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.