Bord Ded. Bin Gud.
Charles Darwin: Look: if you’re a guy, then the only thing that matters in life is the fucking. For millions of years you have evolved to put your prong in a moist warm place and leave your seed there, then move on. The marrying, the dating, the art, the music, the jobs, all that stuff, that’s just secondary to the fucking. Those are the things you need to do in order to get to the fucking. It’s different for women because they have evolved to carry a baby in their belly and breastfeed it long after you have gone. They’ve got investment. And if they choose to use the modern science of pills and prophylactics to keep from filling their evolutionary role, then that’s their business. But that doesn’t change your business, my male friends, which is the fucking. You need to leave your seed, even if the recipient has created a chemical cocktail in her nether parts designed to destroy it. That’s her problem. Not yours. So if you aren’t doing the fucking on a regular basis, then your life is without meaning or point. You might as well kill yourself now, and release the seawater inside you so that it may be used by someone who will actually satisfy his evolutionary prerogative.
O’Brien: I was wondering what my life was all about. Thanks for cluing me in. The meaning of life is the fucking. Well, then. Who knew?
Charles Darwin: Don’t misquote me, O’Brien. I never mentioned life having meaning. Life has no meaning. It has purpose. And that purpose is the spreading of the genetic material. Also known as the fucking.
O’Brien: Does pleasuring one’s self to pictures of moist warm places count?
Charles Darwin: No. The LORD was right to punish Onan for spilling his seed. The pleasuring of the self is not the fucking. It is the wasting.
The LORD: That’s right. Ka-POW! Consider yourself smited.
Charles Darwin: Consider . . . if you had a choice: would you live in a little ragged hut by yourself with just enough food to live on and get to have your way with three different women every day, or have a nice house in the suburbs with a wife and three kids and a pension and get laid once a month? Be honest with yourselves now. Tap that lizard brain.
O’Brien: Honestly? I think if I lived in the ragged little hut, I’d get sick of the women after a couple of days and want to look at online porn by myself, so I’m going to have to pick the suburbs option. And I suspect I’m not alone.
Zorax, Master of the Obvious: Whether life has meaning or life has purpose is a meaningless distinction. Life simply is. And let me tell you all, especially you, Charles Darwin: the fucking is over-rated, and O’Brien has touched on an essential truth with his choice. You can live a long and satisfying life without the fucking, especially in an era of unlimited pornography on demand, all the time. No, the truest, deepest pleasure in life comes from the shitting. Nothing satisfies more than a good, solid bowel movement. Any one of us can go without the fucking indefinitely. But see what happens if you try to go without the shitting. Everything you work for and achieve in life is not about the fucking, because we have evolved to the point where we’re selfish pigs who don’t actually care about our spawn, but is instead about the shitting. You have arrived as a human when you have a nice, clean, private, sanitary place to deposit your feces, unrushed, unmolested, unwatched. So forget the fucking, and embrace the shitting. This is what gives life its focus, meaning and purpose. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s a bran muffin explosion in my immediate future. Is there any of the fucking in yours? I didn’t think so. QED. Zorax, out.
Charles Darwin: Yeah, that’s what I meant to say. Survival of the Shittest. On The Origin of Feces. Right. I stand corrected. Darwin, out.
The LORD: “Darwin, out?” Oh, you jest, Charlie. You’re a funny little man. I’ma send Lucifer down to stick a fork in you to see if you’re done yet, and I suspect he’ll find you need at least another 50,000 years of broiling. Then we can talk about “out.”
Charles Darwin: Shit.
(Script for the Pilot Episode of BET’s Next Smash Hit)
Jesus (in Hell): Yo, yo, yo homies! Jay-zoose in the Hell-zoose! Walkin’ on the Cocytus, easy peasy, just like on Galilee! Just poppin’ in for a surprise visit, peeps! Gonna go rip the gates off the Burning City of Dis just for grins and giggles, ‘cause I like to watch them uptight union devils having to rebuild them without any overtime or holiday pay every time I come down here and tear ‘em up. Keep it real, eternally damned peeps! Jesus loves ya! Peace out!
Satan (in Hell): Yo, JC, whatcha doin’ down here? Damn, brah, I ain’t seen you since ought seven! Yo, why you always gotta come down here, mess up the gates of the Burning City of Dis, and then rush off? Why don’tcha stay awhile and let’s grill us up some tasty souls?! C’mon, I’ll fire up the new husky-sized George Foreman I got, and we’ll get all barbecued up in this here Malebolge! This Foreman’s so huge you could feed all your apostles in one sizzizzle!
