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ANNE RICE AND DONALD TRUMP TRAPPED IN AN ELEVATOR
It was just another routine day for Anne Rice, as she stepped into the elevator of her apartment building, heading out to pick up some vampire gum, vanilla wafers, and pencil erasers. Little did she know that this elevator ride would turn into a nightmare.
Looking down at her yellow pad of story ideas, in her own world as usual, she automatically pushed the lobby button not thinking twice about her actions. Just as the door closed and the elevator started to descend, there was a sudden jolt, and the lights flickered off. The emergency backup lights came on, casting an eerie glow over the small space. Anne realized she wasn't alone in the elevator. In the corner a figure groaning in pain with his back towards her slowly turned around. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she suddenly realized with horror that the figure was none other than former President Donald Trump. And to make matters worse, he was clutching his jaw and complaining of a toothache.
The two of them were trapped in the elevator for what felt like an eternity, with no way of calling for help or getting out. Trump's mood swings were making the situation even more unbearable. One moment he was calm, the next he was raging and pacing around the small space, making Rice feel more and more uneasy with each passing minute.
An hour ticked by, and Rice’s nerves were frayed. She was getting increasingly anxious and claustrophobic, and Trump's constant groaning wasn't helping. The heat was rising, and the air was growing thick and stuffy. The smell of Trump’s cologne and Anne’s perfume mingled into an odorous concoction.
Just when Anne thought she couldn't take it anymore, she heard the sound of machinery and the elevator suddenly jolted to life. The lights flickered back on, and the doors slid open. She breathed a sigh of relief and quickly made her exit, never to look back.
A year later Rice would reflect on that traumatic experience in her last unfinished novel, drawing upon the horrors of being trapped with a man who seemed to represent everything she despised. The embodiment of her worst fears that some believe was the initial cause of her debilitating stroke.
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2. |
A Paul Simon Adventure
04:49
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A PAUL SIMON ADVENTURE
As the air balloon soared high above the city, it was clear that the weather was taking a turn for the worse. The sky was dark and ominous, and the wind was picking up. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and the air was thick with the smell of rotten bananas.
Inside the balloon, two punk rockers laughed maniacally as they looked at the man they had kidnapped - none other than Paul Simon, taped to a chair, helpless and confused. They had always wanted to get their hands on a music legend, and now they had one.
But their celebration was short-lived when they suddenly heard a loud, muffled, growling noise coming from inside a canvas pouch strapped to the side of the basket. Looking over, dumbfounded, they were horrified to see a wild honey badger clawing it’s way out and staring back at them, its eyes blazing with fury.
The badger had somehow found its way into the air balloon pouch after escaping the Los Angeles Zoo. The stoned enthusiasm of the two kidnappers woke it up. It was clear that it was not happy about being trapped with two humans and a helpless Paul Simon. The two punk rockers tried to keep the badger at bay, but it was clear that they were no match for its ferocity.
As the storm raged on, lightning flashed in the sky, illuminating the terrified faces of the kidnappers and their victim. The badger continued to growl, and the smell of rotten bananas and ozone mixed with the scent of fear.
Suddenly, the balloon was hit by a strong gust of wind, and the basket started to swing wildly. The badger seized its chance, lunging at the punk rockers and attacking them with a vengeance.
Amidst the chaos, Paul Simon managed to break free from his restraints, and he scrambled towards the edge of the basket. The wind still blowing hard, he knew that he had to act fast.
With all his strength, he hoisted one of the punk rockers out of the basket and into the storm. The other punk rocker, now injured from the honey badger's attack, was no match for Paul's strength, and he too was hoisted out and over.
Meanwhile, the honey badger fully satisfied with a piece of the punk rocker’s leg it was able to chew off gave Paul a menacing stare; his growling growing louder by the second. Paul looked the badger in the eye and quietly sang his folksy lullaby “St. Judy’s Comet”. The badger calmed down to the soothing sound of Paul’s slightly trembling voice. It licked it’s bloody lips and closed it’s beady little eyes. As the song ended, the wind died down. The dark clouds began to part. For some reason, Paul thought of a Willy Mays baseball card he had as a child. The image of which brought a tear and a smile to his face. His song “Night Game” played over and over in his mind.
