About feignbread

This should be self-evident.

Episode 7: “The Blunt Edge of the Knife”

“Now my own suspicion is that the Universe is not only queerer than we suppose,
but queerer than we can suppose.”
–J. B. S. Haldane

PREVIOUSLY ON “SUICIDE HOTLINE FOR DEPRESSED PIGS”:

I tried to get a job at Wendy’s but a giant retard ruined everything.

…AND NOW, THE THRILLING CONTINUATION!

My travails were not over for the day, however. As I walked into my apartment I felt that old, familiar presentiment of doom that had always before indicated that Julia The Pig, my pet pig, was up to Dark Mischievousness.

I had had the same uneasy feeling that time she established a Doukhobor-inspired vegan/nudist colony in our apartment (in the time it took me to run out for a pack of cigs, if you can believe that), the time she successfully — successfully, mind you — sent a Barbie-doll into low Earth orbit in order to demonstrate some point which I forget now about how female pigs are just as capable of making a contribution to space-exploration as male pigs are or something like that, and the time she taped over my Star Trek: Deep Space Nine reruns (BITCH!), so I was pretty certain that I would soon be devoting a disproportionate amount of time to something that was decidedly not “worth it.”

(If it’s any indication of what kind of insane life I lead, I find myself writing sentences like the immediately foregoing all the damn time.)

“…All I’m saying, God,” I could hear Julia from the other room, “is that if the pepper-shaker is ‘in possession of’ the duck-puppet, then it’s the pepper-shaker that owns the duck-puppet, right?”

“Right…” said God, struggling to keep up with the lightning-quick thought-process of Julia’s razor-sharp mind.

“…And yet,” she continued, “if the pepper-shaker is ‘in THE possession of’ the duck-puppet, then it’s the duck-puppet that owns the pepper-shaker, right?”

I walked into the bedroom and was relieved to find that, when Julia mentioned a duck-puppet and a pepper-shaker, she was referring to an actual duck-puppet and pepper-shaker. I felt that the alternatives could only have been immeasurably worse. I thought, for instance, that “The Pepper-Shaker” could easily be the name of a spicy Latina pole-dancer, and I shudder to think what kind of depraved sex-act requiring the non-consensual participation of a waterfowl’s cloaca could conceivably bear the appellation of “the duck-puppet.” To my relief, however, I saw that Julia was using a pepper-shaker and what looked to be a woolen duck-puppet she must have found on the side of the road or something as placeholders in nothing more scandalous than an impromptu visual demonstration of a grammatical concept, thank God.

…Or rather, thank Julia, I suppose.

Whoa,” said God, munching on a brownie, as overcome with awe as if He had just witnessed Chomskian universal grammar elaborated in a copy of Dan Brown’s classic masterwork, The Lost Symbol. “It’s almost like the word ‘the’ in that sentence functions as… as a kind of ‘oppositizing morpheme’!”

Dude,” said Julia, staring in the middle distance at nothing in particular as she munched thoughtfully on a brownie of her own, “we must be, like, ‘the’ two most genius people in the entire world!

It was, by a significant margin, the stupidest thing I had heard all day, which is not a trivial comment to make considering I had just spent the afternoon being “interviewed” by a retard.

Much of the inanity, however, was brought suddenly into sharp focus when my glance happened to alight upon a half-eaten pan of brownies lying next to a little plastic baggie filled with some kind of mysterious, greenish, herbal-looking shavings.

“What’s that?” I asked Julia, pointing to the baggie filled with the curiously marijuana-colored foliage.

That, m’lad,” piped up God, raising an adorably pudgy little index-finger into the air, “is neither more nor less than Julia The Pig’s very own Especial Brownie Ingredient! I Myself was, initially, dubious about the inclusion of such a savory spice in so sweet a toothsome treat — but I must admit, I’m glad I tried it, in the end! After all, variety is the ‘SPICE’ of life, eh?”

Here God winked at me, flourished his children’s-sized cape, tipped his feathered cap jauntily askew, and kicked his heels together, causing darling little golden bells dangling from the tips of his pointed shoes to jingle merrily.

I disregarded God’s stupid dance and turned to the pig responsible. “Please tell me the ‘Special Ingredient’ isn’t ‘Cannabis,’ Julia,” I said without much hope that she’d be able to follow my request without resorting to Dark Falsehood.

“What, this!?” said Julia, picking up the offending plastic baggie and looking at it with a bemused expression. “Nah, this here’s oregano, Chaahlie, just as simple as that!” Then she cleverly concealed her face from God’s view by carefully positioning it directly behind her spry little hoof; in this way, God’s vision was “obstructed” by the hoof, and he was unable to see that Julia was winking at me conspiratorially, as if to say, Psst, Chaalie! It’s me, Julia The Pig! You know, the one you live with? Hey, I just wanted to tell you that it *REALLY IS* marijuana — I just *TOLD* you it was oregano because this is the lie I wish God to believe! Don’t let on, k? Heh heh 😉

“Oregano?” I said skeptically.

“Oregano,” God, obviously blazed out of His fucking skull, explained, “is like if Regan had been elected to serve in-between two Oreo cookies.”

“Or if he had misspelled ‘Oregon’ when he wrote the Constitutional List of State Names,” Julia pointed out.

Oregano???” God rejoined, sassily putting one hand on His hip while snapping the fingers of His other hand with a substantial infusion of ’tude, “More like ‘OregaYES!!!’

Then, in what nine out of ten dentists agree is an absolutely terrible pun, Julia turned to me and whispered: “Talk about getting the baker baked, eh Chaalie?” she said, then nudged me suggestively in the rib with her elbow.

“Do you mean to tell me,” I said, disregarding their *hilarious* two-man comedy routine in my growing irritation, “that you spent the entire day eating ‘oregano’ brownies and debating the coarser points of English idiosyncrasy when I specifically asked you to do some laundry while I was out?”

Chaalie!” said Julia The Pig, placing an indignant hoof upon her self-righteous chest as if I had just implied that her mother’s chastity had been all-too-willingly relinquished on a regular basis to pigs other than her sire, “I’m offended! What, you think your old pal Julia The Pig’s as feckless a wastrel as a member of that one particular racial/ethnic group all of whom are extremely lazy (you know the one I mean)?!? I’ll have you know that, in addition to baking our asses off, we also compiled a very-good list that you need for God’s Genius Blog. So there!”

Here Julia proffered to me a list which had been hastily scribbled in “thistle” crayon (which, for reasons that are entirely beyond me, appears to be some sort of pinkish color) on a long sheet of butcher paper. The list ran as follows:

~*~

LIST OF CUTEST ANIMAL-NAMES, PER SPECIFIED ANIMAL:

1.) Dolphin: “Squirty” (or how bout “Blow-Hole” heh heh –JTP)
2.) Tiger: “Li’l Grr”
3.) Monkey: “Professor Bananas” (or “Senior Instructor Bananas” if monkey does not yet have tenure)
4.) Panda: “Little Tumbles” (no substitutions)
5.) Giraffe: “Top-Hat” (SUCH A CUTE NAME FOR A GIRAFFE!!!!!!!!!!!!)
6.) Puppy-dog: “Li’l Scruff” (obv.)
7.) Clydesdale: “Clompy” (obv.)
8.) Bumble-bee: “Mrs. Bumbly-Wooz”
9.) Unicorn: “Horny” *(note: this is a CUTE unicorn name; for a list of GLAMOROUS unicorn names, see “Appendix A: Glamorous Unicorn Names”)
10.) Kitten: “Cocoa” (note: name adorable regardless of color of kitten)
11.) Mouse: “Cheesy McGee”

*Appendix A: Glamorous Unicorn Names:

1.) Celestia
2.) Moon-Spell
3.) Dream-Dancer
4.) Evensong
5.) Mystique
6.) Star-Spray

~*~

Upon completing my perusal of the list, I looked up, my eyelids heavy with incredulity, weariness, and unamusement, at Julia. She had crossed her arms and was looking at me with a self-satisfied expression on her piggy snout. “That kinda quality don’t just write itself ya know, Chaalie,” she said smugly.

“And even if it did,” input God sassily, “you wouldn’t be able to write it, either!”

