Chicken Fluffer

Karellen: I’ve got a bit of sensitive request for you, my Overbrethren. Last night, Mrs. Karellen and I set up the boudoir video cam to capture a little rumpy-pumpy for posterity’s sake, and when I watched the playback, I have to confess that I wearied of waiting for myself to reach full tumescence. I’m thinking that I might need to hire a fluffer. Someone to wait in the wings, as it were, to prime the pump, so that once Mrs. Karellen cries “action,” I’m ready for the fleshy swordplay right away. Can any of you recommend a good fluffer?

Mustapha Mond: I’d be happy to recommend and share my fluffer, Napoleon Boner Pirate. He’s an excellent fluffer. Very professional. He’s fluffed for Space Chubby and Commissioner Gordon Haskell as well, plus many others. He’s friendly and courteous, and always senses when it’s time to get in there and get to work. A real self-starter. He doesn’t need anyone pushing or holding his hand while he works through complex tasks. I’ve got his resume here, in fact. It says: “Highly organized and motivated; exceptionally reliable, conscientious and thorough; excellent written, oral and interpersonal communication skills; familiar with all Microsoft Office applications, bass guitar, and ikebana.” Let me get him on the line for you . . .

Karellen: Hmm . . . he seems like he might be a bit over-qualified for my needs. Plus that name sounds French, and I’m not so sure I want his type lurking around the mothership.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: No no no! I’d be perfect for the job! That’s an old resume, actually. I’m no longer pretending to be familiar with Microsoft Office Applications now that my fluffing career has started to take off! Give me a chance. I’ve got the drive and determination to see any situation through. At least watch me fluff before you make a decision.

Karellen: Let’s not be too hasty, there, good fellow. How about a little conversation first, hmm? Tell me: what’s the biggest challenge you’ve faced as a fluffer, and how did you handle it?

Napoleon Boner Pirate: Well, let’s see. If I understand your question correctly, the biggest challenge would have to have been Drunknard in the early days of Space Chubby. I simply couldn’t get a rise out of the guy. Then one time we were in Montreal and saw a porno film with women acting like chickens, pecking up corn, clucking, etc. Drunky pretended not to be interested but I saw a funny look in his eye. From then on I would bring a couple of hens to band practice and everything was, ya know, cock-a-doodle-can-do.

Mustapha Mond: That shows you’ve got some gumption, kid. The world would be a better place if all fluffers were as goal-oriented.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: The first rule of fluffing is that if you’re not goal-oriented, then maybe you need to find another line of work.

Drunknard: It’s true. Before Napoleon, I didn’t really know that I liked chickens. Now I keep a coop in my basement, and I bring chickens to every show. Thanks, Napoleon. You’re in a league of your own.

Gassy Veal Kitten Randy: I can vouch for the chicken thing. Me and High Function Downs Boy tried to practice in Drunknard’s basement a couple of times but we were up to our elbows in chicken shit. I must admit, however, the sound of our awful music was veritably enhanced by the inclusion of the murderous clucking of consistently molested chickens.

Drunknard: Molested? You make what I do with chickens sound so scandalous. The chickens and I make love. Where’s the harm in that?

Gassy Veal Kitten Randy: That’s not the way the chickens squawk it, dude.

Drunknard: You wouldn’t know an ee-yawk from a ree-ikkk, my uncouth young friend. And besides, their language by nature is crude and violent to untrained ears. What you hear is simply their begging for my attention.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Begging for your attention? Oh please. The truth of the matter is that a chicken can never say yes. After all, despite your ostensible comprehension of squawk, the poultry language has yet to be mapped out by the best of our scientists. However, the most commonly uttered phrase among chickens as derived at laboratories and through publications I am familiar with is “rape!” Even when chickens are being violated by roosters, they have no choice in the matter. While PETA refuses to go this far, I must insist that all sexual acts involving chicken are by nature forced and therefore morally wrong. Please consider in depth what you are doing, Drunknard, and release the hens. Otherwise, I’ll make a stink so big my local district assemblyman may hear about it!

Karellen: What’s that smell? Yuck!

