Asbestos

Karellen: I have some asbestos insulation in my basement that needs removing. I’ll pay anyone $100 to do the work and will supply a soft red handkerchief for protecting your airways. Who’s up for the job?

Stoney Stone Stoner: Dude, count me in! That’s easy money, brah! Koff! Koff koff! Koff!

Wintermute: When you finish Karellen’s basement, you can come take care of the tunnels under my basement, and my tree house, too. The best commercial bid I have for asbestos remediation work here is pretty steep, what with all the rules and laws and safety and whatnot, so I’m prepared to double Karellen’s offering and pay $200, plus a handkerchief of a color of your own choosing, plus some duct tape to wrap it around your head so you can work with both hands. How’s that grab you?

Stoney Stone Stoner: Whoh, most excellent, dude! Those tunnels totally rock, what with all the grubs and the earthworms and the meat down there!

Karellen: Good man, Stoney! And, you know, asbestosis and mesothelioma normally take 30 to 50 years to manifest after asbestos exposure, so if you plan to be dead by 40 anyway for other reasons, then this is totally the gig for you. It’s basically free money!

Mustapha Mond: I did my own asbestos work. I cut small chunks off and dropped them in the trash every week and nobody was the wiser. Just spray it down with water beforehand and you don’t have to worry about getting a lungful of the stuff.

Karellen: Well, my understanding is that you really have to breathe in asbestos dust frequently to develop a problem. A small occasional exposure won’t do much. In fact, it may even put a little hair on your chest.

Wintermute: Fire retardant hair, at that!

Stoney Stone Stoner: Whoh! Maybe I can add some water and work the dust into paste for my back! I’d totally like to be fire-retardant on both sides! Heh! Koff heh! Koff!

O’Brien: Oh, I can’t believe what I’m hearing here. The truth is that it only takes a single asbestos fiber to form a lesion in your lung. But the fibers are so tiny, and the resulting lesions are so tiny, that it can then take years before it grows to the point where it’s a problem. Don’t mess with this stuff without protection and insurance, Stoney. Seriously.

Stoney Stone Stoner (Checking the Internets): Hey, Overdingles! From what I can find on the web, it seems that you’re not in danger as long as the asbestos is in good shape and you don’t disturb it.

Asbestos: Yeah, that’s right, bitches. Leave me the fuck alone. If I am encapsulated (painted or wrapped), and non-friable (not crumbly), then I’m not a pressing problem if I’m in an area where you don’t go very often. Tiles are the least worry. So just you stay on your floor of the house and I’ll stay on my floor of the house and everyone will be happy. Motherfuckers.

Ossifa Tlinklitniktikutl: That true, but on other hand, if asbestos is exposed to air and crumbly, then fibers are so small that even just walk past them generate enough air current to make them fly about. They get sucked along in wake of you and womenfolk and walrus, and eventually end up everywhere in igloo. This not safe. Ice Marshall come and take womenfolk and walrus, and put you on ice floe alone with no clothes if attempt to remediate asbestos without proper Nunavut license and payments made in seal hides and penis bones.

Drunknard: You guys are all full of shit. When I was a kid we had asbestos sheaths covering the pipes in our basement. I remember swinging around on them with the asbestos dust falling all over the place and I’m perfectly fine. If I were you Overdouches, then I wouldn’t be such a pussy. I’d just go down there with a hefty bag and a crowbar and take care of business. Then I’d use the bandana to wipe my brow when I was done.

Wintermute: I dunno, Drunky, old pal. I’ve heard some of the shit you cough up. You might want to get that looked at.

Drunknard: Do you mean my poems or the green shit that flies out of my mouth?

Wintermute: The green shit. I am pretty sure I saw insulation in there. Or chunks of spleen.

Drunknard: I’m pretty sure the insulation has been buried in the tar from one hitters and Winstons. I’m perfectly safe.

Drunknard’s Spleen: We all good, yo! I think that was stomach linings you saw there.

Drunknard’s Lungs: We’re Drunknard’s lungs and we’re happy as can be! ’cause every day he puts a bunch of weed in we!

Drunknard’s Colon: We’re Drunknard’s guts and we’re happy we can say! ‘cause we gave him quite a firm productive bowel move today!