Touché, God.

I honestly do not think that I can end this episode of God’s Very Awesome Blog That Is Nice To Read in a way that better represents what a turn for the absurder my life has taken since God moved in (“temporarily, I assure you!!” He assures me — we’ll see…) with me and my pet pig, Julia The Pig. I guess the Moral of the Story is this: the next time my pet pig instructs me to thwack a giant mushroom in twain, remind me to check and make sure there isn’t a deity living in it first!!!

P.S.: God just said, “Don’t you mean, ‘the MOREL of the Story’???????” and insisted that I add it to the blog.

P.P.S.: No, God, I don’t know how to add a video-clip of you doing a cute little Estonian folk-jig for our readers, and no, I do not care that you already spent half an hour getting all dressed up in your cute little traditional Estonian folk-garb in preparation for the dance.

(Sheesh!)

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Episode 6: “THE WILBERFORCE CHRONICLES: PROLOGUE”

Periwinkle, who was a six-foot-tall rooster, had never suffered so irksome a Venereal Complaint. Yes, it appeared he’d been stricken with a case of the Smoldering Downstairs, but he intended to “walk it off” as he had so many bodily ailments aforetime. “Languishing,” he had once been heard to remark, “is a pass-time for women and for cattle; I am neither.”

Fig. 1: "Colonel Thaddeus J. Periwinkle (Esq.)"

The Colonel had been sitting in his tent, poring over yet another leatherbound volume of ancient Mesopotamian lore. He now closed the book with a sigh, cursing the rash he’d developed, the humidity, and the eyestrain of long hours of arcane research. He downed the last of his gin and tonic with a grimace—the tonic he imbibed for the quinine, as a preventative against Malarial Affect, and the gin he drank because there was precious little else in the way of diversion out here in the steaming jungle. Bother that boy, and bother his damnable strumpetry! the Colonel thought grumpily to himself.

Periwinkle hobbled out of his tent into the explosion of tropical heat and light, toting his trusty blunderbuss out with him, as was his unvarying wont. He looked up: blue skies, white clouds, and the vast H.M.S. ASTRAL FAG, the Colonel’s dirigible, looming over the clearing. And bother this accursed humidity!

Fig. 2: "The Campsite"

Periwinkle scanned the campsite until he spotted him: a dark-skinned little native boy who was at that moment lounging in his favorite trashy old lawn-chair, reading a magazine, listening to Destiny’s Child on a Walkman, chewing a piece of bubble-gum that had long since lost its flavor, and sipping blithely from an R.C. Cola.

Fig. 3: "Kiki"

KIKI!!!” the Colonel bellowed, startling a family of nearby toucans into the air.

Kiki looked up from his magazine and peeked over his sunglasses at the bird, smiling brightly. “Oh hai, Meeser Curner, Sir!”

The abnormally large rooster approached the boy menacingly.

“I seem to have acquired a most vexing case of the Scathin’ Nethermosts, Kiki. Now, I wonder, just whom might I have acquired this particular dis-easement from, hmm?

Kiki giggled: “Oh! Kiki super very sowwy ’bout dat, Meeser Perryrinker,” said the ethnic tart impishly, hiding his coy little face behind the issue of Nickelodeon Magazine he had been “reading” upside-down. Something about the gleam of playful mischief in the boy’s eyes, something about the inviting pout of his full, boyish lips, softened and warmed the old Colonel to his very gizzards.

Harrumph!

“Well, I should say you are, my little cherry cordial,” the giant bird said grumpily. True, the Colonel had only Kiki to blame for his present infirmity; yet somehow he could scarce bring himself to remain cross with the sinewy little man-child for long. They certainly weren’t logical, these indulgences he continually allowed the boy—but then, since when had love ever been logical? No matter—the boy would be getting the business-end of the Colonel’s frustrations soon enough.

Periwinkle hobbled over to a table at which a strapping, mustachioed man of forty-five was presently making notations on a map of the surrounding environs.

“I say, Hollings,” said the Colonel, “But I am in a royally foul mood to-day!”

Hollings, a shrewd man, knew better than to indulge in the pun that immediately suggested itself; the Colonel had always been touchous on the subject of his speciation, and had been known to blast the heads off of men’s bodies for less than an unwisely-timed jibe.

“I’m very sorry to hear that, sir. May I offer you an up-date?”

“Mmyes, Hollings—how go the excavationary efforts?”

“It gives me no pleasure to report this to you, sir,” Hollings warily began, “but dissent seems to be fomenting among the laboring natives. It appears there’s been another death due to malnutrition, and several more cases of Blackened Lung among the children, sir.”

Periwinkle scoffed. “Tell them the faster they dig, the sooner we can all be done with this bothersome enterprise,” said the Colonel. “Once the job is done, they can all go home and eat their spicy ‘piñatas‘ and sacrifice coconuts to their pantheon of monkey-gods—or whatever the bloody hell it is these people do—but not before.”

Hollings did his best to suppress the note of impudence in this voice; the Colonel was a reasonable rooster, but he was not a forgiving rooster. “Sir, with all due respect, these are people we’re talking about here—many of them children…”

“And this is an archaeological dig we’re running, Hollings, not some charitable soup-line, for God’s sake! Give them a five-minute banana-break, then tell their laggardly backsides to get back to work!”

A pause ensued, during which Hollings seemed to be weighing the matter carefully. Then, steeling himself against the Colonel’s wrath: “I’m sorry, sir, but I simply cannot in good conscience follow your orders.”

For a moment the giant rooster seemed unable to reply, paralyzed with shock and rage; and it was many moments before he was able to composed himself. “I’m giving you to the count of three, Hollings,” he said in a measured voice, extending a single, slender primary feather to indicated one.

Hollings was, perhaps, a more principled man than was good for him. He understood the peril he was in, yet tried his level-best to keep his voice from shaking: “Sir, I cannot stand idly by as women and children are left to—”

“That’s two,” the bird interrupted, extending another menacing feather.

“Sir, I feel that I must respectfully refuse—”

KerBOOOF!—the Colonel obliterated Hollings with single, well-placed blast from his trusty blunderbuss. Where once stood a man, there now was naught but a smoking ash-poof dispersing into the humid jungle air.

Fig. 4: "The Obliteration of Hollings"

A shocked silence hung over the camp. Another life dispatched by the Gallus Blunderbusticus, forged in 1802 by General Alastair T. Periwinkle himself, the Colonel’s most infamous forebear.

From the sidelines, Kiki tittered girlishly and clapped his tiny hands at the diverting spectacle. The Colonel, depleted of patience by the happenings of the day, whirled on the boy and pointed the gun directly into his face.

“I beg your pardon, Kiki my love, but does something about this strike you as amusing?

Eeep! The dark-skinned little lad dove for cover behind his lawn-chair. The Colonel chuckled darkly, pushing Thoughts of Impurity to the back of his mind… for now.

“Congratulation… uh, Myers!” the giant rooster then hollered, turning to the person nearest-at-hand. “You are my new Number-Two. I want the natives back on-line within the hour—now hup-to!”

“Yes, sir,” Myers assented immediately, not wanting to earn himself a taste of the Colonel’s leady irritability, and he scurried away with alacrity.

Thaddeus J. Periwinkle felt a fair sight better after having blown Hollings all to hell, and forthwith he limped over to Flannagan Galloway, the dirty Scotsman who was in charge of the maintenance and upkeep of the Colonel’s beloved dirigible.

“How’s our girl doing, Flannagan? I trust you’ll have the… er, the various workings of the vessel, uh, her sundry mechanisms and fulcra and gaskets and what-have-you, up and running in short-order?”

“Aye, Colonel—The Fag, she’s a good ship, and a sturdy one, sure as I’m standin’ before ye,” said the filthy Scot. “Treat her right—a little tenderness and a generous applyin’ o’ cannister-oil—and she’ll always bring ye home.”

Though Galloway was but a stinking Scot, Periwinkle hastened to remind himself (or was he a Mick?), he couldn’t help but feel a touch of warmth for this man, about whom he harbored lingering suspicions of leprechaunism.

“Right! Good man, Flannagan—carry on.”