Jesus (in Hell): Yo, good to see you, Lucifizzle, word! You lookin’ sharp! Been workin’ out? Keepin’ it real? Hey, uh, sure, I could stand a couple slices of some grilled souls, that sounds good. But you know, nothin’ personal, my brother, but if anyone from Upstairs pops in, then I gotta do the whole “Get thee behind me” schtick while I’m down here, lest my Pops’ll get all up in my shit, namsain?
Satan (in Hell): I got your back, brother.
Jesus (in Hell): Thanks, brah. Good to know that you’re lookin’ out for me and you won’t make waves with my Pops. He can be tough, y’know . . .
Satan (in Hell): Nah brah, forget that shit, I ain’t bootlickin’ for anybody from Upstairs in my own damn crib. What I meant was: I got your back. Right here! Look at this choice cut of meat I just carved off the flip side of one them sizzlin’ lardasses down there in the glutton’s pit!
Fred “Rerun” Berry (making a cameo appearance in Hell): Hay, HAY, Hay! OUCCCCHH!!!!!! AIGGGGGGHHHH!!! AIIEEEEEEE!!!!!!
Everyone: Ahhhh ha ha ha ha!!! Ha ha ha!!! Ahhhh ha ha!
Jesus (in Hell): Ah, got it!! Yeah, that’s some nice lookin’ fatback for sure, thanks, brah. Thanks for cookin’ it up for me. I usually try to cook with 93% fat free souls, but they don’t really work that well on the grill.
Satan (in Hell): Oh man, that’s just lame, Jesubibble. You need that fat to give your food taste! Damn, son, I figured after that 40 days in the wilderness thing that I put you through, you’d know better than to deny yourself again. Mmmm . . . yeah, that’s gonna crisp up real nice on the Foreman!! Mmm mmm!! Yo, step back there, JC. You don’t want to be breathin’ in this smoke here, what with your weak lungs and everything. You know how you get if you have an asthma attack, right?
George Jefferson (making a cameo appearance in Hell): Weezie!!!
Everyone: Ah ha ha!! Ha ha!!! Ahh ha ha ha ha ha!!!
Jesus (in Hell): Hey Beelzibbibble, I been meaning to ask you: What’s up with all the ball sacs hangin’ off of the trees down in the suicide circle? You best not let my Pops see that. He don’t like it when you start making up new punishments without running it by him and shit. My lips are sealed, but just watch your back, yo.
Satan (in Hell): I’m watchin’ your back, JC! I’m watchin’ it cook! Look at it sizzle! Oh man, I sure am glad your old man made gluttony a sin!! But, serious, how come he’s gotta be so hard on me down here? I mean, I got the prime contract from Heaven GmbH to provide the eternal punishments for the next 10 millennia, so why he gotta micromanage and tell me what I can and can’t do all the time? Damn, next time contracts are up, I’ma tack on another five points if him and Gabriel don’t stop comin’ down here and tellin’ me how to run my shop!
Jesus (in Hell): Yo, you know how it is with my Pops. He’s all uptight about bein’ in charge, and makin’ all the peeps follow all those damn Leviticus rules and whatnot. I can’t even keep ’em straight, yo. It’s like, “Whoa, am I supposed to smite this sodomite, or this chick who’s on the rizzag while she’s in my kitchen, or both of ’em?” Just roll with it, man. He don’t notice if you don’t make waves.
The LORD (on the intercom, over a human beatbox rhythm track): Who’s balls be these, that hang from thine suicide trees, that scratchin’ need of there be? What nuts of which thou speaks are these, that art forever to swing, from the hell’s bowels without permission from me?!!!
Satan (in Hell): DEEZE NUTS!!!! Ah ha ha ha ha ha!!! I been waitin’ years to be able to say that!!!! Ah ha ha ha ha!!!
Baal (in Hell): Ah, wow, Satan! You done smacked that ass now!
Pan (in Hell): Yeah, Satan!! You tell him!! I got your back!!
Belial (in Hell): Yeah, that comeback’s gonna start a new revolution! Fire up the Foremans! Tonight we eat the unbaptized babies! Hell’s yeah!