Suddenly, a deafening pop blasted out as a small remnant of an meteorite pierced through the top of the balloon canvas. The hissing of escaping air whistled with the highest of pitch. Again the basket jerked aggressively back and forth as it plummeted toward the forest below. The badger slid from side to side - confused and scared, it’s claws leaving scrape marks everywhere. Paul held tight to one corner, his muscles cramping up. In what seemed like a flash the balloon crashed into a tall redwood tree impaling itself on some pointedly sharp branches, the impact of which tossed the badger out of the basket. Paul still holding on for dear life, dripping with sweat, breathed a sigh of relief. As the blood finally made it’s way back to his hands he tried to make heads or tails of the situation.
Slowly coming to his senses he managed to scope out which branches would more than likely help him descend to the ground. Fearfully and carefully he climbed out - the unstable creaking of the branches making Paul’s heartbeat race faster and faster! After a half hour his feet finally touched soil. About a meter away he could see the badger groaning in pain - it’s bones broken. There wasn’t anything Paul could do. So he wisely walked away dazed but free. He looked up at the now clear blue sky and began whistling a twisted version of his tune “Soft Parachutes” all the while wondering what kind of “Garfunkled” up world he had stumbled into. A world where a wild honey badger, the smell of rotten bananas, and punk rockers could all be found in an air balloon, high above a movie back lot forest somewhere in Southern California. Huh.
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CLEM’S SKYWRITING DILEMMA
When it came to skywriting, Clem was the best in the business. His plane would leave flawless trails of smoke in the sky that formed words in all shapes and fonts, wowing crowds below. Unfortunately, Clem had a bit of a disconcerting affliction that he tried to keep under wraps. Only his closest friends knew about it. He suffered from Tourette's syndrome, and occasionally, he would involuntarily shout out a string of foul mouthed pornographic words, often so crude and obscene as to get arrested twice at the annual St. Vermouth's Dunkin' Donuts Day parade. At one point though, a doctor prescribed Clem some pistachio gum to chew when holding long conversations. For some reason, this small act seemed to do the trick and Clem could converse curse free! That brings us to the incident that occurred two Summers ago. Clem was hired to do a skywriting display for the opening of the new Amazon warehouse in Two-loser Creek. It was a great paying gig. Clem felt confident as ever as he strapped into his trusty piper cub and elegantly took off into the blue sky. The crowd below looked up in amazement as he began to write out the Amazonian words so fluidly in big beautifully formed letters. As he reached into his shirt pocket for some pistachio gum he realized his pack was empty. Suddenly, Clem's Tourette's kicked in, and he began to shout to himself a string of expletives. To make matters worse and to the horror of the event organizers, the curse words appeared in the actual skywriting itself, spelled out in bold Ariel for all to see. A part of Clem was mortified, but he couldn't stop himself. He continued to write out the curse words between the prepared text he was given. At first, the crowd was shocked and appalled. Parents covered their children's eyes, and the event organizers scrambled to find a way to make Clem stop. But as the skywriting continued, something strange began to happen. People started to laugh.
There was something about the absurdity of the situation that was just too funny to ignore. Soon, the crowd was roaring with laughter, cheering Clem on as he continued to write foul words in the sky. Even the event organizers couldn't help but crack a smile.
In the end, Clem's provocative skywriting display became a big (though somewhat brief) national news story. Consequently, Clem was sent off for some shock treatments and Amazon donated a lifetime supply of pistachio gum to his humble abode. Eventually, he took off into the blue yonder again, where he would perfect his skywriting style (this time in perfect cursive) and also win a few aerial spelling bees in the process.
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4. |
Byjove's Epiphany
06:27
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BYJOVE'S EPIPHANY
Byjove found himself one day in a quantum state he could not comprehend. Was he dead or alive? He could not tell. Time had no meaning at this level and different things were happening to him all at once. He was on his way to basketball practice, changing a light bulb on the upstairs bathroom vanity, playing footsie on an Macy’s escalator, speaking naked in front of an audience of a million pinheads and watching his dog Rondo change into a spotted winged armadillo knocking over his late aunt’s urn off the fireplace. At that precise moment there came a petite knocking at the front door. It was two teenage female Jehovah witnesses dressed in plaid skirts. The door, having been slightly open at the time sparked the curiosity of the two girls. They took this as a sign to come in. “Hello?” “Hello?”, they both spoke in a giddy, cautious tone. No answer.
Byjove tried to make sense of his surroundings, but it was all too confusing. The basketball practice, the armadillo, the elevator, the bulb and the Jehovah Witnesses seemed to be part of a surreal 360 degree dream. He couldn't grasp how they all fit together.
As he watched the Jehovah Witnesses make their way into the living room Byjove tried to speak, but no words came out. He reached out to touch them, but his hand passed through their bodies as if they were ghosts. Byjove realized that he was indeed in a quantum state, and that the rules of 3 Dimensions no longer applied to him. What a groove. What a groove!