Sandy Twistedpanties: You know exactly what that smell is, little man. But you clearly aren’t accustomed to the smell of empowered vagina. Just the mention of that word—“vagina”—makes some small-minded, little men uncomfortable. Grow up. Learn to appreciate the way a real woman smells. Like strength.

Karellen: You have to admit . . . it’s a bit musky . . .

Drunknard: What I have with the chickens goes beyond language. It’s called love.

Sandy Twistedpanties: Okay, Drunknard, I thought maybe you were a reasonable man. But now, once again, I am forced to realize the truth that the only good man is a dead man. Prepare for the stink.

Napoleon Boner Pirate: Sandy, are you trying to make my job more difficult? Do I have to find another vice for Drunknard that doesn’t involve chickens or other animals? I’m tellin’ ya, before I happened onto the chicken thing the guy was like a deflated balloon. Cut a fluffer some slack, namsain?

Sandy Twistedpanties: Typical male perspective, Napoleon. As if everyone has the same voracious sex drive that must be satisfied. Why don’t you just leave him alone, and not expose all those helpless chickens to psychological devastation in the process?

Guy Who Blocks the Flow: I had a dream that David Bowie was telling me what a wonderful artist I am. I told him he was wrong and to fuck off. “Shut up, David Bowie, you’re full of shit.”

David Bowie: You insult me in a dream, you’d better wake up and apologize.

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Albany Jones Can’t Relax

Albany Jones: God, I hate the weekends, when I can’t go to work, and I’m stuck here at home. I wake up Monday mornings and as I’m getting ready to head in to the office, I am already looking ahead to the following Friday with dread, knowing that as soon as 5:00 rolls round, I’m back into limbo for two days. Saturdays are the worst. Here I am, it’s Saturday night and there’s nothing to do until midnight, when, maybe, I’ll be able to sleep. That’s five hours away!

V. Gina Gnome: Aw, c’mon, Jones. Weekends are great! Even by yourself! I mean, don’t you have a Play Station or a Wii? A good book? Cable TV? Netflix? A girlfriend? There’s got to be something that would fill the time in a satisfying fashion, right?

Albany Jones: Hour one is over. I found something to do: wash dishes. That killed 20 minutes. I tried to nap, unsuccessfully. Not tired. Did a couple of shots. Still not tired enough. Hour one is over. Four to go.

Magnum Anvil: Or you could go to a show! There’s some jam bands at Revolution Hall tonight. That will easily kill at least four hours. And you might even get lucky with the ladies if you go! Better odds than staying home, anyway.

Albany Jones: Hour two is over. I listened to an Olivia Newton-John album, finished up a book, and watched the rest of the only movie I have around the house, some crappy old Woody Allen film from the ‘70s. Three hours to go.

V. Gina Gnome: Maybe you need to take a week off, Jones, to get your batteries re-charged, and maybe remember how to amuse yourself when you can’t work at your teletype machine. Doesn’t that sound nice?

Albany Jones: A week off would kill me, Gina. You don’t know what it’s like. There are plenty of things I can do, but overall they just make me feel more empty and alone. And then once they are done, I have to search desperately for something else to keep my mind occupied. I have to fight the urge to sit on the bed and scream after a couple of days out of the office. Three day weekends are almost more than I can bear. If only I could get into the office on the weekend, that would be the solution. But the goddamn union makes sure I can’t do that, even if I want to go in and work for free. They’ve put a coded lock on the door to the teletype room to keep me out of there. Gee, thanks, comrades.

Magnum Anvil: Well I’ve got to be honest, here. It sounds to me like Albany Jones just needs to pick himself up by his bootstraps and look at how good he’s got it and quit being a whining pampered baby. If he can’t see that, what with his good union job with the State, then some therapy is in order. Soon.

Albany Jones: Are you paying, Magnum?

Magnum Anvil: Of course I’m not paying, you assclown. You’re a Stateworker! Call EAP!

Doktor Schulz von Thun: Zo vot zeems to be zee trooble, Oolbonee Chones?

Albany Jones: Well, Doktor Schulz von Thun, I guess I’m just bored. I don’t have a Play Station or a Wii or even a computer game. I never liked video games. I also don’t like football, dining out, stand-up comedy or music. How can I be entertained when I’m not at work, given all of that?