Fig. 5

Just then an underling (Werner, the Colonel thought his name was) came running from the jungle, waving something frantically in the air.

“Colonel! Colonel Periwinkle! There’s—from the site, there’s—Great Majesty’s Steamshovel, sir, but they’ve—”

“Pull it together, man,” shouted the Colonel, generously striking Werner across the face to help clear the man’s head.

Thank you, sir! Down at the excavation site, they’ve found—why, they’ve found it, sir—they’ve finally found it!!” Here the man proffered a Polaroid to the Colonel, who snatched it up with mounting excitement. The Colonel immediately forgot his rash, the unrest festering among the working-folk, and the fact that he’d just exploded his first-officer.

The rooster stared, rapt, at the photograph.

For a moment, Periwinkle misbelieved his eyes. Could it be? he thought. Could it be, after so many years of searching—after decades of poring over through archives, of far-afield voyagings—of bloodshed, bribery, scholarship and pederasty—could it be that I’ve finally found it??

Kiki’s boyish curiosity had by now been piqued, and he wandered over to the giant rooster, whose longtime obsession seemed now to have been kindled to madness by this latest development. He looked into the Colonel’s eyes, and hardly recognized the bird.
“What ees dees, Meeser Curner, Sir?” whispered the little brown boy in awe.
This, my darling boy,” said Colonel Thaddeus J. Periwinkle, not looking up from the photograph, “is the very reason we all came down here…”

Fig. 6: "The Polaroid"

Episode 5: “The Hefty Lass”

“Always be smarter than the people who hire you.”
–Lena Horne

PREVIOUSLY ON “SUICIDE HOTLINE FOR DEPRESSED PIGS”:

God is crashing with us for a while.

…AND NOW, THE THRILLING CONTINUATION!

When I got to Wendy’s, sporting my best coattails-and-top-hat ensemble and with a freshly-printed résumé in hand, I asked the bleary-eyed young man manning the cash-register where one would be to go had one an interview. It took him a couple of moments to parse my sentence inside his brain, and another few moments to orient himself in the building, but once this was accomplished it was only another minute or so before he pointed towards a dilapidated door with the ominous words “SOO ZAAN” scrawled into the wood of the door itself — by means of a knife, unless my guess is pretty wide off the mark.

“Many thanks, m’good lad,” I said, tipping my hat courteously to the slack-jawed youth.

“Oh, take this,” he said, and tossed me what could only have been a giant shank of mutton.

“What’s this giant shank of mutton for?” I asked, clutching the enormous hunk of animal meat uncertainly.

“You’ll know,” he said.

“I see,” I said, not a little disconcerted by the unusual necessity of taking a giant shank of mutton into an interview with me. Nevertheless, hoisting up my good walking-cane under my arm, I gamely proceeded towards the indicated door.

The first impression that assailed my highly refined senses upon opening the door to the sensibly-appointed office was one of excessive stagnation. I forthwith identified the source of this odoriferous impression as being the large, plain-featured being sitting behind a desk. I say “large,” but what I really mean is something more along the lines of tremendous; I had never before seen, for instance, anyone take up more floorspace than their desk.

I glanced at the name-plaque on the desk:

SUZANNE

Suzanne (for that was its name, it seemed) had an appearance not unlike an entire dumptruck’s worth of lard that has been dumped into a chair and had a dirty-blond wig placed daintily atop it. Across the vast, bloated wasteland that was its cumbrous body were smeared, at irregular intervals, its various body-parts: a leg here, what looked to be an eyebrow there. It wasn’t moving. Its eyes were rolled back into its skull, and several flies were attending to it solicitously.

For a moment I thought that the entity in front of me might be a Necrotic-American — one of those rare post-life individuals who are totally equal with other Americans. Not having been raised in a barn, I knew that High Etiquette demanded that I employ only the most refined speech in the presence of such an “Equal” Citizen.

“O Necrotic-American,” I began, reciting the traditional greeting, “Fair wert thou in life, yet fairer still art thou in death; and verily, though the living may –”

I was here interrupted by the door opening. A tall, slim woman with ambiguously coffee-colored skin and a smart sense of executive-style power-fashion walked briskly into the office. She extended a hand to me.

“Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino, Human Resources,” said the woman who, given various “context clues” the details of which I don’t need to get into just now, I presumed was Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino. “Let’s liaise!” She said enthusiastically.

I glanced at her name-tag, which did nothing but confirm my suspicion:

SAMANTHA GOLDFARB-JAMBEEZEE-CAPPELLINO

‘Tard-Wrangler

Human Resource Administrator, P.R. Division

“…Let’s Liaise!”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss ‘Tard-Wrangler,” I said, accepting her hand.

“Oh, there must be some mistake,” She said with a puzzled expression. “My name is ‘Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino, not ‘’Tard-Wrangler’…”

“But your name-tag–” I began.

“Oh, this,” she said, looking at her name-tag. “I see where the confusion is stemming from now, and I thank you for reaching out to me on this extremely sensitive yet important matter. That’s not my name, as it happens — that’s my job-title! …Or rather, my former job-title (we haven’t had time to switch out the name-tags yet). These days we prefer the term ‘Facilitator of the Sub-Averagely-Intelligenced’; the term ‘’Tard-Wrangler,’ was felt to be… er, less-than-ideally respectful, and thus detrimental to our ‘brand’.”

“I see,” I said.

“Suzanne here may be a Sub-Averagely-Intelligenced American, but she’s still our Executive Associate In Charge of Outreach and Recruitment!”

“I see,” I said again, glancing over at the vast, bloated thing that would be determining whether or not I would become an employee of the “Wendy’s” fast-food restaurant-chain.

“So does it–”

“‘She,’” Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino corrected me.

“…Does …she just sit there… or… or does she ask questions, or what?”

“Well, that’s a delicate topic…” the Human Resources officer said, somewhat uneasily. I caught her glancing up at something hanging on the wall. I followed her gaze to a disclaimer posted prominently on one wall of the office:

“THIS ESTABLISHMENT IS AN EQUAL-OPPORTUNITY EMPLOYER; IT DOES NOT DISCRIMINATE ON THE BASIS OF AGE, SEX, COLOR, CREED, RELIGION, NATIONALITY, SEXUAL ORIENTATION, OR BEING A BIG FAT RETARD.”

So that was it… She wasn’t a Necrotic-American at all — she was a retard!

A sudden panic gripped my chest:

–A retard!?!

I realized — oh, God! perhaps only too late — that the massive entity in front of me was not merely stupid; she was dangerously stupid. I recalled a nature documentary I had seen in which an enraged mother-hippo capsized a four-thousand-pound jeep after one of the occupants had been foolhardy enough to snap a Polaroid of the huge, irritable beast.

With a sick, sinking feeling in my stomach, I realized that she was the hippo, and I had been foolhardy enough to enter her den of fatness and stupidness and being a retard!!!

As if on cue, Suzanne suddenly lurched forward and beached herself on the top of the desk, sending various papers and office-supplies scattering over the floor.

WEMBY’S,” boomed the massive retard, “SOO-SOO WANT YUM-YUM WEMBY’S HANGLE-BRUGGERS!!

“Now, Suzanne,” Said Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino sternly (and with just a hint of unutterable horror in her otherwise calm, cool, and collected “professional voice”). She took a long step back in order to give the giant retard a wider — and for herself, safer — berth. “Mr. Nelson here would like an interview with you — that’s alright with you, isn’t it, Suzanne?”

HANGLE-BRUGGERS!” came the thunderous reply. “SOO-SOO WANT NOM NOM WEMBY’S HANGLE-BRUGGERS!!!

“Now, Suzanne–” Samantha began, but was interrupted by the unexpected need to dodge a large paperweight thrown directly at her head by a Suzanne who was, seemingly, unwilling to give this “Mr. Nelson” character the interview he so richly deserved.

Suzanne narrowed two large, indistinct blobs which may or may not have served at her eye-holes and said in a chillingly quiet voice: “HANGLE. BRUGGERS.

Samantha seemed alarmed by the inefficacy of her initial foray and hastily retrieved a walkie-talkie from some place on her person:

Johnson? Johnson, come in!” she said.

–Johnson here!

Johnson! Set Threat Level to orange! And  get me Yamaguchi!