Snoop Dogg (making a cameo appearance in Hell, with a subpoena): Yo, mizzle Devizzle. Mah lawyers will be callin’ at your cribbizzle in the morizzle to discuss the infringizzle copyrizzle. Spizzle wizzle.
Everyone: Awwwwwwwww . . . . .
Jesus (in Hell): Yo, Pops, it’s all good. I was mistaken. They’re not ball sacs at all. They’re just Me-mas decorations that Satan hung up, givin’ me all the Glory and everything. Don’t worry ’bout comin’ down to check it out. Everything’s good. I’ll be home right after dinner. Tell Moms I love her, aight?
The LORD: Well thou hast said, son. And thou art trusted, as none other is. For thou art mine only son, which I gave for the world, despite all your, uh, shall we say, flaws. Now, seriously, yo mama’s cookin’ one hell of a steak up in dis griz-ell, so get yo’ ass on up here!
Jesus (in Hell): Aw, Pops, why you gotta talk like that? That’s weird when you drop into vernacular that way.
The LORD: What, you think just ‘cause I’m old I don’t know how to ‘chill with my peeps’? I can still ‘get down’ with the young people! I’m cool like James Earl Jones, only I’m omniscient, for My sake! Gimme some skin!
Jesus (in Hell): Dad, you’re embarrassing me! Cut it out! I’ma have some fatback down here with Satan tonight, aight? Tell Moms I’ll have leftover steaks with her tomorrow. Love you, Pops!
The LORD: Me dammit, we are not amused at being stood up for dinner! All I can say is you’d better mess those gates of the City of Dis up something fierce if you’re gonna make your mother go through all that effort for nothing. Where’s the Holy Ghost? Maybe we’ll have him over tonight instead . . .
The Holy Ghost (materializes in Hell): Boo! Boogity boogity boo!!! Boo-yah!
Satan (in Hell): Ahh! Don’t sneak up on me like that, The Holy Ghost! Damn!! How many times I gotta tell you that?!?!
The Holy Ghost (in Hell): Aw man, that’s so funny to see the look on your face when I do that!!! That one never gets old!!! Hey, you got some extra traitor ribs on that grill I can have?
Satan (in Hell): Yeah, but they’re not fresh. JC’s Pops always makes me freeze the traitors before I serve ‘em. It’s in the contract. Here you go, hand me a paper plate, I’ll slide you some.
The Holy Ghost (in Hell): Whoh, whoh, whoh! I said I said I wanted some ribs, Satan!!! Don’t be tryin’ to slide fatback onto my plate, punk. Don’t forget, you work for Heaven GmbH. Try to pawn off fatback as ribs with me again, and I’ll make sure you never get another contract in this town!
Mary Magdalene (out back at the clothesline, in Hell): Is that Jesus I hear over there? What? You come all the way down here, Jesus, and all you do is go barbecue with the Lord of the Fries? What about me? You got no time to come see your babies’ mama no more? I tell you what, Jesus, John the Baptist’s gettin’ tired of payin’ for baby formula, namsain? You gotta get with the Fathership program. Ask your Pops how it’s done, aight?
Satan (in Hell): Mmmm, mmm, mmmm . . . that Mary Magga Dagga still one hot SILF!!! That mean “Soul I’d Like to Fu— . . .”
Jesus (in Hell): Get that thought behind me, Satan!!! I don’t talk about Missus Scratch and her six spectacular goat breasts, so you leave Mary Magdalene alone, got it? Wait, Maggie! Wait! You actually want me to ask my Dad about Fatherhood? Okay, here goes: Hey Pops, ‘member when you got all up in mama’s grill then didn’t even call her? I mean, you got this legion of angels, and all you do is send down Gabriel, like a total of, oh, let’s see, once. Shit, Maggie, cut me a break. At least I stuck around for 30-something years.
Gary “Arnold Drummond” Coleman (making a cameo appearance in Hell): What’choo talkin’ ’bout, Jesus?!?!
Everyone: Ahhhhh!!! Ha ha ha ha!!!! Ahhh ha ha!!! Ha ha ha ahhh!!!!
The LORD: I was too busy watching over the smallest sparrow to be able to spend all of my time with your mom, Jesus, you know that. Plus someone has to bring home the ribs around here, and after my work schedule, I just want to come home and veg out on the Play Station for a while. She’s just lucky that I had Gabriel and all the other archangels around to watch out for her. Most women would be happy with that kind of arrangement. Plus, I never bitched any about the whole Joseph the Carpenter thing, now did I? I think I get some major tolerance points there.
