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?

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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.

Published in: on March 9, 2010 at 2:31 am  Comments (1)  

Space Chubby Goes Prog

V. Gina Gnome: Hey everybody, I’m sharing the new Space Chubby album on Soulsuck right now. Jury’s still out, but it’s definitely worth a listen. Don’t let the naysayers steer you wrong. Step right up to and get a fresh hot copy of Nice Cans, Chunky Dumpster, the brand new record by those purveyors of progressively political prog punk: Space Chubby! P.S. It kinda sounds like they’ve been smoking the reefer a lot, ‘cause there’s a lotta prog here. Just saying.

Stoney Stone Stoner: Whoa, dude, I don’t think Space Chubby deserve to be called prog, despite Rilla the Real Gorrilla’s certifiably uncanny vocal resemblance to Geddy Lee. SALESMEN!!! Ooop ooop ooop OOOOP!!!! Heh. Heh heh. Heh. This new record just sorta sounds like trend hopping to me, like they’re trying to spray this week’s flavor onto last week’s stink, namsain? And that just smells like perfumed shit. And not the good kind of shit either. Heh heh. Heh. Heh heh.

V. Gina Gnome: They’re not trend hopping. They’re expanding their musical pallet, and as part of that they’re trying to “go prog” a little. Obviously, they’re going through some growing pains, but it’s not inorganic or obvious.

Stoney Stone Stoner: Well, being that the trend prior to their album has been for indie superstar bands like Mars Volta and Radiohead to “go prog,” I just gotta say that I feel as though Space Chubby’s late arrival on the trend smacks of inauthenticity. Plus even if it is organic, it’s just not their bag, baby. They were a great indie punk noise band. Every effort they’ve made to expand has fallen flat for me. Hey, uh, can you pass me that remote over there? It’s time for Mutual of Omaha’s “Wild Kingdom.” Excellent!! And shit. Heh heh. Heh.

Zorax, Master of the Obvious: Prog is dead. Anyone trying to do anything called “prog” or “neo-prog” today is just looking for an excuse to wank out more than is probably healthy, and they will soon end up on the Dave Matthews Band concert circuit. Prog was part and parcel of an era. Saying “I am prog” today is like saying “I am 1968″ today. It just doesn’t make sense. Bands may make concept albums or incorporate orchestral structures or play mellotrons, but they’re not prog. Except for King Crimson. They birthed the genre and are still entitled to use the term. Even though they don’t.

V. Gina Gnome: Well that’s why I kinda use the term “go prog” kind of tongue-in-cheek, Zorax. Bands like Radiohead and Mars Volta are certainly incorporating prog elements into their music, which is interesting, if not entirely unproblematic artistically.

Zorax, Master of the Obvious: Radiohead and Mars Volta are loathsome and unoriginal. And Flaming Lips, too, for that matter, who are another band who get tagged with the “prog” label. Most bands that are trying to “go prog” these days are trying to tap into an audience that isn’t much interested in anything with that label released after 1978. Ozric Tentacles and Spock’s Beard and Marillion and the like are terrible, terrible bands for the most part. Old Genesis and Yes and such is listenable only because it’s charming in its dated quaintness. But you can’t quaintly date something made in 2005. Plus, the whole charm of prog was that people in ’67-78 were just beginning to figure out that it was possible to merge rock and jazz and classical and such. These days, such mergers are old hat: you already KNOW that you can mix and match just about any styles, so there’s not much novelty there either. Now shut your trap and get with the fluffing! I’m not paying you to upload and critique albums! I’ve got people to do, things to see. Chop chop!

Napoleon Boner Pirate: My favorite prog to fluff to is Yes’s The Yes Album. Part III of “Starship Trooper,” entitled “Wurm” has never failed to get a rise out of a client, with the exception of Drunknard from Space Chubby, ironically enough. I guess Yes needs to do a follow up song called “Chuckun.”

Drunknard: I’ll drink to that.