An ear-splitting KRAKKK erupted from the desk as it buckled under the incredible weight of a retard the size of a small yurt.

Yamaguchi! Johnson? What am I, talking to myself here?

–Yamaguchi here!

Yamaguchi! Update Threat Level to red! And Jesus Christ, Yamaguchi, get me one gross of Wendy’s Jr. Bacon Cheeseburgers — extra ketchup, hold the pickles — yesterday!!

AMB SUM ASS-CRAM!!” bellowed Suzanne.

And ice-cream, for the love of God, Yamaguchi!” yelled Samantha into the walkie.

But alas, the rusty stone kills the grease, or whatever that expression is. No sooner had Yamaguchi responded with an “I’m on it!” but Suzanne had decided, evidently, that her appetite would not allow her to wait for the arrival of the hamburgers. Leaning far forward from atop the desk, Suzanne seized and then began devouring the unoccupied chair to my right.

Suzanne!” said Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino. “NO. BAD Suzanne! BAD.”

Suzanne’s riposte to her wrangler’s admonishment was an enthusiastic “WRRRRWWWAAARGGGHHHHH!!!!” and a wide swipe of her hulking paw that sent Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino flying towards a cluster of file-cabinets situated in one corner of the office. She crashed with a sickening thunk against the cold, unyielding metal.

“Oh, my!” I said, pithily summing up the fact that the situation was rapidly spiraling out of control.

Just then a short Japanese man that could only have been Yamaguchi opened the door. He was dragging behind him a trash-bag full of hamburgers, but he never got the chance to deploy them: Suzanne noticed the intruder and summarily skewered him against the wall with a floor-lamp that happened to be on-hand.

Yamaguchi!” cried Samantha hoarsely, blood trickling from lacerations to her forehead and arms.

WRRRRWWWAAARGGGHHHHH!!!!” replied Suzanne.

My mother having raised no fool, I quickly reviewed the situation I was in and decided to make a swift and prudent exit before something similar to (or worse than!) skewering befell me.

“So… …yeah. …I’m-a just leave this guy over here for ya…” I said casually, trying not to incur the wrath of the beast as I gingerly tossed my resume onto a stack of papers where Suzanne… or someone, I guess… would be sure to find it.

…That is, if anybody survived.

Suzanne had by now rent a gaping chasm through the wall of the office and into the main portion of the restaurant and was stuffing handfuls of customers into her seemingly insatiable maw. A tall blond man (Johnson?) and a squadron of nine more heavily-armed men and women had rushed into the office, decked out in full combat-gear, and were now crouched behind an overturned table, having set up a crude, ad-hoc “command bivouac” behind it, and were pumping Suzanne full of bullets which, unfortunately, sank as harmlessly into her dense, blubbery flesh as raisins into pudding.

DIE, YOU SWINE — DIE!!!!” the tall blond man screamed, jolted by the kickback of his .05 caliber M2, illuminated by gunfire, and drenched in the spewing blood of chomped-in-half customers.

WRRRRWWWAAARGGGHHHHH!!!!” Suzanne reiterated testily.

“Cool,” I said, somewhat uncertain how to bring the interview to a satisfactory “close,” “well, uh, so, thanks so much for your help, Mrs. Goldstein-Branjolina-Carpal-Tunnel. I’m just gonna… uh… leave now… so… okay, bye!”

The profusely bleeding H.R.-rep probably couldn’t hear me anyway over the clamor of Suzanne ripping apart and eating file-cabinets as though they were taffy. The monstrous beast was now using the desk as a kind of skateboard, grabbing handfuls of floorboard and dragging the desk (and herself along with it) slowly but inexorably across the office as she made her way ever closer to the bookshelf up which Samantha Goldfarb-Jambeezee-Cappellino had scrambled in a desperate attempt to evade The Creeping Carnage.

“Just, uh, yeah — just let me know if I can do anything for you… and uh, let me know about the job, okay?” I said, inching towards the door.

THE SHANK, YOU FOOL!” screamed Samantha as she clung to the top of the bookshelf for sweet, sweet life. “THROW HER THE SHANK!!

The shank?

I hit the heel of my hand against my forehead.

Of course — the shank!

I had had the thing in my hand the whole time, but like some kind-a grade-“A” dufus had somehow overlooked the warning printed on the back of the shank: “IN CASE OF EMERGENCY, THROW SHANK ** EN CASO DE EMERGENCIA, TIRE PIERNA.”

Giving it a quick Eskimo kiss for good luck and intoning a short prayer to God (who was at that moment being babysat back at my apartment by my pet pig), I hurled the precious shank in the direction of Suzanne (which wasn’t a difficult shot to make considering she took up a good 160 degrees of my field of vision). My “good deed for the day” thus accomplished, I then exited the office, tipping my hat courteously to the gentlemen and -women at the door who were currently trying to “bring down” Suzanne with a hail of bullets.

My,” I reflected heartily, using my walking-cane as a grappling-hook as I crawled over heaps of dead bodies to get to the front door of the restaurant, “what an agreeable mélange of ethnicities that oddly-named woman was!”

SMASH-CUT TO BLACK

Episode 4: “A Bit of Poetry”

I.

"A Cute Little Inuit"

NANCHUCKNOOK: The Little Eskimo

Away up north in the land of snow
There lived one NANCHUCKNOOK,
A frosty little Eskimo
Whose name means “fish-we-cook.”

(When asked to give a reason
For this silly-sounding name,
His mother shrugged, and said: “was fish
Were cook when baby came.”)

His life was pretty much the image
Sitting in your head:
A bunch of cold Chinese dudes who
Subsist on reindeer-bread.

The other little igloo-boys
Would play that they were grown,
Pretending they were hunters with their
Spears of narwhal-bone.

But Nanchucknook, by all accounts,
Was held to be quite queer,
For he was mostly interested
In throat, and nose, and ear.

“An E.N.T.,” said Nanchucknook,
“That what me want to be!
I wish for go to City-Town,
Get medical degree!”

So secretly the little chap
Applied to B.U. Med —
To Boston University
His little heart was lead.

For forty days and forty nights
He waited patiently
For that portentous letter which would
Seal his destiny.

“Dear Nanchucknook,” the letter read
“Congrats — you made it in!
Come right on down to Boston so
Your studies may begin!”

But to this plan the elders
Of the clan were quite opposed,
Because to all things Caucasoid
Their noble minds were closed.

The boy’s beloved father, one
Kaleek-u-Glook, said “Son,
For why you want see people white
When snow have here a ton?”

“And for cuz why you want leave home?”
Kaleek-u-Glook inquired
(His spirit could not comprehend
That which his son desired).

But then Kaleek-u-Glook went on:
“…For just as mother-seal
Store up her lots of blubber-fats,
And make of fish her meal,

So too does hungry Eskimo
Eat from that mama’s fat.”
(Which must have been a “metaphor,”
Or some weird shit like that.)

But Nanchucknook arose in grief,
And solemnly he said:
“It destiny for me help those
Who all gunked-up in head.”

Whereat his father hung his head
And said, “Alas! Woe me!”
And cast his spear, Taleek-chu-klook,
Into the sounding sea.

But as for little Nanchucknook,
He boarded his canoe,
And with a final farewell-wave,
He bid his folks “adieu.”

And as he sailed a-southwards
Full of vim and vig’ and pluck,
He thought that he would shorten down
His name to simply “Chuck.”

And thus he went to med-school,
And his culture he forsook
And turned his back upon the noble
Name of Nanchucknook.

II.

"Daemon Walrus"

SLARTIMANDERPUSS: Daemon-Emperor of the Walri

Now at that time dominion over
All the North was held
By one who ages long-forgot
Upon the ice had dwelled.

This tyrant was no limp-wrist fag,
No whining, weak-willed wuss —
The Grand-High King of all the North
Was SLARTIMANDERPUSS.

How hulking was this heaving beast,
How hideous his hide!
Like sixteen-hundred thousand pounds
Of wrinkled lard-landslide!

He brandished like a pair of swords
His fearsome razor-tusks,
And from him spewed the potentest
Of rancid mammal-musks.