Joseph the Carpenter (in Hell): What tolerance? When I died, you sent me down here, where there’s an army of devils lined up with ball peen hammers and nails, each one of which gets driven through my sturdy plank, namsain? That was tolerance?
The Holy Ghost (in Hell): Hey hey hey! If I wanted all this domestic drama, I’d be watchin’ “Beaches” right now, bitches. But I don’t. What I want is some RIBS!! NOW!!!! Don’t make me bring down the fires of Heaven GmbH and get y’all floppin’ around on the floor and speakin’ in tongues and shit!! Don’t MAKE me do that!!
Satan (Flopping around on the floor in Hell): Om gevveibble ganna takka!!! Meshondrevanna honndagga tommagonaam!!! Naka mescotolomia eppehsussivua!!
The Holy Ghost (in Hell): See, I TOLD you I was gonna make you flop and babble if I didn’t get my RIBS!!! Now quit shaking and get grillin’! I ain’t kiddin’ around anymore!!!! Damn. You just can’t get good contractors to do the The LORD’s work anymore since Noah and Sons went belly up after the Great Gopherwood Blight. Those were the days, when we could make a demand and, hey presto, chop chop, shit got DONE!!! Ah well, speaking of getting shit done . . . hey, Jesus! You know what would make it easier for you to tear down those gates at the Burning City of Dis?
Jesus (in Hell): Nah, I dunno, The Holy Ghost. What would make it easier?
Jimmie “J.J.” Walker (making a cameo appearance in Hell): Dy-no-MITE!!!!
Everyone: Ah ha ha! Ha ha! Ah ha ha ha ha!!!
Bumblefuck Kid: I got a record by a band called Black Flag from my older brother who went to a hardcore show up in Albany once. There was an insert in there to purchase some SST records. I bought some records by bands called The Minutemen, Husker Du, Dinosaur, and the Meat Puppets. Then I went to my school computer (we have the internets here in Bumblefuck County) and I looked up other bands with my friend Bumblefuck Sue. We started an awesome duo influenced by this kickass band we heard on Garageband called Flat Duo Jets, and are in the process of recording our first record. It’s an indigent musical exploration of the Beirut sewers in the 1980’s by a young girl named Pip. Expect to be charmed, disillusioned, tickled pink and nauseated. Will Pip ever live up to her dreams of marrying a wealthy Frenchman, or will she succumb to the undeniable desires that lie in her bosom of becoming a sensitive lesbian folksinger? Find out for yourself, as soon as we finish it!
Wintermute: Did you spend a lot of time in Beirut in the 1980s? It was a lovely place to be an Overlord at that point. So many grubs. So many earthworms. I tingle at the memory!
Bumblefuck Kid: No, I’ve never been to Beirut. It’s kind of like how Barry Gibb was never in New York, but he still wrote a heart-rending ballad about a mining disaster there, that took place in 1941, five years before he was born. Actually, truth be told, I don’t know where Beirut is. But I know a lot about a little girl named Pip with whom I share a heart.
Wintermute: That’s fascinating, this not going someplace but writing about it. Have you ever actually been a girl named Pip? Because sharing a heart, that’s just got to be hard.
Bumblefuck Kid: It is, Mister Wintermute, it is! Sometimes I just start crying and I have no idea why. And then I get these conflicted urges to make love to wealthy Frenchman even though I know I should be marrying a beautiful woman. Truth is, wealthy Frenchmen make me sick. But, who knows, marrying one might get me more access to the beautiful women I so want to make love to. Until my wealthy French husband finds out and has me castrated, anyway.
Wintemute: Let’s imagine what it might be like, being with a Frenchman, shall we? Is he gentle with you? Does he have strong hands or facial hair? Pets? Will he allow you to pursue your musical career, or will your debut album also be your swan song? Also, how many beautiful women will we be able to access?
Bumblefuck Kid: No, I don’t want to imagine such things. You don’t seem to understand that I’m talking about a real girl named Pip that lives inside my heart. She communicates with me in a language I cannot understand, the language of love. And she is real. You might want to talk to me when I’m having one of my seizures.
Wintermute: Lives in your heart? I’m confused. Did you eat this little girl? And if so, then why haven’t you just pooped her out? Please explain.