Drunknard’s Brain: I’m Drunknard’s brain and I just can’t think for nuffin’! ‘cause Drunky’s gone and filled me up with robitussin!

Drunknard’s Liver: I’m Drunknard’s liver, soon your hunger will be sated! You don’t need salt or pepper, ’cause I come pre-marinated!

Redneck Dawg: Wez Drunknarz baws? Kinna snuffsem? Pliz?

Super-Ego vs Super Ego, With Freud and Skinner

Magnum Anvil: Boy, I got a great package in the mail today from Gassy Veal Kitten Randy. His band, Space Chubby, has just put out a new album, and he did the art work on it, and sent the whole thing to me, with a big band poster folded up in the envelope as well. It’s just excellent work, all around. And he just sent it to me because he knew he liked his band, not expecting anything in return. That Randy’s a designer and a rocker with a brain and a heart. And a super-ego.

Sigmund Freud: The super-ego is the section of the mind that regulates the psyche in a constrictive, moralistic manner. And everyone has a super-ego, else they’d be lacking in self restraint entirely. So we must assume that you meant that Mister Gassy Veal has a very strong super-ego, since you found it worth mentioning. A person with such a very strong super-ego would be particularly adept at obeying the moral imperatives instilled by socializing authorities and expressing him or herself only in socially appropriate, flawless etiquette exhibiting behaviors. But I know this is not so in Mister Veal Kitten’s case, having seen him vomiting onstage, and forcibly fondling the band’s roadies after shows, and defecating on my porch after I shooed him and his Real Gorilla off my lawn one morning. Since Mister Kitten Randy does not possess a very strong super-ego, one (and by “one,” I mean “I”) can only assume what you meant to say is that Mr. Gassy Veal is an egomaniac. Alternatively, if you meant to say that Mr. Gassy Randy has a “super,” that is, incredibly powerful ego, you must be the dumbest motherfucker on this board and possibly in the world. Essentially, the ego itself cannot be powerful or powerless, it is merely the balance between the idealistically equilibriated two other facets of the psyche, the super-ego and the id. Now go away, please, so I can snort my coke and smoke my pipe because it reminds me of my father’s penis.

B.F. Skinner: Aw, shut your pie-hole, Freud! Most of your theories have proven unusable, a few therapists clinging to them like their mothers’ teets. You were a product of your time whose tantalizing writings appealed to the prurient interests of a literate, but stupid 19th century middle (and to a certain extent upper) class. The super-ego, according to your worthless ramblings, rules our social selves. Mister Anvil was simply commending Mister Randy for the quality of his work and his seemingly selfless desire to share it. Randy’s work is good for the scene. Case closed. Now . . . break me off a couple of fingers of that coke, me boy!

Magnum Anvil: Wait, then what is an egomaniac, if not someone with a “super” ego?

Sigmund Freud: An egomaniac is essentially a person who has become obsessed with their own self at the expense of their perception of the world around them, i.e. their sympathy and empathy. The balance of their own desires versus their own personal constraints, what might have heretofore been termed a conscience (sic), has become the sole focus of their daily interactions with others. “What can young Gertrude give me?” the egomaniac asks. “Hans must give me his sandwich for I want it,” the egomaniac exclaims. He cannot understand that Gertrude and Hans are outside entities that are not a part of his psyche and therefore must be treated separately and differently. An undifferentiated ego mass, usually fixated in the oral stage of development.

Magnum Anvil: Golly, that sounds sort of familiar. Am I one of those, do you think?

Sigmund Freud: In order to properly assess whether you, Mr. Anvil, are an egomaniac, I would require at least five sessions a week for the next five years. I will smoke my pipe and snort my cocaine with the money you are wasting on me in order that you might project the image of one of you socializing agents onto me. This we will call “projection,” and Skinner can be damned with his scientific methods that produce actual results. I’m only interested in the money, the coke, and the sex with parents. Here . . . have a line. On me.

B.F. Skinner: Not yet, Freud! You’re supposed to make him wait, and then perform, and then ring a bell, before you give him the coke! Haven’t you learned anything after all these years?

Sigmund Freud (Five Minutes Later): Roll over! Ding!

Magnum Anvil: Drool! Drool! Snort! Drool!

Carry On, My Wasted Son

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun.
Har yuo rike me nar?