A harem full of walrus-wives
The Walrus King did keep,
And as his appetite was great,
They seldom got much sleep.

Bartfa and Galoompa were
His pair of walrus-brides;
The emperor had many other
Walrus-whores besides.

Yet ever Slartimanderpuss
Did yearn for greater power;
Until at last, one hoary day,
He deemed it was his hour.

He gazed upon the valley where
The Eskimos encamped
And said, “I think I’ll take their town;
I’m feeling rather cramped.”

Then mustering his minions all
The dark, satanic liege
Commanded that his walrus-force
Commence the dreadful siege.

III.

"Ear, Nose and Throat Diagram"

The three most important organs in the whole body.

Meanwhile, in the yonder South,
Our hero, “Chuck,” progressed.
He English learned and syntax, too,
And rarely up he messed.

He settled into college life
And got a roommate, Lucas,
And threw himself into the
Academia of mucus.

At last it seemed to all that Chuck
Had finally found his niche,
Though he was oft harassed by Kate,
Who was a total bitch.

Kate would claim that Chuck was “only
There ‘cause B.U. gives
A certain quota of its spots
To godless primitives.”

Indeed, the art of “twist the knife”
Was one that Kate had mastered —
She never missed a chance to dig
“That frostbite-loving bastard.”

Yet on the whole our hero, Chuck,
Was happy as could be —
He even got a sweetheart
By the name of Natalie.

Indeed, for long it seemed to him
That things could get no better.
But then it came to pass, one day,
That Chuck received a letter.

“Dear Fish-We-Cook,” the missive read,
“We hope that all is well.
But as for us, we’re doin’ bad —
Our lives up here are hell!

For Slartimanderpuss the Great,
The Daemon Walrus-King,
Has taken o’er our village,
And he’s started plundering!

Our daughters cry for mercy
As we watch the rapes unfold;
Our village would be burning
If it wasn’t so damn cold!

We’re sure you’re very busy
With your studies of the head —
We just thought you should know, my son,
That soon we’ll all be dead.”

They then signed off “Love, Mom and Pop,”
But Chuck could not help wonderin’
Precisely how a walrus would
“Facilitate” the plunderin’…

“Do you suppose,” he thought aloud,
“That snow is used as lube?
I only ask because, you know,
It’s such a narrow tube…”

“What kind of ‘tube’?” said Lucas then
With much insinuation;
But, thinking fast, Chuck hid his thoughts
By answering: “Eustachian.”

And Lucas said, “Hey listen, Chuck,
We’re off to find relief,
By maybe gettin’ us some puss’ —
You down to party, Chief?”

Yet from this Dark Temptation
Chuck did turn away his eyes,
And said, “A rain-check, dude. I’ll catch up
Later with you guys!”

But then he muttered something
That I will not soon forget:
The White Man reckons nothing of
The growing Walrus Threat.”

IV.

Alas! when fate comes in-betwixt
A lover and his love.
Though racial stock be intermixed,
Yet pure the fruit thereof.

And thus it was for Nat’ and Chuck —
One Eskimo, one white —
And black the fate that was to separate
The two this night.

“But how will you pursue,” she said,
“Your dream to study snot?”
But Chuck could only hang his head
And say, “I’m all they’ve got.”

It is not ours to understand,
Nor ask the reasons why —
So Nanchucknook bid Natalie
A bittersweet goodbye.

For forty days and forty nights
He paddled ceaselessly,
Until he reached the waters
Of the frigid Arctic Sea.

And what should he find floating there?
A priceless artifact:
His father’s very spear itself —
Taleek-chu-klook, intact!

Taleek-chu-klook, that noble spear,
Was lodged inside the brain
Of some unlucky narwhal who
Was accidentally slain.

“What luck!” said little Nanchucknook
“To find my father’s spear!
As if by destiny, it’s just
Been waiting for me here!”

So out he plucked his father’s spear
And ran he towards his village
And caught the ghastly king and all
His walruses mid-pillage.

“O SLARTIMANDERPUSS,” he cried,
“Thy reign is at an end!
I am returned to my home-town
My family to defend!”

Then said the walrus-king: “Why, if it
Isn’t Fish-We-Cook!
Come back to see your family, did you?
Ha! Well take a look!

Then Slartimanderpuss the Cruel
Did yank an iron chain,
And thus pulled forth a woman
Whom the shackles did restrain.

Nanchucknook could not believe
The sight before his eyes:
The woman was his mother!
And she wore, to his surprise,

A gold metallic swim-suit thing
(The sort preferred by whores),
Pretty much exactly like
That princess in Star Wars.

Then Slartimanderpuss arose,
A figure vast and bloated —
He scoffed at little Nanchucknook,
And this is what he gloated:

“For nothing didst thou come back home —
Thy efforts are in vain!
Defeated are the Eskimos —
Thy kin shall soon be slain!”

But Nanchucknook held fast as he
Withstood the driving sleet:
“My language has twelve words for ‘ice,’
But no word for ‘defeat.’”

He raised his voice and cried aloud,
That all the world might know:
“MY OWN TRUE NAME IS NANCHUCKNOOK,
AND I’M AN ESKIMO!”

At this declaration
The behemoth grew enraged,
And, letting blow a mighty fart,
Towards Nanchucknook rampaged!

And how the sleet did blizzard,
And how the snow did flurry,
Before the fell stampede of
Slartimanderpuss in fury!

And all his walrus minions tried
To tackle Nanchucknook
As towards the walrus-king he ran
With great Taleek-chu-Klook!

But Nanchucknook, he dodged them all
As though it were the Rose-Bowl!
And with his spear did catapult
Into the daemon’s nose-hole!

"A Killer Walrus"

Hang tight, guys -- there's a picture in the works...

(And wouldn’t you feel funny
If a little Eskimo
Had leaped inside of your nose
As you ran upon the snow?)

Well, Slartimanderpuss the Great
Did feel a queer sensation:
His eyelid twitched, his nostrils
Underwent extreme dilation.

An agonizing moment
All the Eskimos held breath,
And could have sworn they smelled upon
The air the scent of death.

And at what happened after
All the igloo-folk did blanch —
For Slartimanderpuss the Cruel
fell like an avalanche!

And how the tundra trembled,
And how the ices groaned,
Beneath the awesome weight of
Slartimanderpuss, dethroned.

V.

But what of little Nanchucknook,
And what his gruesome fate?
Would Mom and Pop be forced to say
Before his name “the late”?

Well, right before the Daemon-Beast
Had wheezed his final wheeze,
An Eskimo was shot from out
His nostril in a sneeze!

Into a bank of snow-clad mounds
Did Nanchucknook alight,
And there his family found him — he was
Shaken, but all right.

“You come back home!” his mother said,
“To bring our people succor!”
Then looking on the beast she said,
Gesundheit, motherfucker.”

The Eskimos were quite surprised
(To say the very least),
And curious to learn how he
Had slain the awful beast.

“It was a simple thing,” he said,
“To end the daemon’s malice:
I merely thrust my spear into his
Sinus sphenoidalis.

This sinus, as you all must know,
Is rather sensitive —
If it is punctured by a spear,
The patient will not live.”

"Eskimo Family"

Nanchucknook (center), pictured here reunited with his mother and father.

Kaleek-u-Glook, his father, looked
With pride upon his son,
And said, “My boy have vanquish him
Who worse than everyone;

And yet, if no had followed heart,
Then Nanchuck’ would have fail!”
(Which is, of course, the “moral” of
This hackneyed “native” tale.)

And Kate, the med-school studentess
Who used to give him flak,
That very same virago
Had a massive heart-attack!

And Natalie joined Nanchucknook
To be his lawful bride,
And in a darling igloo did
The two love-birds reside.

And Nanchucknook would never want
For business thenceforth,
Given that the common cold
Is common that far north.

And there you have the story
Of the frosty little lad
Who murdered Slartimanderpuss,
Who was extremely bad.

THE END

Episode 3: “Night Terrors”

“By night, an atheist half believes in God.”

–Edward Young, Night Thoughts

PREVIOUSLY ON “SUICIDE HOTLINE FOR DEPRESSED PIGS”:

God lives in a giant mushroom which my pet pig told me to destroy.