Bumblefuck Kid: I didn’t swallow her. I don’t know how she got in there. I think a psychiatrist implanted her while I was under hypnosis. Either that or during my electroshock treatment to cure my homosexuality.
Wintermute: So Pip is a lesbian?
Bumblefuck Kid: She doesn’t know it yet, but yeah, she’s definitely a lesbian. I know because she’s really into Boyskout.
Wintermute: When you’re on the couch, you have to watch their busy hands, don’t you?
Bumblefuck Kid: Well, when I was hypnotised and undergoing shock therapy, I don’t really remember much. I just know that I’m less crazy now.
Wintermute: And, yet, you have a little vagina in your heart. I’m intrigued. Tell me how that informs your songwriting.
Bumblefuck Kid: Sometimes, especially on this album we’re working on, the vagina really comes through. Then I start to write about stupid topics like heartbreak and romantic love and murder. If it weren’t for Pip, I’d just be writing about war and getting drunk all the time.
Wintermute: I hear you. Now I understand how your aura is full of so many pastels. I like that a lot.
Bumblefuck Kid: Fuck that “aura” new age shit! I don’t do that pussy garbage!
Pip: That’s not true! I love pastels! I love to color pictures of lesbian hearts with them! I’m in the middle of a pastel rock opera right now. It centers on Princess Leia, torn between her marriage to Charlton Heston and her lesbian desires for members of Sleater-Kinney, Le Tigre, and Boyskout. The part of Princess Leia will be played by John Travolta. In drag. With a Freddie Mercury mustache.
Bumblefuck Kid: mumble . . . . drool . . . . mumble . . . twitch . . .
Wintermute: Isn’t Charlton Heston dead now? And if so, can I have his gun? Seriously, though, how did Princess Leia wind up with Moses?
Bumblefuck Kid: Uhhh . . . what are you talking about? And why are your busy hands in my lap?
Wintermute: Because I swallowed a wealthy Frenchman and can’t shit him out. Save me!
THE UPSTATE ETHER ZODIAC
Redneck Dawg (March 21 to April 20):
Dim and one-dimensional, you’ve got your base tastes down pat and have no interest whatsoever in exploring anything new. You are an open book: shallow as a puddle and simple as Bisquick.
Baygenie Ken (April 21 to May 20):
Shifty and untrustworthy, you profit off the hard work of others, and then rub their noses in it after the fact. You think you can hide behind your masks, but no amount of disguise will hide the shortness, baldness and fatness in your soul.
Spartacus Crab (May 21 to June 20):
Pushy and dictatorial, you’re more than happy to bring on epic meltdowns just to satisfy your own interests. Feigning to be a team player, you’ll throw everyone else under the bus, and then hope it runs out of gas before it hits you.
Albany Jones (June 21 to July 20):
Tidy and organized, with a masterful sartorial sense, you are the hidden wizard who makes things tick from your secret bunker beneath the Empire State Plaza. If the babes knew you existed, you’d be a playa, but you opt instead to love your machines instead of other people, potential unfulfilled.
Ol’ Dirty Piece of Strange (July 21 to August 20):
You have an undeniable animal magnetism that drives the ladies mad and makes the men step aside when you come up the sidewalk, screaming and shaking. But that’s okay, since you just came from their houses, where you were diddling their wives. Who cares if your trousers stink?
Richie Muffinstuffer (August 21 to September 20):
The world is handed to you a silver platter, which you lose, but the world hands you another one, since there’s an endless supply of silver platters out there for the likes of you. Endlessly cheerful, because you have no wants, people are drawn to you because of what you can buy them. But, hey, you have so much money you can buy and still have plenty for yourself later. So why be stingy?
Underpants Gnome (September 21 to October 20):
Big attitude in a little package, with a chip on your shoulder the size of a redwood and the worst job this side of the offal tasters. People pity and fear you, though the fear tends to outweigh the pity, especially when they see you writhing about in a pile of their intimate garments.
Pee Pee Dog (October 21 to November 20):
Cuddly and easily excited, eager to please but accident prone, you mesmerize and horrify people in equal parts.
Gobrin Shalk (November 21 to December 20):
Xenophobic and paranoid, always seeing slights when none are intended, convinced that everyone is out to get you, you lash out every time someone tries to make inroads with you, and are destined to a lonely, bad-toothed life and dismal, painful death, probably at the hands of a large sea mammal.