Suddenly, Byjove was surrounded by a bright blueish light, and a voice called out to him. “Byjove, it is time to make a choice. You can return to your physical body and continue your life as it was, or you can remain in this quantum state and experience the cosmos in ways you cannot yet imagine."
Byjove hesitated for a moment, considering his options. He had always been curious about the mysteries of the universe, and the prospect of exploring them in this new state was tempting. But he also had responsibilities and loved ones in the physical world, and he didn't want to abandon them.
After a moment of contemplation, Byjove made his decision. "I choose to return," he said. "I want to continue living and experiencing the physical world, even if it has its limitations."
With that, Byjove felt himself being pulled back into his body and seated on his upstairs toilet. Somewhat dazed he looked around, flushed the toilet and suddenly felt a sense of relief and gratitude. He knew that he had just experienced something deeply profound, but he also knew that there was much more to explore in this Earthly world around him.
Byjove headed downstairs to inspect the two nosey Jehovah witnesses who had let themselves in. “Hello” he said to them in a rather stern voice. The two girl’s were caught off guard and let out a heavy gasp. “Oh, you frightened us.” “Sorry but your front door was open and no one answered so…” Byjove stopped them in mid sentence. “It’s ok. I saw you from my upstairs bathroom.” The girls both looked at each other puzzled and just before they could respond Byjove let out a small cry. “Oh no, he said.” He clumsily made his way to his aunt’s urn that lie broken on the rug, her ashes scattered everywhere. He called for his dog. “Rondo.” Rondo, come here boy. But Rondo did not appear. All Byjove could think of was his dog’s transformation into a flying armadillo that knocked-over the urn. Where did he go? He couldn't help but feel a sense of awe and wonder. He realized that even though he was back in the physical world, the experience he had just had in the quantum state would stay with him forever. His train of thought became derailed as one of the Jehovah witnesses began speaking in tongues. It sounded like a cross between pig latin and spanglish, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of what she was saying. The other girl persisted on telling him that he needed to accept Jesus as his only savior before the end of the world would commence in two weeks. As he pulled himself together, he politely told them to leave the premises, shooing them to the front door. He knew that the strange experience he had was a gift, and he was grateful for it but they wouldn’t understand it. Byjove began to feel a pang of irritation. He didn't appreciate being proselytized to, especially in the midst of such a unique, surreal experience. But he also knew that the girl’s intentions were likely well-meaning, and he didn't want to be rude.
“Look, thank you for your concern," Byjove said, trying to sound polite but firm. "But I have my own spiritual beliefs, and I don't feel the need to convert."
The Jehovah witnesses persisted, trying to convince Byjove that his soul was in serious danger of being eaten by the devil. But Byjove remained steadfast in his response, repeating that he appreciated their concern but didn't want to switch his spiritual beliefs.
After a few more minutes of back-and-forth, the Jehovah witnesses finally relented. "Well, we’ll be on our way then," they said, sporting a tear in each eye. "But if you ever change your mind, here's a pamphlet.”
Byjove watched as the women schlepped their way out of his house and onto his manicured lawn heading toward his next door neighbor. He felt a sense of relief mixed with annoyance. He knew that religious dogma was a deeply personal matter, and he didn't appreciate feeling pressured to change his own. But he also knew that he couldn't control the actions of others, and he would simply have to accept that sometimes people would try to push their beliefs on him.
With a shrug, Byjove shut the front door. He turned his attention back to the ashes communing in the white shag carpet. Reluctantly, he went for his late aunt’s vacuum cleaner in the closet. As he opened the closet door a flying armadillo shot out above his head and seamlessly transformed into a rather big multicolored mosquito. It haphazardly jotted around the room. Alarmed at this, Byjove went commando. He snatched a Jehovah Witness pamphlet that was resting on a nearby table that supported an antique lamp his aunt had bequeathed him many years ago. His knee jerk reaction tipped the lamp over and it crashed to the ground into a million pieces. “Not again! What the hell?” He began angrily swatting at the mosquito like a madman eventually striking it down as it rested on the rim of a small basketball hoop velcroed to a wall . Though he knew the recent transformation of his dog into a flying armadillo then into a mosquito was some sort of profound quantum miracle, he was compelled to eat that mosquito, sautéed in his Aunt’s own ashes. He just had to. He was a strange guy that Byjove.