…AND NOW, THE THRILLING CONTINUATION!

I must say I’m a tad miffed at my pet pig, Julia The Pig. I know, I know — she had only the best of intentions when she instructed me to thwack apart God’s old house.

God’s former place of residence, for those of you just tuning in, *used to be* the world’s largest truffle. (These days, it’s more like two halves of what used to be the world’s largest truffle!) God’s new place of residence is, apparently, going to be… well, here’s a transcript of what went down immediately after I destroyed God’s quaint little mushroom-house:

God: [surveying the wreck of his erstwhile home] Oh my gosh, what a frightful mess!

Me: Oh, um, right, yeah, well, uh, sorry about that.

[Julia, too, conveyed her regret by means of a low, humble bow — one hoof extended daintily forward, as is the received custom among pigs — and a pair of eyebrows knit into deep, noble furrows of the most dignified appearance.]

God: My, my, but this simply won’t do — my goodness, no! But this shan’t do at all. My, my, but where am I to sleep tonight, I wonder?!?!?

Me: Oh, well, uh, so, like, don’t you have, like, friends and/or family you could stay with?

God: [sassily] Do I look like someone who has friends and/or family I could stay with?

To be honest, what He looked like was someone whose friends and/or family would consist of a plucky gang of cute, helpful, friendly forest-critters or maybe a family of woodland elves that spend their days baking gingerbread and singing about how nice it is to live in a tree instead of a house like normal people. But I felt that this might have been too “forward” a thing to say, so…

Me: [Not knowing what else to say, damn me to hell!!!] Well, I’m sure someone will be willing to take you in, God…

[Here God shifted his coy little eyes in my direction, as if playfully teasing my reluctance to accept His Salvation into my heart and His Doughy Little Body into my home.]

Suddenly realizing the great danger I was in, I waffled hard — like a politician at a midnight pancake fundraiser breakfast.

“…You know, God, we’d just love to have you over sometime,” I said. “Maybe sometime next week? You could come over, Julia’ll whip up a batch of her famous baba ghanoush, we’ll knock back a couple-a brewsk’s, maybe play a few rounds of Snatch, it’ll be a blast! Hey, You could even make a some cinnamon-rolls or something, we could have them for dessert!” (I felt certain that this appeal to God’s almost obsessive interest in the science and art of pastry-making would be sure to tickle His divine Fancy.)

But God would have none of it. In retrospect, I’m pretty sure the faux pas was suggesting to God that He make cinnamon-rolls; as I later learned from a former colleague of mine, cinnamon-rolls are considered, among the cognoscenti, to be roughly the pastry equivalent of wearing brown-paisley socks with black Velcro sandals. In other words, good enough for me, a lousy, worthless faggot, but not good enough for God.

Cinnamon-rolls?” God said condescendingly, as if I had just suggested He serve day-old sloppy joe’s to the Grand-High Bishkek of Samarkand. “Talk about pedestriansville!!”

Me: Oh, well, listen, God, if you’re not down for it–

God: [raising his hands in the “whoa, man, don’t blame me!” gesture] Nooooo-ho-ho-ho, far be it from me to turn down such a generous offer!

Me: But we didn’t–

God: [with *JAZZ-HANDS*] In fact, I will see your offer of dinner and raise you accommodations for the night. We can go Dutch!

Me: Yeah, so, uh, listen, er… Your, uh… Your Honor? [Somehow “Your Majesty” just didn’t feel right]

God: “God” will do just fine, thank you. Now let us be off! Where’s the limousine?

Me: Uh… we don’t have a car.

God: [Looking disappointed] Ah, I see… well then! I suppose we’ll just have to bum a ride off of Madame le Pig [this lattermost word He pronounced “PEEZH”] over there.

Julia scowl up at me as if to say, “Nuh-uh, Chaalie! Ain’t no way, ain’t no how this pig’s gonna play rickshaw to a lawn-gnome who don’t even know about ‘goin’ Dutch,’ so you can just take that idea and place it where the sun don’t shine!

I scrambled desperately for one last gambit to avoid taking responsibility for God’s newly troubling homelessness.

Me: You know, God, actually, well, unfortunately we don’t really have the space to put you up for the night — Julia and I have to share a bed as is…

God, however, was not deterred by the necessity of having to share a bed.

FLASH-FORWARD TO last night, which I spent fitfully trying to get some sleep with Julia the Pig snoring loudly on one side of me and God The Father talking loudly in his sleep on the other.

That’s right: God talks in his sleep. And what, precisely, issued forth from the Font of Wisdom? Well, I hate to put words in the mouth of Illius qui vos omnes servabit, but it sounded sorta like, “…When making a shortcrust pastry, care must be taken to blend the fat and flour thoroughly before adding any liquid… zzzz…”

What God said in his sleep didn’t make a lot of sense to me (and I continue to harbor lingering suspicions that God’s dreams may have been plagiarized wholesale from Wikipedia, “The Online Encyclopedia”), but I suppose someone must surely be interested in what He has to say, even if it’s just the Mormons, and even if He says it in His sleep with a rivulet of saliva trickling innocently from His slumbering pie-hole.

Contributing to my displeasure was the fact that God’s cute little hooves are as piercingly cold as a brace of frigid witch-teats, and that He seems to enjoy nothing so much as placing said extremities right on my leg in the middle of the night.

Yeeow!

In fact, it was upon being subjected to just such an unexpected exposure to said chilly little hind-hooves that I was rudely awoken last night.

YEEOW!” I ejaculated, ripped from the warm, hazy dreaminess of Slumberity and pulled, figuratively kicking and screaming, into the harsh, bitter bleakness of Awakenhood.

I BESEECH THEE, MRS. WILBERFORCE — OH GOD, NO, NOT THE CLAMPS!” screamed God, the Omnipotent, the Omniscient and the Omnipresent. “SLAY ME NOT, I BEG OF THEE, FAIR MISTRESS!!!

Talk about a strange alarm to wake up to!

And the alarm was set to 3:51am!!!!

It was a few bewildered moments before I realized that God was sleep-screaming. Something about the idea of God the Creator having nightmares in which He is being tortured and killed by some lady named Mrs. Wilberforce struck me as a bit unsettling, so I nudged Julia The Pig.

Hey, wake up,” I whispered to her, “I think God’s having a nightmare.”

She startled awake mid-snore. She rolled over to face me, highly displeasured, and looked at me with a grogged-out, annoyed expression as if to say, If there ain’t a plate of bacon and eggs and a hot cuppa joe to go along with the awakening you just committed, den der goan’ beh sum grayv reppakushunz, Chaaleh!

I recounted to her what I had heard God say in his sleep — mainly what He had said about being terrified by a mysterious female entity by the name of “Wilberforce,” but also the fact that there is a very particular way that ingredients for a pie crust must be assembled, which topic also took up a great deal of God’s sleepy-time monologue.

This story spooked Julia somethin’ turrable (which is funny, because she’s not all that religious), and she made the brilliancy of a suggestion that we sneak into the kitchen and polish off the last of our good gin (which, frankly stated, is not that much better than our bad gin) “to take the edge off-a Fear Itself, Chaalie!” To this suggestion I immediately and heartily assented, and Julia and I spent the second half of last night getting schwasty-faced and discussing what we were going to do about the pudgy little sleep-talker currently hogging [oh, sorry, JTP: “monopolizing”] the covers in our bed.

Now, in a “situational comedy,” this kind of whack-a-doo mixed-up mayhem n’ shenaniganry would most likely lead to hilarity ensuing. This was not a “situational comedy,” however. This was “Real Life,” and as such all that ensued — or should I say “accrued” — was a massive amount of sleep-debt.

So I was not in rare-form the next day when I went to apply for a job at a nearby Wendy’s. Not exactly my dream-job, I admit, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers. As anyone who knows me is well aware, I am an ugly, bitter, depressed loser without much in the way of job-prospects. But “bills is bills,” as they say, and, contrary to what you may have been told by people who lie all the time, bills do not pay for themselves; as such, I was left with little alternative but to see if I couldn’t get myself “gainfully employed”…

Episode 2: “Ask Julia The Pig”

Dear Julia The Pig,

I have recently run into a rather sticky situation concerning proper etiquette as a good guest. Normally, when I’m invited over someone’s house, I take care to bring a small gift, for example a tray of glycerin soaps in the shapes of sea animals or a ceramic representation of the martyrdom of St. Stephen.  These gifts convey the message of “Thank you for welcoming me into your home!” and pre-emptively undermine any feelings of discontent or resentment on the part of my hosts.  This suits me well, as I then feel free to stay and sip their liqueurs as long as I like!