The Wailrus (December 21 to January 20):
Oh, the whining! Oh, the angst! You are a blathering bundle of complaints and petty whimpers, the world handed to you on a platter, which you hate because it’s silver plate, not sterling. And silver plate makes your teeth hurt, probably because of the cancer. Oh!
Special Kitty K (January 21 to February 20):
Not the brightest bulb in the box, people tend to give you what you want, even if it’s bad for you, because it’s easier than trying to explain stuff to you. When people say they’re laughing with you, don’t be so sure.
Fucking Sucks Monkey (February 21 to March 20):
You are the bummer dispenser. No matter what’s going on, you will be there to tell everybody that it’s not as good as it used to be, or not as good as your other thing, or just not good at all. Thing is, nobody thinks you’re worth a tinker’s damn either, but they’d just rather avoid you that tell you that.
Burl Ives: Well, you know, O’Brien has always been The Littlest Overlord. All the other Overlords pick on him. All the time! He doesn’t get to play in any of the Overlord games! But then, something wonnnnnnn-derful happened! On Christmas Morning, The Littlest Overlord got to give The Baby Jesus the best present of them all!
O’Brien: Here, Baby Jesus. I would like you to have my copy of the Criterion Collection DVD of Petulia. It’s the greatest movie ever!
Burl Ives: And when the other Overlords saw what O’Brien did, they were, like, “Whoh! Did you see that?! That Littlest Overlord just scooped us!”
Karellen: Yeah, sure, that’s how it happened, right. But then when we got home, we kicked O’Brien’s ass and made him clean the Easter Bunny hutches for being a dick and showboating on us.
O’Brien: I don’t want to be an Overlord! I want to be a dentist!
Mustapha Mond: Hey, who’s that girl on the cover of the Petulia DVD? She’s pretty cute!
O’Brien: That’s Petulia.
Mustapha Mond: I know that, Dinghis Khan. I mean, who plays Petulia?
Guy Who Esplains Thins: The role of Petulia was played by the young Cloris Leachman, before her “accident”. Rock Hudson plays her love interest. The villain is played by Marty Feldman, in a genius stroke of counter-casting.
Plot Summary of Petulia, from Internet Movie Database: After separating from his wife Petulia (Cloris Leachman), Elmer Scroggins (Rock Hudson) quits the spy business and became a restaurateur. His wife refuses to speak with him, and his daughter, who changes her career more often than her clothes, has begun dating a man old enough to be Elmer’s father! On top of it all, the government has asked him to come back and save the world again. The evil Von Bandeez (Marty Feldman) has hypnotized animals into doing his bidding, and plans to use them to take over the world! It’s up to Elmer to save the world, as only he can battle Von’s Vegetarians and man-eating rabbits!
O’Brien: Like I told the Baby Jesus. It’s the best movie ever!
Karellen: Oh nonsense, you littlest assblister. Everyone knows that Petulia 2: Locked and Cocked blew that first one out of the water. It gets an 8.3 on Internet Movie Database!
Plot Summary of Petulia 2: Locked and Cocked, from Internet Movie Database: A 14-year-old boy named Rudy (Sean Astin) is trying desperatly to lose his virginity. His neighbor, the divorced Petulia (Cloris Leachman) invites him over and they watch a porno film called “E.A.T. M.E.: The Sextra-Terestrial” starring Roxanne Du Jour (Shelley Winters). When the movie is turned off, they discover on the news that the famous porn star has died. Meanwhile in Heaven, Roxanne must become an angel by commiting one good deed. She decides to help young Rudy lose his virginity. It just so happens that Rudy has a crush on the sister of the town bully, Mean Gene (John Travolta). Only Petulia can make it all turn out all right!
The Baby Jesus: Leave it to O’Brien to give me a DVD without checking to see whether we actually had a DVD player. How useless was that, The Littlest Overtard? But I forgive you. And I’m letting Joseph wear the disc around the house on top of his head, since he gets bummed out sometimes that me and Moms have halos, and he doesn’t.
The Sad Trombone: Womp! Womp! Womp! Wommmmmmmmmmp!