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IN AN ALTERNATE BEATLES' UNIVERSE
Once, in the mirthful tumult of the swinging '60s, four sprightly lads hailing from the maritime town of Liverpool dared to traverse the labyrinthine corridors of their dreams, to scale the dizzying peaks of a most beguiling ambition: to stake claim as the unrivaled sovereigns of the sonic cosmos. Their names, as legends are wont to prescribe, were John, Paul, George, and Ringo, a quartet with dreams to enthrall humanity under the banner of the Beatles.
Drenched in the relentless perspiration of their labors, the Beatles honed their craft in the dingy nooks of dimly lit clubs, penning verses, and forging melodies with a tempestuous devotion, knowing not the darkness of surrender. Their oeuvre bore a timbre and timidity uniquely theirs, an ethereal cadence that whispered portents of grandeur. And yet, despite their insurmountable toil and unassailable talents, the hallowed citadel of the music industry remained an elusive sanctum.
In a melancholic reverie, the Beatles often sought solace in the quietude of their favorite haunt, a quaint café whose aroma and repose always kindled a flicker of inspiration. One night as the brew scented the air, as sandwiches vanished into voracious maws, an epiphany unfurled its serendipitous wings before them. Amidst the clinking porcelain, they beheld a revelation: the world, it seemed, did harbor a boundless ardor for gastronomic delights.
Thus, the notion unfurled before them like a tapestry of tantalizing fates. What if, in their ceaseless endeavor for innovation, they were to conjure a culinary haven, an emporium of enchanting edibles and sonorous sips? A delicatessen, adorned with their irrefutable creativity, where music, delectation, and revelry converged to sculpt a singular experience.
With a fervor as frenzied as any rock and roll riff, the Beatles plunged into this daring enterprise. Their deli burgeoned into existence, an exuberant spectacle of gastronomy where each Beatle assumed a stewardship of flavor's domain.
John's montage of soups, infused with the enchantments of the Orient, swathed the soul in heartwarming embrace. Paul, the maestro of ingenuity, wove hearty sandwiches that burst forth with symphonies of taste. George's pastries and sweets, in their Middle Eastern finery, un-furled layers of delicate indulgence. And Ringo, the mixologist extraordinaire, concocted elixirs that whispered secrets and caressed palates.
As years coursed through the hourglass, the Beatles' deli metamorphosed into a mecca of epicurean ecstasy. Tourists and locals alike embarked upon pilgrimages to savor the creations, testaments to the harmonic convergence of taste and tune. The quartet, once struggling minstrels, had become venerable proprietors, amassing an affectionate clientele and garnering esteem among their peers.
Yet, even amidst the clamor of their culinary conquests, the Beatles never relinquished their love for melodies. In those twilight hours between chopping, simmering, and crafting, they penned songs, strummed chords, and kindled the flames of their musical affections. They were often heard performing with passionate abandonment in and around local pubs and clubs.
Thus, dear listener, from the crucible of musical yearnings and gustatory revelations, the Beatles forged their legend. An odyssey that began with edgy harmonies reverberating in darkened taverns concluded in the mellifluous symphony of flavors that danced on plates and palates alike. A paradoxical tale of serendipity and destiny, where four young souls dared to dine with dreams, and in doing so, etched their names into Liverpudlian history, forevermore synonymous with both esoteric songs and friggin’ food.
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6. |
Her Name Was Pareidolia
01:24
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HER NAME WAS PAREIDOLIA
Her name was Pareidolia, and she was the most hypnotic woman you'd ever meet. To each person she came in contact with, she reminded them of something else. To one guy, she looked like his ex-girlfriend who broke his heart. To another, she resembled the waiter who got his order wrong at a restaurant last week. And to me? Well… She looked like a bagel!
I know, it sounds ridiculous, but hear me out. Every time I saw her, I couldn't help but think of a fresh, warm, everything bagel. Maybe it was the way her hair was twisted up in a knot, or the shape of her nose, or her round, doughy cheeks. Whatever it was, it was uncanny.
I tried to ignore it at first, but as I got to know her better, it became more and more difficult. Whenever we'd go out to eat, I'd have to resist the urge to slather her with cream cheese and take a bite. And forget about kissing her - the thought of my lips touching her salty, sesame seed skin was just too much to bear.
Eventually, I had to break it off. I couldn't handle the constant hunger pangs and the strange looks I got from the other customers at the bagel shop. But every once in a while, when I'm walking down the street and I see a particularly delicious-looking everything bagel, I can't help but wonder what could have been.