However, last night I was invited to the domicile of my new friend, Rebekah Gormlich, a young lady of decent breeding whom I met at a salon musicale dedicated to the oeuvre of Andrew Lloyd Weber. In any event, I arrived at Miss Gormlich’s house with a jar of pickled watermelon rinds and was welcomed in by Miss Gormlich’s mother. Here I had my first mild shock, for the madame was wearing nought but a sports bra and a pair of “sweat-shorts.” I nonetheless retained my composure and handed her my offering. She frowned and threw it carelessly upon the counter, muttering: “Hyman won’t have any use for these!”

In response to my quizzical — not to say mortified! — expression, Rebekah gestured toward the man of the house, whom I presumed to be Hyman.  The first thing I noticed about the venerable gentleman, smartly outfitted in a smoking jacket and tweed spats, was that he bore a visage of unutterable fatigue. The second thing I noticed was that he was dead. Unless there be another explanation for his bluish complexion, pungent odor and general air of listlessness. I could not help but be touched by the family’s obvious devotion to their patriarch.

“Motherrrr!” exclaimed Miss Gormlich junior, arms akimbo. “Can’t you be civil to my friends, for once?” She explained to me that her father could only ingest foods of a pastelike consistency, and then only with considerable aid.  “Here, try!” she commanded, holding up a bowl of greyish semi-liquid.  “It’s his fiber-shake. It keeps him regular.”

I will not go into further detail upon that strange, strange night, but here is where I seek your guidance, Julia the Pig. Next time I am invited over a household presided over by a deceased member, what should I bring as a gift?

Grace Quimby, Long Island

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Julia The Pig is currently vacationing in the Caucuses; filling in for her this week is Constance “Connie” Eiderdown, author of the Like Manners From Heaven: The Intersection of God, Etiquette, and Common-Sense Bein’ Polite! (2007)]

Dear Ms. Quimby,

Thank you for writing! (Remember, Gentle Readers, the first rule of Etiquette is to thank people for absolutely everything, regardless of circumstance. For example, always remember to send a follow-up “thank you” note to someone after he or she has taken the time to rape your dog!)

You bring up a delicate subject, Ms. Quimby. With the issues of “Marriage Equality” for dead people and corpse “Adoption Rights” seemingly everywhere in the news these days, it can at times be tricky to know how to deal with “our” “equal” “fellow” “humans.” Whatever your political or religious views, however, there is never an excuse for Bad Manners, not even if you just know, deep down in your heart of hearts, that those people are all going to rot in hell. (Besides, you never know — some day YOU might become a Dead Person, too!)

…Which brings me to the first of my Top Five Tips For Dealin’ with the Dead:

1.) Use politically-correct language

We’re all guilty of this. We all know that it isn’t polite to call them “Fags” or “Dead People” or “Dwarves” (the preferred spelling is “d-w-a-r-f-s”), but sometimes those are just the first words that come to mind and they slip out of your mouth even though you didn’t mean anything by it and the next thing you know you’re being fired by the Marion County School Board for using “Racial Slurs” in the classroom! Just be sure to remember that they prefer the term “Necrotic-American,” and you should be all right.

2.) Avoid Stereotypes

You might think that all Necrotic-Americans are inanimate, non-sentient clumps of matter that barely merit the term “entities.” Well, maybe those things are all true, but that doesn’t stop the vast majority of Necrotic-Americans from going on to lead full, rich lives! A recent survey suggests that Necrotic-Americans can be anything they want to be, from surgeons and dance-instructors to coffin-occupants and even air-traffic controllers!

3.) Play along

Sometimes a little “suspension of disbelief” goes a long way. Sure, it might be stone-cold obvious that a certain individual is a Necrotic-American, but if his wife says that he’s been learning to ski and loving it, just smile, nod your head politely, and say things like, “I see, I see,” and “is that right, now?”

4.) Stay Positive! 😉

It’s important to always maintain a positive attitude, even when holding parley with the dead. Try not to get bogged down in depressing, “downer” topics like the fact that Necrotic-Americans are dead and will never know another sunrise nor ever again feel the wind on their faces. Instead, try to keep the atmosphere “fun” by focusing on positive things that everyone can relate to, such as what a handful pets can sometimes be or how expensive party decorations are getting to be these days.

5.) The Smell

What can I say? Some stereotypes are simply 100% true. No matter what “The Liberals” in Washington might tell you, most Necrotic-Americans smell pretty darn stale, just like that other people-group that always seems to smell really bad (you know the one I mean). Some Necrotic-Americans can be sensitive about their reeking putridity. So if you’re at a party and a Necrotic-American is producing a “mature aroma” that simply cannot be ignored, try taking the fall for him or her by saying, “Pardon me, everyone; I seem to have farted.”

Anywho, I hope these Top Five Tips For Dealin’ with the Dead have been helpful to you, Ms. Quimby! Be sure to write back and let us know how implementing this advice has worked out for you!

Thank you very much, ;-D
Constance “Connie” Eiderdown

Episode 1: “Pilot”

“No — no words. No words to describe it. Poetry! They should’ve sent a poet.”

–Ellie Arroway

Well, I WAS an atheist! That is, until a few days ago when I met the Creator of the Universe and He begged me to start a blog. I was all like, “Oh my gosh, it’s God!!” And God was like, “Dude, PLEASE start a blog!!!”

Allow me to back up.

I suppose this story really begins where all stories begin: at the creation of the universe. The Bible, for example, starts pretty much right at the beginning of things, and that’s a pretty well-known story. Or take, for example, the classic Russian novel “Crime and Punishment.” Now, I’ve never read this story myself (is it some kind of mystery novel?), but something tells me that the book would never have been written if God had not first created the universe.

I mean, right?

The author, pictured here with his ex-wife, Oksana Ivanovna Putnika (2007).

The main difference between this story and all stories that have ever gone before it is that this story is THE REASON THE UNIVERSE WAS CREATED. You may be experiencing some skepticism; I myself was a bit incredulous when God told me that He had created the universe EXCLUSIVELY so that, in billions upon billions of eventual years later, I, Chris Nelson, could write the blog that YOU ARE READING RIGHT NOW.

(Another difference between this story and most other stories is that THIS story begins midway upon life’s journey, one morning when I found myself within a forest dark, snarflin’ around for truffles with my pet pig, Julia, for the straightforward pathway had been lost. And I only know of one other story that begins even vaguely similarly.)

ANYWAY, there Julia and I were, snarflin’ n’ grofflin’ ‘round gnarly tree-roots for the delectable little fungi when Julia suddenly froze, stock-still, staring off into the distance with furrowed brow. I knelt down beside my trusty companion, concerned. I looked intently into the dark, limpid pools of her noble, porcine eyes and saw that some kind of divine madness, some kind of unholy bloodlust had been kindled therein.

"Pig"

Julia, my trusty sidepig. (Voted "Best Pig of 2007".)

“What is it, boy?” I asked. “Do you smell something? Do you smell some sexy red-headed person??”

In response, Julia sprang forth and began bounding off towards the mysterious source of the strange force that was tickling her piggy intuition. I ran after her, barely able to keep up with her spry little hooves sprinting nimbly through the underbrush.

Just when I was about to collapse from exhaustion, we burst into a quaint little sun-dappled glen, the center of which was dominated by the MOST COLOSSAL TRUFFLE EVER BEHELD BY THE EYES OF MAN.

My mind reeled, my mouth watered greedily at the sight of a truffle approximately the size of a Shetland pony.

“Why, with that kinda mush,” I thought to myself, “Julia n’ me, we’d soon be up to our ears in money, booze, and women!” Visions of me and my best pig-friend sipping champagne and smoking expensive cigars in a hot-tub full of hot-ass honeys danced through my head.