You pretend to be the nards and the asshats.
Write the jokes about the boobs and the meatflaps.
Posting as your favorite rock stars,
And the Gobrin Shalk.

Egging single doods to their own demises.
Giving unprotected baws some surprises.
Post the Bloorp Bloorp Uh-Oh photo
When it’s time to go.

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun.
Har yuo rike me nar?

Masquerading as vagina dentata.
Drinking far more Aquavit than you oughta.
Getting riled by liberal squishees.
You know. Sexually.

Call in SMART when dooders flirt with the meltdown.
See AJones programming deep ‘neath the downtown.
Random Slutty Grrrl is waiting,
you’d better masturbate.

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun.
Har yuo rike me nar?

Carry on! May you always be lonely!
Carry on! Entertaining us only!
So just type on, Rum Dum Duggins,
Keep esplainin thins.

Carry on, my Wasted son,
Typing when the rest are done.
Talking to yourself is fun
Har yuo rike me nar?

Upstatetherville

Nibbling on fatback, nuts in our nut sacks,
looking at work that should not be ignored,
We’ve crawled from our bed sheets, to come work on spreadsheets,
but leave them to wait while we visit the Board.

Wasted at play again in Upstatetherville,
On the man’s dime, posting pictures all day
Some dooders cuss that there’s no biddies for us,
so we can’t, get the tuckus in play.

From stateworker flunky to Fucking Sucks Monkey
to baw-wicking dawg and to Albany Jones
we pile on the drivel, as work output shrivels
and get nothing done ‘fore it’s time to go home.

Wasted at play again in Upstatetherville,
On the man’s dime, Yarrr, it’s Pirate Raccoon
Some dooders pause to check out Sloth Bear’s big claws
or to wish, someone else would post soon.

We blow up our livers, suck asbestos slivers,
Cough up some spleens, post some pictures of b00bs
We stew in our hating, and save our berating
for incoming innocent sensitive noobs.

Wasted at play again in Upstatetherville,
On the man’s dime, find a job for McFlig
Some dooders moan that we’re all sad and alone
just because, no one comes to our gigs.

Despergaven

despergaven
why dont you come to yr senses?
you been up cleaning lenses
for so long now
oh, you’re a hard one
and i know that you got the k hearts
but that band’s got some spare parts
that you should not allow

don’t you draw the king of muppets, boy
he’ll banjo if he’s able
you know the bald and husky ones are your best bets
and it seems to me, some fine things
have been laid upon your table
but with troy around, they’re things you’ll never get

despergaven
your hands smell like muppet rectum,
your band and the spectrum,
they’re dragging you down.
and freedom? oh freedom,
well, that’s too abstract for drummers
just let the singers and strummers
tell you what they have found.

don’t your hands get cold in the movie booth?
the sun don’t shine there and that’s the truth
in dark room light, the night looks like the day
you’re loosin’ all your grooves and licks
ain’t it funny how your talent slips
away?
away?

despergaven
why don’t you come to your senses?
drop your prog rock pretenses,
and open the gate.
the parking monkeys
sit in the box there above you
dont let that delmar dad shove you
come home and give us some hate.

Johnnie F’s Soliloquy from “Song of the Second Shift”

Johnnie F: I’d love to tell you about the women. My women. That is, the women that are kind enough to sleep with me. Or cruel enough, anyway.

But I’m not interested in the women. Because I’m a drunk. And who wants to hear what a drunk has to say?

Now, a drunken skirt chaser? That’s the kind of self confidence that we’d all like to dabble in. I, however, like the rest of you, have only dabbled in the fantasy. And I’m lying. I’m not even Johnnie F. Except that I am.

But what does that matter? Because there have been many, many women. At first, it was just a contest with myself. To see if I could do it. Hell, I was 21 when I had my first. But then there seemed to be a streak. I’ve been hoping it would end for some time now. But I seem to keep having the luck. The luck or the skill, I’m not sure which.

And what bothers me about it is I wonder: who’s taking advantage of whom? Am I being exploited? By them? By society? Because, let’s be honest, I hardly ever enjoy the actual climax. No, it’s definitely the chase for me that’s important. I get off on it. Or at least, I think I do.

Women can’t help it. They’re drawn to my ‘creativity’. Truth is, I’m not all that creative. I haven’t written a story in years. And yet, based on my past record and the contacts I’ve made, they all think I’m brilliant.