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GENETTA'S EMAIL To ROGER McGUINN
Dearest Roger McGuinn:
I know that you're not laughing but what you write is contagiously funny. Unhappiness is your middle name but it still fuels you and I still relish your emails. The sarcasm is masterful and sleek. Your “We're all just blank slates with external forces writing our scripts, pulling our strings as we play our pretended roles so perfectly”, describes the human condition so succinctly. I know you didn’t actually say that but I can imagine your voice saying it. Turn turn turn! It’s all pretend anyway. Who cares? I’ve pretended to be a musician my entire life and not a particularly good one at that, somehow I've just manage to squeeze by. Good "smoke and mirrors" technique I suppose. That's how I fly.
And speaking of flying, I'm not sure if I've ever heard a Blackbird sing for real. Have you? We're certainly not hearing one on the original recording. In fact, a lot of what we hear in suburbia are just greedy McDonald's Seagulls scoping out the parking lots for discarded burger buns and stale french fries. They are not as intelligent as the big black crows on a telephone wire who will conspire to swoop down on you in a raging choir if you stare at them long enough. They know if you are thinking about a delicious chicken and broccoli dinner (with sauce on the side). And I'm speaking from experience. It happened to me last week! Definitely a Hitchcockian moment. And god forbid you're trying to catch a few peaceful winks outside on the hammock when no sooner do you shut your eyes an alarm of annoying squeaks go off. It's some damn Bluejays dive bombing the occasional lone pussy cat that's sneaking about. And it doesn't stop there! I'm constantly dealing with a verbose mockingbird under the moonlight, outside my bedroom window that needs to show off it's impressive imitation of seventy five bird languages at 20 minutes a clip. Royal pain in the ass. And I'd be remiss if I did not mention the bird that wakes me up in the early morning like a jack-hammer on speed: The woodpecker. Pecker. Pecker! Pecker! These guys have no code of silence and their Morse code certainly makes the trunk of trees look like a bad skin disease. And since I'm in a foul contemplating mode, did you know I was once 20 feet away from an Eagle. And not the Don Henley type. No, this was an actual American Eagle. And let me tell you - when this bird flapped it's wings it was scary shit. It made a "woof" sound that was very intimidating. No wonder it's the symbol of our great US of A.
The revered inventor, jokester and diplomat Benjamin Franklin wanted the Turkey to be our national symbol but congress voted "NO". Apparently they are way too edible and ugly looking.
Speaking of Turkey, I remember back around 2010 my then bestie "Susan" woke up in a panic because she could not find her cell phone. While she was looking for it in tears and filthy language, I kept hearing this strange gobbling ruckus outside. As I peered through the tree house window I saw about 9 turkeys jumping up and around her car. What??? I opened the door to take a closer look. To my surprise there was Susan's phone vibrating on the roof of her vehicle. Each time it made a ring the turkeys would go crazy for it. It obviously communicated some special message to them. The trick was trying to rescue the phone amidst all these nasty gobble gobbles without being beaked to death. It took a while but we eventually found a few cans of stuffing and cranberries. As we approached them with these delicacies they thought the wiser and rapidly scattered away. True story.
Anyway, mid March is approaching as you reminded me and that can only mean birthday cake for many of my friends. They seem to be celebrated between mid March to mid April. "So let's party!" An unlikely phrase from yours truly. Birthday-Schmirthday. I could live without them as I am getting too old around these parts and I can't relate to all these "woke" folk who have no sense of irony or dark, absurd humor. BORING! Since everything I would naturally say offends someone - I shut my mouth nowadays and retreat into my mind where anything goes.
So what else is new.
Crosby says I certainly would not make a good politician. He's right. I'm relatively sane and reasonable. The current crop of political wankers and posers are mostly easy on the eyes sociopaths with huge egos who put spells on weak minded individuals to get them to pay for their nonsensical ideologies. They are all about control instead of helping society at large. But I guess that's always been the case. We humans have a long way to go before we are truly civilized (whatever that means) and fair to one another. Fortunately, I won't be around to see that happen. I figure I've got another 10 years to go and then it's off to another dimension. And rest assured I will be doing my best to not come back here again!
Oh, and how about you, oh wise Byrd-man of the West... Will you be returning?