Doktor Schulz von Thun: Ovv kurze choor bored! Choor spendink Zatiday nacht typing on zee komputenmaschine! Mit inmaginaries herrens und fraulines!!

Albany Jones: Well, duh. I’m doing that because I’m bored.

Doktor Schulz von Thun: Vot choo need is zee kompanionzhip. Und not zee komputenmaschinen kinden. Zee aktualfleschenbonen kinden iz vot choo needz.

Albany Jones: Tell me about it, Doktor Schulz von Thun. But how do I get me some of that?

Doktor Schulz von Thun: Choo picken up zee telephonenesmaschinenen und choo dial und frienden und zay ‘Ja frienden, chall vee drinken zee beerundsteinen togetter, ja?’ Zimple!! Und nau, zottil be un tausend pfennig, bitte und danke. Tzop tzop!

Albany Jones: EAP’s footing the bill, Doktor, so talk to the State. And maybe you’re right, I do need to reach out to friends and find some other ways to fill the weekends. But tonight, I’m up to seven shots of Bacardi and I’m starting to feel sleepy. Good night everyone, you’ve all been great! Pray for me that I’ll be able to get to sleep, and stay in bed restfully until well past noon tomorrow!

The LORD: Sorry, Jones. I’m not accepting those prayers. I’m planning on waking you up at 4:00 AM so you can worry about stuff at work. Have a nice Sunday!

Published in: on February 7, 2010 at 5:49 pm  Leave a Comment  

I Often Dream of Bill Walton

Guy With a Dream: I’ve a recurring dream like once every six months that I can remember. It came again last night. I remember smoking up then playing basketball at a YMCA with Bill Walton on my team. So I get the ball and throw it to my teammate who puts in an easy layup. Then Bill Walton gets all up in my face saying “No! No! No! You pass to the passers, they pass to the shooters!” Then he makes some degrading comment about the smoke inhibiting my performance and puts someone else in instead of me. So I get pissed and walk out of the YMCA. Any dream analysts out there know what this could mean?

Karl Jung: The Bill Walton archetype commonly symbolizes one’s inability to shoot hoops while stoned on marijuana. So you need to sober up and work on three-point land. Cut out the middleman. That’ll show Walton.

Sigmund Freud: The marijuana cigarette you were smoking symbolizes a penis, and Bill Walton represents your father. You imagine your father is angry with you for your homosexual desires. The fact that he puts in a substitute for you indicates you fear castration. The idea that you smoke the cigarette and still play adequately, but yet are still castigated by your father for playing incorrectly, indicates that you believe homosexuality, while a deviant methodology, is perfectly adequate for achieving sexual stimulation. You would also like to have sex with your mother, though this was not in the dream.

Guy With a Dream: I will never sleep again.

Bill Walton: Who’s yr daddy? Don’t get splinters in yr ass from riding the bench so long. Loser.

Published in: on February 2, 2010 at 8:25 pm  Leave a Comment  

On the Therapy Couch

O’Brien: I had this dream last night that Magnum Anvil was selling cars after a putting on a musical show. He played a solo set, by a stream, deep, deep in the woods. Afterward there were these crude, cave-art style drawings of different automobiles, black ink on cardboard, propped up against the bank. Each drawing was a different vehicle with the monthly payments below. They were all cheap. But the best deal by far was a Jeep, showing monthly payments of $75. I inquired about the gas mileage, and Magnum told me that it would get well over 50 miles/gallon. I couldn’t believe this, but decided not to say anything. Something in my face must have belied my disbelief, though, because then Magnum’s sales manager, a North Country-mechanic-looking guy decked out in flannel shirt and black jeans, with Fu Manchu sunglasses and long, slick black hair pulled back in a ponytail, intervened. He confirmed the gas mileage, and then said something about the Apostle having to go out ahead of Christ. It seems cryptic now, but in my dream it was like a revelation. He told me that I would have to put ten to twelve thousand down on the car. Which was wild, and I was crushed. Then I woke up.

Published in: on January 27, 2010 at 3:34 am  Leave a Comment