DOUBLE WIDEby Jim Parnell
Well, it's about time you got here. You would not believe the crap I've put up with these last couple years: bad karma, bad beer, and bad reviews, toted in by the tractor-trailer load with merciless glee. Ever month or so a extra large dose of insubordination and sly half-witted insinuations pile up at my door, regular as an anorexic's period. Written by gap-toothed critics and other slap-mouth morons, I've had just about all I can take.
Hey, really glad you could make it. What's your name, son? Oh. Well, I think I'll just call you "Slim" if it's all the same to you. Hand me the electrogaffer, willya? Don't touch that contact. WATCH IT, it's gonna ...
Hah-hah, they all laugh, it's so damned funny when a hombre's gold tooth's a-lightin' up with St. Elmo's Fire, and he starts a boogie like St. Vitus. Dancin' with the saints the high-power boys call it. Dain-bramage and fast nerves it'll give you, faster'n you can say "cardiac arrest".
Sure it's obscure. Maybe you oughtta read more.
Back to my favorite subject. Like I was sayin', them's my words out there and I'm partial to 'em. Ever durned one of 'em filtered through that wet sloppy gray mess on the top of my spinal cord, ever durned one an agent of mental infection, a viroid slave to my will. I am Meme-Meister, Master of the Boonie-Verse. Hey, shut up. I'm serious as an IRS audit, and as an artiste, those critiques doth wound me to the quick. Really.
Hey, where you from, Slim? Oh. They grow a lotta turnips there, don't they. Hand me that spanner and watch your fingers.
Oh yeah, that damn business about the fnords. What the fuck was that all about? I still remember when my teacher had that little Twilight Zone vortex doohickey spinnin' and that spooky voice dronin' on about how they was going to et us all if we noticed 'em -- "Don't see the fnords!" they said. All the other kids were starin' slack-mouthed and droolin'. Not me. I thought they was just tellin' us not to visit Norway. What a dork.
You think that's interesting, do you? Whatever floats your goat, buddy.
So I started the FC of I as a business venture, to give me free time and moola for boola. Since it was my idea, I was the Big Kahuna, the Big Cheese, the Sultan of Swill, AKA, the Master of Mahogany Row. Not that I like mahogany, and there ain't a row actual-like. My desk, and it ain't really a desk neither, is a couple pine planks on cement blocks. I've got an ant-farm and one of them Dipper Birds, hell I can watch that thing for hours, and I got a Elvis clock autographed by over 5 1/2 genuine Elvis Impersonators. Them Elvises wasn't funny or nothin' and they didn't play geetar, but they could whup ass meaner'n a blue-balled parson after striking out with the organ lady, and they loved nothin' better than a friendly game of chainsaw roller derby.
But you ain't interested in sports. I just wanna do what I wanna do (Yogi would be proud). And what I wanna do can be summed up in one word: "Drink Beer"
Why the First Church? For the tax-exempt status, of course! Thought I'd like the fame and fortune, but after a while I figured out I only liked the fortune. Don't look so shocked, the Faithful get what they paid for, and I get to work on my favorite stuff. Like my airfoil tinfoil Faraday cage xeno-attracter. Better than a lap-dancin' furbunny to a horn-dog Gray, huh? Thought so. And my new one here, uh, hey, DON'T TOUCH THAT!
Good one! There goes that gold tooth again, heh-heh-heh. Really son, you've got a lot to learn about electrical safety. Rule of thumb: Park your thumb where it's safe and it won't learn about the electrical. Oh yeah? Well you can take that any way you want -- it ain't my fault you've got thumbs that could flag down a space shuttle. Hey now, I'm warning you! Don't get persnippety with me or I'll just have to bid you a not-so-fond adieu.
Alright, alright, don't ... aw Geez, stop that. It's OK, really, and stop licking my boots; you don't know where they been. Hell I don't know where they been. I didn't even know you guys could cry. Thought you were above all that. Yeah sure kid, let's get back to the questions.
Yeah, uh-huh. No, not really. I just liked all those gross covers on his books. Thought it would be a kick in the head to do kind of a tribute to the old boy. Had no idea the A.O.O. were real, and just as desperate for ... A.O.O.? It's an acronym, stands for Ancient Old Ones. Sure, I understand. People love acronyms, especially the military and ham radio operators. Not to mention independent researchers with a bit of the Renaissance man in them like Y.T. Stands for "Yours Truly". Me, moi, myself. Ahh, I give up. You're a real 40-watter, Slim -- dim!
Like I was saying, the AOO turned out to be as desperate for attention as puppy dogs, mindblastin' a non-believer here and there, working a miracle or two with frogs and whippoorwills. Hell, they even took care of my IRS auditor last year. Sent his family a Christmas basket -- with him in it. Yeah, it's the thought that counts.
Well anyway, I got on right nice with them old boys. Sure, they get playful sometimes and then you have to slap 'em down. How? I dunno, how do you usually do it? Oh, I see. Well, I guess I just get mad at 'em and they stop, like they was scared I'd make 'em go away. Never thought about it much, I s'pose. Next topic, please. I got work to do.
Oh yeah? The original series was the best as far as I'm concerned. Kirk chasin' his pecker across the Universe, Spock doin' his best to ignore his own pecker, and Bones happily moppin' up the leftovers. Those cheesy effects. That cheesy gear. Those tiny little dresses on the space girls, and those dam-fine alien babes who made Pamela Anderson look like Kate Moss on Slim-Fast! Hoo-ahh!
Pamela Anderson? Check the video archives, Slim, but do it on your own time.
Yep. Still trying to get through to Roddenberry, Inc. but they never return my calls. I gotta tell you, there's a bunch of snot-nosed punks runnin' the show over there now. They love the genre like a postal worker loves his job. They're only in it for the money, not for true ground-breaking gritty art like I send 'em.
What? The First Church is nothing like Roddenberry Ink, Slim-bob, so just back off! The Irrefutable Delivers -- every Batrach carries my personal seal of approval and a full, 3-day, money-back guarantee. No questions asked. And we always return your call.
Aw, Cripes, there you go again. Please, just turn off the waterworks. Yeah, there's some Kleenex over there by the quantum S.O.D.O.M.-izer, just don't lean over the ...
Hee-heeeee! Thought that only happened in the 'toons! You are one funny guy, Slim, but you're way too conductive for this job. I'll answer one last question while your klutzy carcass is still in one piece.
No. That's none of your damn business. Why don't you ask her? She's your planet's Prima Fecundica, not mine. Besides, even though she's an utterly irresistable being, the very definition of juicy, desirable, finger-lickin', er, femaleness in her own strange, yet infinitely devastating and compelling way, a gentleman never tells.
Cute kid she's got, though, don't you think?
OK, end of interview, Slim. It's a wrap. Oh yeah, there's one more thing before you climb back in your saucer, an old Earth custom.
Pull my finger...
Jim Parnell wallows in self-pity all day, moaning and groaning about so much Guinness, so little time, and how nobody does a decent pour anymore, never getting the nitrous mix right for a fine cascade, and how the young punks're just skimming the tank for whippets. Sigh.
You can e-mail Jim Parnell at firstname.lastname@example.org
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