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A TWISTING TURNBUCKLE OF A TONGUE TWISTER
A twisting turnbuckle toggled till the taker tuna tiled up the tomato tuba. It was at this point the Singapore Sinatra sea shell solarium squirrel of square street soothed Samatha's secret sinister scaldings with sandy squash sole slippers in solstices serendipity sauce. "I'm tired of eating tuba toy boat toy boat toy boat electrical diatetical poop oats”, she exclaimed while whistling wanton wedges within weatherable wikis wondering where one waits when one weaves holy water. Perhaps portions percolated pampered purposes poured pistachio panhandler while twisting turnbuckle tagged Tricia's tumultuous teetering together tenaciously. Who the f knows? Great goons goggling gang bang gauze girders and grids going goo goo gator with giant Gorgonzola Godzilla geriatrics gathering up goofy garbage bag gorillas from Ghana genocidely? Well, the flawed answer was right in front of their morally corrupt scruples. Live life lasciviously like lunatics lumbering long lasting lawyers looking out for lady lumps stricken with lamenting leprechauns logo busters. It was that simple. And it had always been that simple. So lets roll out the simple and predicate the complex as just a way of distracting disillusioned demigods determined to do devilishly devious do dads and whatnots to us dopey dedicated douche bags during D day. Dig?
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9. |
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PLAYING BILLIARDS WITH A ZEBRA
Playing billiards with a zebra, my dear friends, is a venture into the realm of the utterly surreal. The elegance of the game, the clash of ivory spheres upon the emerald plane, finds itself juxtaposed against the uncouth behaviors of our striped companion. First and foremost, the zebra displays a glaring lack of decorum. With an insolence that would scandalize the most hardened rogue, it defiles the sanctity of our parlor with its excretory indiscretions, offering no gesture of penance or remorse.
Ah, but this creature's eccentricity does not cease at mere impropriety. Its tongue, the very emblem of unbridled curiosity, darts out like a serpent's and proceeds to besmirch the orbs of our amusement. Its slobbery caresses, tainted with a loathsome spittle, grace each ball with a most unsavory sheen. In its audacity, the zebra extends its audacious palate to attempt the ingestion of a ball or two. This endeavor, alas, proves naught but an exercise in futility, as the poor beast invariably chokes and disgorges its ill-gotten prizes upon the plush, green felt.
In truth, it seems that engaging in billiards with a zebra is an endeavor tailored for the sole purpose of squandering the precious moments of one's existence. Oh, but let me assure you, it succeeds with unrivaled efficacy in this respect. As the minutes wane away, and the day's ambitions fade into oblivion, you are left with the lingering question of why you embarked upon this peculiar pastime in the first place. A question that, like the zebra itself, stands as an enigma to be contemplated amidst the stillness of the billiard room, where time becomes an idle witness to our peculiar folly.
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THE TALE OF THE PISTACHIO FUELED CHEMIST
As the young chemist rode the Long Island train for the umpteenth time, the inexorable march of the eons embraced her thoughts weaving a tapestry of past regrets and missed opportunities. "Nothing novel," she murmured to herself, as her impending destination loomed in the distance. Yet, for an enigmatic cause that eluded her comprehension, the moment her foot graced the platform, an unfamiliar sensation permeated her very being. It coursed through her, an intuition surging through her very bones. Rather than adhering to the familiar trajectory homeward, a force, both intangible and undeniable, compelled her to veer off her routine path.
While wandering like Helen Keller with a divining rod through the back streets of historic Huntington village, she stumbled upon a weathered inscription in a moonlit cemetery that beckoned like a siren's call.... The mystifying word "Pistachio," an arcane incantation etched in a tomb stone, dated one eleven nineteen eleven, emitted a throbbing, ethereal glow under the moon's melancholic gaze. It had to be a sign, she believed. She yearned for guidance, for it felt as though the very cosmos had whispered a nebulous summons meant only for her to decipher. Yet, the riddle lay shrouded in the unfathomable depths of the universe's puzzling utterance, leaving her to question the significance of "Pistachio" in this chapter of her life.
The following morning, the answer revealed itself as she reached deep into her coat pocket and found a pack of Big Red chewing gum. A light bulb went off. The connection was clear – Pistachio Gum! Intrigued by such an immediate kooky thought, she turned to her computer to check if such a product existed. To her astonishment, it did not. From that moment on, she poured her heart, soul, and worldly possessions into unraveling the enigmatic elixir's mysteries. Months passed like fleeting breaths, but her skills as a chemist ultimately led her to create a peculiar paste – a strange alchemy that would transform into the elusive Pistachio Gum. In the dawn of this endeavor, hope shone brightly. She forged alliances with industry giants, and orders for her gum surged through commercial channels. But the relentless strain of Long Island living took its toll. Through a series of serendipitous events and personal transformations, she found herself settling into a tranquil villa on a Hawaiian island, free from the tumult of her former life.