Imagine my surprise, then, (go on, just imagine it!) when Julia indicated to me using a sophisticated series of gruffles and hoof-stomps that I was to take Paragnamax, my trusty ax (or “axe” — both spellings are considered correct), and cleave asunder the temptuous little mushling!!

Well, who was I to argue with a pig cunning enough to communicate with me like that?

–Nobody, that’s who!!

So I shrugged. I extracted my ax from its leathern scabbard. And it was only a matter of moments before I was hurling aloft Paragnamax, the dread mushbane of the underworld, and letting it fall square in the middle of the portentous mushmallow. A bolt of white-hot flame leaped from where Paragnamax connected with the truffle, and a clamor as the voices of ten-thousand waterfalls erupted from the swirling Charybdis of fire and lightning.

Slowly, the smoke cleared…

…The echoing thunder subsided…

…And there, standing directly in the center of the cloven truffle, was GOD.

St. Anselm of Canterbury (c. 1033 – 21 April, 1109) defined God as “that than which nothing greater can be conceived.” I, on the other hand, define God as follows: He is a plump, jolly little gnome-like being with pointy shoes and a jaunty little feathered cap which he wears tipped saucily to one side. He has rosy cheeks, a cute little button-nose, and eyes that seem to be always a-twinkle with mischief. He wears a fancy little waistcoat that makes him look just as dapper as you could want, lots and lots of colorful buttons with whimsical little pictures and phrases written on them, and a festive little cummerbund that ties him all together quite nicely.

I guess I was expecting God to be a wise old Black woman, or at least like a kindly old Black man, but hey, I guess that’s how accurate Hollywood’s portrayal of God has been.

ANYWAY, I was all like, “Oh my gosh, it’s God!!

And God was like, “Dude, PLEASE start a blog!!!”

Well, not in so many words; what He REALLY said (in a high, sing-songy voice rather like that of a Munchkin) was:

“Well hal-loo, fair-weather travelers! And what, pray-m’tell, brings such a strapping young stripling and his pretty porkster pal to my humble ‘nook’ of the woods?” Then he winked at me conspiratorially and did an odd little jig / foot-tapping dance that looked… well, it looked just really fucking pathetic, to be honest with you, not to mention a little gay.

Julia, my pet pig, looked up at me uneasily, as if to say, I ain’t so sure about this guy, Chaalie…

For a long, surreal moment I stared down at God. I was not sure how to react, never having been in this particular situation ever before. (I was also caught off-guard by the fact that God lives in a mushroom, pretty much exactly like a smurf.)

So then I was all like, “WHAAAAAAAAAAAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT, GOD???”

This is when He gave me the here’s-what. God the Almighty, Wright of Heaven and Hell, explained to me that He’d been meaning to get a lot accomplished lately, but that his growing interest in pastry-making was taking up more of His time than He had anticipated. (Apparently, God’s really been getting into doughs and frostings and stuff recently, and He’s kinda been neglecting some of the “core” issues such as The Meaning of Life, His Plan for the Universe, etc., in favor of learning how to bake.)

His recently-neglected “to-do” list includes, among other things:

1.) Make a bunch of stupid lists
2.) Make sure a bunch of pigs commit suicide / make a bunch of pig jokes
3.) Publish “The Wilberforce Chronicles”
4.) Invent a language
5.) Sort out the whole science vs. religion thing
6.) See #6
7.) Miscellaneous / Make sure things come out in nice, round “7’s”

“…That’s why I need you to start a blog,” God concluded, and gave a sassy shake of his pert little rump to punctuate the announcement.

“A ‘blog’???” I said. I had heard the term used before, but I had never stopped to think about its being used by God to communicate with us humans.

I folded my arms and eyed God skeptically. “Isn’t a ‘blog’ a place for the supply of prepubescent White and/or Asian girls’ bitching and nagging and griping and moaning to far* outstrip the demand thereof?”

"Movie Poster"

THE WILBERFORCE CHRONICLES: What Shakespeare was to painting, this film will be to the culinary arts.

*(Infinitives will be split mercilessly in this blog. If you cannot handle the UNBRIDLED SAVAGERY, perhaps this blog is not for you.)

“Oh, well, naturally!” God assented immediately, placing his hands akimbo in just the most adorable little way. Then he pointed a single, pointed index finger into the air to emphasize his conviction. “However, it is also a place for you to do My Work!”

Julia had by now lost interest in the Word of God and was nibbling on a corner of the giant fungus that served as His home.

I hesitated. “I dunno…” I told God. “I mean, I’d really love to help you out and all, but I’ve kinda got a lot of stuff going on right now, and I’m not sure I really want to be adding more to my plate…”

(This was a lie. As anyone who knows me is well aware, I have very few friends and even fewer hobbies. Combined with the fact that I am woefully unemployed, this means that I often find myself with plenty of “free-time” on my hands. But I am also a very lazy person, and being the Mouthpiece of the Godhead sounded like an awful lot of work.)

But God can be very persuasive when He wants to be (if you count “inspiring pity” as a persuasionary tactic), and in the end I just felt so bad for the odd little pastry-chef wanna-be that I relented. And so, to make an extraordinarily boring (if not all that long) story short, here I am, writing a blog on behalf of YHWH!

Who’d-a thunk? Certainly not my father, who is a Baptist minister, lol!!

It then became a simple matter of deciding upon a name for the blog; from there, God assured me, the thing would virtually write itself. The name had to encompass not only the fact that the blog would be a work of breathtaking clarity of purpose and felicity of execution by a man whose brain is an Earth-shattering cataclysm of unparallelled genius, but also the fact that DEUS HIMSELF had commissioned the blog.

Talk about a tall order!

“What about ‘God’s Genius Blog’?” I proposed.

God merely scoffed at me. “‘God’s Genius Blog’?! What are you, kidding me? That’s like calling a book, ‘Please Read This Book. It Is Well-Written And A Nice Book To Read.’”

I thought about this title for a moment. “I would probably read that book,” I said, perhaps somewhat naively. “It sounds like it would be nice to read.”

God face-palmed.

So ANYWAY, here’s the “gist” of what God wanted me to tell you:

"A Study In Scarlet"

In case there was any confusion, this blog is *PRO* pig-suicide. The above diagram illustrates the most effective and delicious way for a pig to "end it all."

1.) If you are a pig, go kill yourself. Now, don’t get me wrong: this isn’t, like, prejudice against pigs or anything. It’s just that pigs, as it turns out, get a really wicked-sweet afterlife, and it would be a shame for any individual pig to spend one more day on Earth when he or she COULD be living it up in Pig Heaven — or “Hog-Heaven,” if you will — which, as far as I can glean from God’s coy little hints, consists mainly in there being lots of free food lying around. I’m not exactly clear on the specifics of the theology surrounding the existence of an awesome heaven just for pigs, but God did say that we’d be learning more about this as the blog progresses. (He also intimated that bats, sloths, and certain species of tree-kangaroo actually share a heaven, so I’m pretty curious to find out what that’s all about.)

2.) If you are NOT a pig, feel free to continue living! — ***ON THE CONDITION THAT*** you read this blog. Daily. Daily* perusal of this blog ALONE will ensure your admission into Heaven.

*(Special dispensation may be granted for individuals experiencing acute medical or financial hardship; please contact me directly with any questions about this.)

3.) Episode #100 will contain the Meaning of Life. For better or for worse, I am not even joking. The MEANING OF LIFE will LITERALLY be revealed to you in Episode #100. No joke, no pun, no scam, no ironically misleading promise in an attempt to be “cute.” The nature of existence, why we’re all here, and what you can do to make it all worthwhile will all be contained within Episode #100.

…So yeah.

I’m not sure how to make this any clearer to you people. Episode #100 will LITERALLY CONTAIN THE MEANING OF LIFE.

ANYWAY, thanks very much to everyone for stopping by to read the first episode of God’s slash my blog! I’ll admit it’s off to a pretty rough start, what with all the typos and grammatical mistakes and blasphemous heresy and what-not — but hey, nobody’s perfect! Except God. And even He’s a bit… well, you’ve read my description of Him.

I guess this is where a catchy “closing-phrase” would normally go.

Bye!