So what is a man to do whose only purpose is, after all, to chase women and money? Money I don’t have, and can’t get anymore. I’ve been dry for years; no one’s buying my stories, no one’s giving me royalties. But the skirts, they keep paying off.

But when I stop enjoying them, what’s a man to do? I suppose I could start writing about them, telling you about my women. But that would just serve to artificially raise this creative block I’ve been having, and to tell you the truth, I don’t lack the integrity not to, if you can understand that. Poopshoot boogie.

The way I see it, the women like the gentle abuses of neglect and inattention. The minute you’re nice to a woman and focused completely on her, that’s when she’ll give up and stop loving you. Not that a woman has ever actually loved me, if one did I’d put a ring on her finger in a second.

A woman without that edge of insult from her man is like a nut without salt on it. Like a cake without frosting. Better yet, like white bread that someone tells you is a cake. Legs don’t part without a little command and control.

Don’t get me wrong, that doesn’t mean I’m in favor of it. I believe, somewhere deep in my heart that I can’t find, that women are just as smart and able as men. It’s just that when it comes to my dealings with them, I can’t act that way. Because all their lives most women have been told that they’re not equal to men, and women, just like all humans, love to believe what they’ve been told all these years. Otherwise the struggle won’t be worth it. Better yet there will be no struggle, there will only be boredom.

And when it comes to women, I’m always on. Which means I have to be anything except boring. Even if I’m silent, or pensive, that gives them the impression that they’re somehow being insulted. It gives them whatever impression they’re looking for. But overall, when you’re being silent, it’s most important that you don’t look incompetent. Look lost in thought, look deep, look off into the distance. But don’t look tired. And don’t look disinterested entirely. Women need to know that you’re interested in something, especially if it’s not them.

And when you’re done with that; be honest with them. Let them know that you need them. Let them know that this has all been a farce; that your whole life is a farce when their companionship is absent–because after all it’s the truth. This whole charade has been carried out for their benefit. But you have to let them in behind the curtain just enough that the red velvet is on their thigh. Then you move in for the kill.

And that, my friends, is how you rack up the points. Whether or not you want the act, the points are what will count when you’re telling your life story. And right now, that’s what I’m doing. And if you want more, I’ll be back tomorrow. And if you don’t, I’ll know. I can convince you that I know, at least. So there’s that.

Art Talk: Hardy Party with the Overlords

O’Brien: I just finished reading “Jude the Obscure,” which may be the saddest book I’ve ever read.

Karellen: “Jude” isn’t sad, O’Brien. It’s one of the great comedic works of the English language, a veritable chuckle-fest from start to stop, if you find despair amusing, as I do. Plus, Hardy teaches an interesting lesson about women. Stay away from the mousy intellectuals; stick with the farm girls.

Mustapha Mond: I read “Tess of the d’Urbervilles,” and that was more than enough Hardy for one lifetime. He’s right up there with Dickens for writing soap opera drivel, as far as I’m concerned. Anybody want a watercress sandwich? I made a big old batch last tonight, so there’s plenty to go around.

Karellen: After having read “Tess,” I also read “Jude,” and “Jude” is indeed much, much better. Why young English majors are forced to read the former rather than the latter is just stupid, a true testament to the idiocy that leaks out of the ivory tower like dirty, smelly, pretentious pus. Mmmm . . . say, Mustapha, these are some good watercress sandwiches! I love the way you cut them in squares, diagonally, without the crusts. Well done, sir!

Wintermute: I actually chose to read “Jude the Obscure” after reading “The Mayor of Casterbridge.” So something drove me back. It’s pretty soap opera, yeah, but not so much drivel to me. It did have a list of mixed lessons at the end, none of which were clear: should we condemn society for creating a world where the mousy intellectual has no place in it? Or condemn the mousy intellectual for refusing to find a place in modern society. The farm girl (Arabella) was just as bad in her own way. Her presence begged the question of whether we are better off with the commonsensical farm girl or the mousy intellectual. Should you choose to do well and stay within your class or make the leap to another class and get thru all the suffering that ensues? The other important question was whether you are better believing in the God of the church and following the rules set forth, or following a code that you develop yourself based on your observations and views on the topic. Based on the ending, Hardy seems to tell you that it doesn’t matter one fat rat’s ass what you do. You go from one miserable situation to another. Then you waste away all by yourself.