Yet, as quickly as stars converge in the night sky, her fortunes disintegrated. Distributors abruptly severed ties, citing plummeting sales and harsh critiques. An avalanche of unsold Pistachio gum became her burden – a gaping chasm of unrecoverable investments. As if conspiring against her, affliction struck. Shingles, a cruel malady, enveloped her in torment, trapping her in her own frailty.
Staring into the solitary vastness of the Pacific, a spectral specter of her former self, her mind was haunted by that luminous epitaph. Was it a cosmic decree or mere phantoms conjured by the caustic maw of regret and despair? Ultimately, the answer ceased to matter. What remained was the grim acknowledgment of a mistake, a commitment to glean wisdom from the bitter dregs of folly. A vow etched in the annals of remorse drove her to tread more cautiously in the treacherous terrain of future investments, to abandon reliance on signs from a capricious universe, and instead heed the murmurings of her inner tempest. A harsh tutorial, seared into her soul, left her scarred but resolute, resilient in the crucible of her suffering. Then, in an unexpected twist of fate's unfathomable design… the cosmos contorted once more. Stepping outside to retrieve the mail, she beheld a fiery harbinger of doom hurtling from the heavens. Was it a celestial rogue or a fragment of the international space station? Her iPhone's panicked alarm blared loudly!
"BALLISTIC MISSILE THREAT INBOUND TO HAWAII. SEEK IMMEDIATE SHELTER. THIS IS NOT A DRILL."
Panic besieged her senses. She rushed indoors, clutching whatever fragments of existence she could find, joining the frantic exodus to safety. Amid the chaos, the weight of her losses – wealth, health, and perhaps life itself – burdened her psyche. Yet, amidst the maelstrom, an eerie tranquility washed over her, as if all that had transpired before this apocalyptic juncture had been reduced to mere illusions. She and her forlorn companions concealed themselves within a subterranean sanctum beseeching the heavens as a thunderous roar enveloped them. The walls trembled momentarily before yielding to silence. Discussions of future actions and assessments saturated the underground atmosphere. – a plan to endure in the face of oblivion. They resolved to wait for a while, to weather the storm. Upon emerging from their safety cocoon, she glimpsed a tableau of rebirth – a second chance to construct a new existence, to rebuild the fractured edifice of her life. And so, she did.
She rallied her fellow survivors, breathing life into the embers of their existence in the hazy shadow of the missile's destruction . Amid the radioactive tempest, a revelation unfurled – an enigma concealed within Pistachio gum. Those who had chewed it displayed uncanny resilience in the face of mutating chaos. Initially dismissed as folly, her research unveiled Pistachio's innate defenses – antioxidants and anti-inflammatory properties shielding the body from radiation's ravages. It wasn't limited to the gum alone; the Pistachio tree bore elixirs that could defy radiation's malevolence. A Pandora's trove of revelations beckoned, and she, along with her comrades, embarked on the cultivation of Pistachio salvation. They harvested its medicinal bounty and broadcasted its redemptive potential. In the annals of radiation medicine, a beacon of hope emerged – a testament to a daring decision, seemingly foolish, that evolved into a revelation of extraordinary dimensions.
As a side note:
Many years later, (on the serendipitous date of one eleven eleven), she found herself back on Long Island, waiting for a train. In a eerie and gruesome turn of destiny, she choked on a pistachio nut, lost her balance, and fell onto the electrified third rail. Unable to be rescued in time, the oncoming train ran her over, turning her into an indistinguishable amalgamation of crimson and calcium on the remorseless tracks. Nevertheless, my esteemed colleagues and fellow chemists, do not succumb to despair prematurely. For amidst this unsettling situation, a solitary, unblemished pack of "Big Red" chewing gum materialized from the carnage, as if it were the devil's own calling card.
A delightfully macabre souvenir of her tumultuous journey.
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11. |
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A CONVOLUTED COSMIC PLOT IS FOILED
In the far reaches of the cosmos, where stars shimmered like diamonds in a clearance bin, an alien race known as the Strawberry Rodeoneons frolicked in their peculiar obsessions: strawberry ice cream and the glorious mediocrity of low budget rodeos. They traversed the galaxy, seeking out the most remote corners where these oddities flourished.
One fateful day, as the Strawberry Rodeoneons gallivanted through the interstellar highways, they stumbled upon a peculiar find: a virus lurking in the depths of the rodeo sewage systems. But this was no ordinary virus, my friend. No, it was a nano-technological marvel, an exquisite creation that replicated the effects of psilocybin mushrooms. Intrigued by the prospects of a mind-altering adventure, the audacious Rodeonians couldn't resist taking a trip down the rabbit hole.