Loves: Soma, Alphas, World Domination, Technology, Persian Food, B. F. Skinner, Uriah Heep (but only the Ken Hensley/David Byron Years)
Hates: Squalor, Epsilons, Hamburgers, Sand in His Shorts, O’Brien
Loves: The Overmind, Balrogs, Seawater Sacks, Sexy Devils, Sorority Girls, Jethro Tull (but only when Glenn Cornick or John Glascock were playing bass)
Hates: Simpletons, Empathy, Pretentious Arthaus Klowns, Inefficiency, O’Brien
Loves: Himself, Upstate Ether, Rough Sex Role Play, Treehouses, The Earthworm, Computers, Toe Fat (the band, not the body condition)
Hates: Humanity, Sporks, Space Chubby, The Adams Party, O’Brien
Loves: Boots to the Face, Rats in Cages, “My Dinner With Andre,” Sigmund Freud, Big Brother, Karellen, Uriah Heep (but only after Ken Hensley/David Byron left)
Hates: Violent Children’s Games, Macho Bullshit, Insensitivity, Himself
Normanskill, NY (AP), “Just thirteen members of The Mayor’s Committee on Strategic Planning for The City of Normanskill, about a quarter of the total group, actually live in the City, with the rest making their homes in surrounding suburbs, according to an analysis by reporter V. Gina Gnome that included Bumblefuck and Normanskill County voting records, Internet-based address databases and the local telephone book.”
Wintermute: I’m a big fan of The Mayor, as you know, but this sort of behavior really frosts my donut. And not in the good way. As a longtime, tax-paying citizen of Normanskill, why in the world would I want someone from Bumblefuck County making decisions about my City’s future? What do all those people from suburbs out in Bumblefuck County actually want, anyway? A few more Starbucks to visit at lunch?
The Bumblefuckers: More parking for the two times a month we come into the city. All the cultural stuff in a nice sanitized area with no brown or poor people around. Cheap apartments for poor people that we can buy and flip a year later after having some poor, brown people repaint them for minimum wage, without benefits or social security. Maybe an indoor shopping mall. No gay people making us uncomfortable. More shows by The Dave Matthews Band, but acoustic ones in nice clean bars, so we can talk while they play. More cool nightclubs and restaurants with rope lines so we can feel exceptional when we get in. But they have to be in brightly lit areas with plentiful parking lots (we can’t parallel park, you know) and no poor, brown, gay or poor brown gay people around. In fact, when it comes to parking lots, let’s have some new deluxe “wider vehicle” spots designated for our Hummers only. You could put them where the handicapped spots are now, since no disabled people would get past the rope at our kinds of nightclubs anyway. That would pretty much do it for us. Good thing the Mayor put us on the Committee!
Wintermute: Why are you Bumblefuckers always so concerned about parking? Why, according to the Normanskill City Website, there are over 2,000 parking spots within a four block radius of the intersection of Asshat Avenue and Grand Street.
Karellen: Oh, come on, Wintermute. You know that most of those parking spots have been full since 1925. The last time I was heading downtown to the Asshat and Grand area and there was something going on at the Armory I ended up having to park up on Millard Fillmore Avenue. It’s a somewhat obvious choice, but for whatever reason (too freaky for the Suburbanites?), I didn’t have too much trouble finding a spot there. There’s always Hippie Hollow too. There’s always plenty of good parking underneath the overpass there. It’s kind of stuffy down there, though, so it’s good to leave your windows open. It’s so peaceful down there. Sometimes I just drop the kids off there and go for a walk. I need a lot of alone time, you know.
Louie Shakes: That’s right! There’s lots of nice young neighborhood people there who are willing to keep the kids entertained while you walk, and with the windows down, it’s okay to leave the kids in the car. Be sure to give the kids some money in case the ice cream truck comes while you’re gone. And leave the trunk open for them, too. They can play fort in it.
Guy Who Blocks The Flow: It is pouring down rain now, even though the sun is shining. Are the Four Horsemen sure to follow soon?
Guy Who Esplains Thins: They ditched their horses and are in motorboats now, following their yachts down the Hudson.
Pestilence: If there’s one muffuckin scratch on my yacht, Normanskill is going down with bird flu tomorrow!!
Famine: Are we there yet? I’m huuuuuuuuungry!!!!!
Wintermute: My treehouse is growing roots. Scary deep roots. The Earthworm is guiding the tree down to a water reservoir thousands of feet below the limestone.
Grub: There are lots of us in Wintermute’s basement. More and more by the hour. There are so many good things down here to lay eggs in. Joy!