O’Brien: That’s what I mean about being the saddest book I’ve ever read. Well, that and the fact that I have moved the time it took me to read it closer to death, with nothing much to show for my effort. The way I see it . . .

Wintermute: Shutup, O’Brien, I’m not done. So, for me, I guess the big unresolved question is: does the wasting away occur because society has no place accepting those who cannot live within its norms or is it because society should open up to new ideas and create a world where ways of doing things that are outside of the norms are accepted? Should Jude have changed himself or should society have changed to accommodate Jude? Or is the tragedy simply inevitable seeing as neither of the individual nor society really could change these aspects of themselves that differed without losing their fundamental nature?

O’Brien: Well, I think that it’s all a matter of . . .

Karellen: O’Brien! Zip it! We’re talking about Thomas Hardy here! Let the big boys speak, and you be a good fellow and go make us all some tea to go with these delicious watercress sandwiches that Mustapha brought us. Off with you! Chop chop! Go! Now, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted by that silly little Overlord? Oh, yes . . . those are all good points, Wintermute. There’s also the division of the intellect (let’s call it potential) to the body (let’s call it kinetic), and the inevitable subjugation of the former to the latter, by necessity. Or something. Pass me the chutney there, will you?

Wintermute: Here you go, Karellen. These truly are some great watercress sandwiches, Mustapha! Bravo! So, anyway, Arabella is the worse of the two women, the way I see it, being the calculating, manipulative one, but one is hard pressed to hold her responsible for that, given that she is subject to the same (well, differently, actually, but all part of the same larger structure) social restrictions/necessities. Her friends give her the advice of getting preggers, and getting her man that way, but that’s just the reality of the farm girl. In the end, it’s not the women who spell the downfall of Jude, but the conflict between what he would be ideally and that of which he is capable. He could, of course, stay in his attic, learning Latin, but the girl flashes him a smile and all that is physical about him trumps his intellectual pursuits, and soon enough, he’s beat. He can’t help it, because he’s not this purely intellectual being, but instead one possessed of intellect in conflict with desire, folly and physical need. I say “folly,” of course, which has its origins in “fool,” but that is not right. It’s not to indicate that his fall into the arms of a farm girl (or any other, for that matter) is the result of his own failing, but rather the natural, human desire to not spend the rest of one’s life in alone an attic, studying Latin. And, also, by “physical necessity,” I don’t just mean “poon-tang” (is that actually hyphenated? I don’t know), but also the basic needs of a job, food, shelter, etc. Which is what Arabella was dealing with as well. She gots to get hers, namsain?

Karellen: “Poontang” is a little too Motor City Madman for my tastes, Wintermute. I prefer “pussy.” Otherwise, you’re spot on target.

O’Brien: Tea?

The Gospel of Rock

Magnum Anvil: Little known fact, but Jesus Christ was documented as being a truly ace guitarist. Seriously! I looked it up! In the lost scripture known as the Extended-Adolescence Codex, Jesus chucks his day gig as a bazaar magician (“Hey, Paul, wanna watch me pull some loaves and fishes outta my hat?”) to hit the road with his band. They were called Nazareth, until they found out there was another band of that name, so they changed it to Nazareth UK. They were only so-so. Typical oasis band of the time. Decent shofar player, though, and Jesus really threw himself into it. Got a reputation as the hardest-working man in the biz. He’d play till his palms bled (his feet and side, too, which was weird). Graffiti started cropping out in the Roman outposts: “Jesus is God,” and the like. Chicks would swoon, and even the guys would brawl to touch the hem of his garment. There was a thriving trade in fake souvenirs–the platform sandals, the Shroud of Touring, etc–before he pulled a G.G. Allin and croaked it during a piece of performance art with a bunch of people looking on incredulously, wondering why he wouldn’t just shred and sing that “Do Unto Others” song that everybody liked so much. What a waste of talent, verily, verily. Yeah, Jesus really was the (Son of) Man, man.

