like Ferocius’ vagina.” Said The
“Hey! I don’t have a vagina, I have a penis, because I’m a guy – oh, fuck you!” Shouted Ferocius and retreated into a tissue with his tears.
The
“Hey!” Shouted a crusty looking and familiar faced person from behind the bar. “No Xanadu here! Take that Rush shit outside!”
“Why don’t we take you outside!” I shouted, and then I realized that this has been a most violent entry, what with the kiddy pool of blood and whatnot. “Give me a 1926 Macallan Scotch and I won’t beat the ever-living fuck out of you!”
The familiar faced bar keep waddled back and we could see tears welling up in his eyes.
”What a homo, haha.” Said The Niles, referencing the crying, because everyone knows that crying is gay.
“No, I’m not crying because I’m gay – well, I am gay maybe I suppose, or just really confused I think probably – look, only one of two people in the entire world order a scotch like that, and actually expect a bartender to have it on hand, and follow the order by threatening the bartender with having the living fuck beat out of him! The Boss and The
“Tom?” The
“Well jerk me off!” Tom the Penguin-fish shouted.
”Okay, I’ll jerk you off.” Ferocius said sullenly and started walking, head down, toward Tom with a bottle of Jergens.
”Ferocius, he wasn’t serious! You’re gross dude.” The
“I was only partly serious.” Tom said homosexually. “Anyways, what brings you guys to
The
-The Boss
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