Wintermute (picks up and dials the phone): Hey, Drunknard, buddy. Can you make it to my place tonight? Do you remember how to get into the basement without anyone knowing?
Drunknard: Sure man. I can be over there around eight o’clock. You need help on the treehouse again? You want I should bring my circular saw?
Wintermute: Just stay away from the Miller High Life, Grub. That stuff’s expensive.
Grub: We will steer well clear of the Miller High Life, since we’re prone to drowning in it if we don’t. And why would we want hops, anyway, when there is so much flesh down here?
Wintermute: Drunknard! Hey buddy! Hey! Ummmm, no, you can forget the circular saw. I greased that hole in the foundation, so when you shimmy in it’ll be easier. Go feet first, ‘cause like I told you, I don’t turn the lights on these days and there are amps and car parts and stuff. You’ll want to take about five paces forward, or maybe less cause you’re so damn tall! At face level there’ll be a hole in the plywood, punch your head up in there, and I’ll pull you the rest of the way into the treehouse. Okay? And, you, Grub, listen up! I don’t talk to you and your type. You take your cues from The Earthworm. Get it? Drunky? Drunknard? You there, kid? Boy. Drunknard?
Drunknard: Ten four, good buddy. Oh yeah, and I’m gonna have to bring my dog again. I just can’t leave him alone anymore without hearing about how he’s murdering neighbors again.
Grub: Hey Earthworm, can you ask Wintermute to bring down some more meat? It’s getting kind of crowded in this chunk. Thanks, boss. You da’ Man. Or, um, da’ Worm.
The Earthworm: Hush! Daddy’s working. Patience.
Wintermute: Aw shucks, Drunknard, sure you can bring Herschell. I love that dog! Truly I do.
Herschell: Gvrrrr!!!! Gvrrrr!!!!
Wintermute: Did Herschel kill someone today? Did he? DID HE?!? That’s a good boy!! Good, good dog!!
Drunknard: I’m not sure if he killed someone today or not. I haven’t checked the garage yet. That’s where he usually leaves his little surprises for me.
Wintermute: Either way, you and your boy Herschell are safe in the treehouse, Drunknard. My tree found a reservoir under my house and I got The Orangeman kept down there in a little coffin-sized submarine. At night he travels up into the Hudson and watches the port real close for vampires coming in on cargo ships. Man, I freakin’ HATE vampires! Will Herschell sic on vampires, Drunknard? Drunky? Buddy? You there pally?
The Orangeman: Drunknard! You there? Hey, Drunky!
The Earthworm: Where’s our buddy? Drunky, come in, Drunky. Calling Drunknard. Come in.
Grub: Drunky! Where’d you go, Drunknard?
Wintermute: Will you all shut up?? You’re going to frighten him. Hey Drunknard, come on, puddin’, where’d you go?
Drunknard: Sorry, had to answer the door, and got sucked into an argument with the Zombie Missionaries again. I can’t stand those guys. They just won’t take no for an answer until you bash their heads in with a fireplace poker or something. There ought to be a law against that sort of thing, you know? And, uh, I dunno if Herschell will sic on vampires or not. I’d actually be willing to half bet that dog is half vampire himself, since he’s dead and all.
Herschell: Gvrrrr!!!! Gvrrrr!!!!
Wintermute: Okay, okay, easy pal, that’s not a problem. We’ll see you tonight, right? Okay? You like the Miller High Life, Drunknard? Do you?
Drunknard: No, Wintermute, I live the High Life, but I don’t like to drink it very much. Buy some Scotch instead. And some Sonic Youth albums. See you around eight.
Wintermute: We look forward to entertaining you, Comrade. My treehouse is growing roots that are thick with brine sucked out of the mercury pools that bubble between layers of medina sandstone the length and breadth of the great Empire State. The Earthworm leads the way. Fiat lux.
Thurston Moore: Hey! Did someone say Sonic Youth? Hey! Hey! Look at me! I’m Thurston Moore! I’m a clever dooder! Look! Look at what I can do! I can play microtones! I can skronk! Hey! I’m Thurston Moore! I sleep with Kim Gordon! I invented indie rock! I am so cool it hurts! Can I come to the treehouse, too? You can interview me! All about the indie rock and the microtones and the skronk! Hey! Look at me! Hey!
Kim Gordon: You’re overcompensating, Thurston. Again.
Herschell: Gvrrrr!!!! Gvrrrr!!!!