Hoverounds on the Normanskill

O’Brien: As I age and get more prosperous, the idea of riding around on an electric vehicle becomes increasingly attractive to me. Not a golf cart or a hybrid Toyota Deathwagon, mind you, but something more nimble. Like a Hoveround. Those really speak to me, and they sure are well-marketed. The ending of the most famous Hoveround commercial shows two elderly women in their Hoverounds at the edge of the Grand Canyon, implying that being wheelchair bound need not limit your enjoyment of life, even of the rugged outdoors. It’s right up there with the Clapper and “I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up” commercials among the geriatric set. I’d do anything to look as happy as those two old ladies did.

Karellen: I never perceived that commercial that way at all, O’Brien. I saw it as two elderly women in their Hoverounds at the edge of the Grand Canyon, trying to kill themselves, and foiled once again because their Hoverounds can’t climb fences. It sucks getting old and not being able to do stuff.

Stoney Stone Stoner: Whoh, dude, I love that commercial! Except it doesn’t show how the whole story ends, with the two old ladies holding each others’ hands and gunning their Hoverounds right into the Grand Canyon, Thelma and Louise style—except they fly right over the motherfucker, because those things can HOVER! Awesome, yo! Heh! Heh heh! Heh!

Karellen: Nice reaction time, there, Stoney. I’d already delivered a punchline to O’Brien’s opening. Now what the hell are we supposed to do with this piece?

O’Brien: Perhaps we could hold a vote on which one we like better?

Wintermute: Well, I like the frustrated suicidal old ladies trying to drive their Hoverounds through the fence better than the frustrated flying suicidal old ladies. It’s more pathetic, and that makes me laugh, because I find other people’s suffering humorous.

Mustapha Mond: I concur. Trying to commit suicide and being stymied is much better than going into the canyon.

Stoney Stone Stoner: No, dude, you don’t get it . . . they don’t go INTO the canyon, they go OVER the canyon! Because those things can HOVER! That’s gotta be worth something! They’re still stymied, just in a different way! Although I have to say, brah, the imagery of them getting caught up in the fence is pretty fuckin’ funny, yo.

Mustapha Mond (Frying Stoney Stone Stoner’s brainstem like bacon): Zzzzzzzzttttttt!!!

Stoney Stone Smeagol: Sssssss . . . . pass us that remotes, precious. Is times for Mutuals of Omaha’s Wild Kingdomses, sssss. Tricksy Overdouches. Sssss.

Mustapha Mond: Yes, I definitely like the crashing into the fence version better. Although they can’t get tangled up in it, since that implies them being able to generate some speed and power. They just have to drive into it slowly, bounce off, back up just as slowly and then drive into it again, over and over, without ever making a dent. I could watch that for two hours straight, easy. Someone get me Upstate Ether Central Casting! We got a film to make!

Upstate Ether Central Casting: Aw, guys? How about we substitute the Normanskill Ravine for the Grand Canyon, huh? We got some budget issues here, you know?

Wintermute: Yeah, the Normanskill could work. Because then if they did, by chance, break through and plummet over the edge, it still might not kill them. That really ups the impotence factor a lot.

Karellen: Speaking of impotence, what about if we replace the old ladies with O’Brien? He already wants to have a Hoveround, so that eliminates the need to convince him to sit in one. And old ladies can be tough to work with . . .

Wintermute: There’s got to be two of them on the Hoverounds, though. So they can get out of synch, and as one backs up, the other hits the fence, and you would keep thinking “Oh my God, if they could just hit the fence at the same time, then they might actually break through!” Only when they do get their shit lined up that way, it still doesn’t make a difference. So who should drive the other Hoveround, if we put O’Brien in one?

O’Brien: Thanks, guys! That would be great! I always wanted to be in the movies!

Karellen: Oh, Christ, O’Brien, this isn’t supposed to make you happy. So you’re out, you idiot. Now we need two Hoveround pilots . . .

Mustapha Mond: I’ve got it!!! How about our two favorite gibbering junkie hobo types, Louie Shakes and Ol’ Dirty Piece of Strange! We could get them obliterated on the drugs of their choices, and then send ‘em into the fence. You know we’d get some great ravings for dialog out of that, too. Oh, man. I know I would pay Hoyt’s movie ticket and snack prices to watch 90 minutes of footage of Ol’ Dirty and Louie Shakes stoned on Hoverounds trying to drive through a fence into the Normanskill.

Stoney Stone Smeagol: Hehs! Hehs hehs! Ssss hehs!! Thats would be the funniestsests, preciouses. Smeagol would put down remotes and leaves sofa to watch that one with nice, funny, friendly Overdouches. Yes!! Happy Smeagols! See him capers as Hoveroundses crashes into fences! Hehs! Hehs hehs, Smeagol says!

Karellen: See? The stoner crowd would totally eat that up! Brilliant, Mustapha! And that wouldn’t take much, from a budget standpoint: $150 for camera rental, $100 for film, $250 for film processing, $300 for the rental of two Hoverounds, $100 for enough hootch and rock to render Ol’ Dirty and Louie Shakes raving looney tunes. Results? Priceless!!

Upstate Ether Central Casting: Uh, guys? How about we go digital, and borrow the camera, to save a little scratch, huh? Film and processing is expensive, you know? And that hand-held video look is all the rage now among the Pretentious Arthaus Klown set anyway. This could be the next “Blair Witch Project,” and would leave us some margin on the books. Can we go that route, big guys? Thanks for considering it! You’re the best!

Stoney Stone Smeagol: Sssss! Yesss! Digitals!!! That’s leaves more money for preciouses weeeeeeeds!! Yes!! Sees Smeagol caperses with delightssses! Hehs hehs!

Karellen: Well, I guess that would work, what with the skyrocketing price of good weed and whatnot. Remember when we were kids and there were such things as nickel bags? Those were the days, when you could collect your tips from your paper route every week and go buy a little bag to get you warm after hauling all the Sunday papers. Kids just don’t have it the same these days. Although, I guess looking back, a high school diploma might have been worth more than all of those nickel bags.

Wintermute: I can remember a period in my life at college where pot was so plentiful people were turning down anything that was “shake” (broken bud with bits of stem and seeds mixed in). “I only smoke bud” meant you were high class, a real connoisseur.

O’Brien: Say, that reminds me, does anyone know what a “lid” is, in pot terms? An older relative of mine used to refer to buying “lids”, but I never knew what he was talking about.

Guy Who Esplains Thins: A lid is the round, flattish thing you cover a pot with to prevent food or water from splashing out while cooking.

Stoney Stone Smeagol: Ssssss! Noes!! Fat, stupid Guy Who Esplianses Thins is always wrongses! Stupid, fats Guy!! Ssss!! A lidses is amounts of loose weeds that Smeagol can hold in lid of Prince Albertses tobacco canses. Ssss!! What stupid, fat Guy is describeseses is not lidsesesses. What stupid, fat Guy describes is called ELP recordses!!!

O’Brien: Hmmm . . . I’ve heard of EP and LP records, but what’s an ELP record?

Karellen: It means “Extra Long Play” record. Or at least it feels that way when you’re forced to listen to it, and you can’t get your Hoveround through the fence to escape.

Methematics

Q: Louie Shakes walked north 17 blocks and west 13 blocks to his ex-wife’s apartment in Brooklyn. He stole $65.00 from the bitch’s crib, where he also did $217.89 in damage jimmying the door open, which she had to finance on her credit card at 19.75% APR. Louie then set off to score some crystal meth from Stoney Stone Smeagol. It cost Louie $4.00 for a bus ticket from his ex-wife’s to Stoney’s apartment, $21.60 for the porno mag, smokes and pizza he bought while waiting for Smeagol to show, $30.90 for the rock itself, and $2.90 for a blowjob from a desperate crack whore he met in the stairwell on the way out. She gave him a 40% discount because she couldn’t actually get him off. He then met some brothers throwing dice in Williamstown. Louie bet the money he had leftover from his score, and made a 215% profit. He gave half of this to the cop who busted the game and threatened to haul them all downtown. How much money did Louie Shakes take home?

A: Zero, because Louie Shakes does not have a home. But the wad of crumpled bills and change he had in his pocket after his very busy day bought him a Slim Jim (Tabasco flavored), a pickled egg, and two bottles of Thunderbird from Abudinemadji’s Corner Market in Queens, and he later found a recycling bin filled with nice, clean, fresh newspaper, on which he laid his weary head at 3:00 that morning, a sweet smile of satisfaction and success on his weather-lined, dirt-stained face. It was Louie Shakes’ best day ever! At least until the night-horrors came.