Unbeknownst to these intrepid strawberry enthusiasts, a band of terrorists had formed, hell-bent on policing individuals at rodeos that harbored a deep sexual obsession for Vivian Vance, (the "I Love Lucy" co-star) and the charismatic Cuban leader Fidel Castro. The reasons for their relentless attacks and the ingenious method by which they were able to detect such an individual remained as baffling as a Sudoku puzzle in braille. Regardless, fate conspired to ensnare the unsuspecting Strawberry Rodeoneons in the crossfire of these malevolent forces. Meanwhile, on a distant planet in the constellation of Voobah-Ha, the discordant melodies of Arnold Schoenberg's 12-tone music were being entangled with the saccharine pop tunes of 60's recording artist Bobby Sherman. This bizarre audio concoction was then disseminated quantumley into the PA systems of every molecular transport airport that lay in close proximity of said mentioned low budget rodeos. Ah, but this was no ordinary mash up! No way Chucko! The disparaging music was sped up three octaves, played backward at ultra high decibels and drenched in a wobbly, muted phase effect that would make a deaf bat cringe. It was a transparently eerie cacaphonic symphony, inducing the desire of unsuspecting travelers to moonwalk back and forth from restroom to the refreshment center and then skip erratically in all directions leading nowhere, like a flock of frightened sheep being chased by a crazed, blind, tone-deaf shepherd.
As these convoluted events unfolded across the universe, a discerning observer might begin to glimpse the macabre threads that bound them together, spinning a wicked tapestry of sinister elegance. Enter the Tizzmultiplecheetoes, a shadowy organization as enigmatic as a Rubik's Cube in the dark. They had taken it upon themselves to conduct covert experiments, seeking to manipulate and control advanced civilizations across the galaxy. And who better to serve as their unwitting guinea pigs than the Strawberry Rodeoneons? The addictive psilocybin virus they unleashed upon them induced multiple euphoric moments many of them lasting over 11 hours thus rendering the Rodeoneons as malleable as Silly Putty in the hands of a mischievous child. The terrorist attacks on those who coveted Vivian Vance and Castro served as a ploy, sowing fear and distrust among the rodeo-goers. And the mind-bending convolution of Schoenberg and Bobby Sherman was to say the least - a cruelly twisted psychological weapon, causing vacationers to question their sanity and contemplate the merits of shoving birthday cake candles into both ears.
The Tizzmultiplecheetoes reveled in their grand ambitions, aiming to gain control over as many interplanetary civilizations as they could, just for kicks. Tired of the celestial harmony that had pervaded the galaxy for eons, they sought chaos and discord. But alas, their audacious plan would meet an unexpected adversary.
In a bizarre slice of cosmic irony, a motley crew of “Raisin Bran Scooby Do adventurers”, (fueled by their insatiable appetite for sugary breakfast cereal and 60’s Saturday morning cartoon gathering escapades), unwittingly stumbled upon the diabolical scheme. It happened in the men’s room of the New Brunswick Rodeo Convention Arena. Apparently a worm hole opened up to the Tizzmultiplecheetoes command center. Some Raisin Bran Scoobies accidentally wandered through. What followed is unclear but armed with nothing but quick Johnny Quest thinking, questionable fashion choices, and a touch of dumb luck, they somehow unraveled the organization's intricate plot, leaving it in ruins like a shoddy Jenga tower. Almost immediately, the Strawberry Rodeoneons were freed from their psychedelic prison, cheap rodeos began to operate normally again, the imagined law firm of Vance, Fidel, Schoenberg and Sherman returned to their respective entertainment shelves and the terrorist attacks met their comedic demise.
Thus, the cosmic ballet continues. Mediocre at best with a wink and a smirk among the stars. The Tizzmultiplecheetoes plot…Now a hazy footnote in history…
In other words: Business as usual.
Boring.
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12. |
What Happened To Binky?
06:59
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WHAT HAPPENED TO BINKY?
Binky had always nursed a strong aversion to fish. Inexplicably, he held a deep-seated animosity towards the species. Nevertheless, he found himself seated on a teak bench, gazing out at the semi-cloudy, olive-toned harbor. The scene exuded tranquility, with sporadic tourists strolling by. Now and then, Binky would reach for his iPhone to capture the beauty of an attractive passerby or a seagull swooping down to scavenge on discarded refuse. Thanks to its intelligent A.I. focusing capabilities, each iPhone picture turned out flawlessly. However, Binky's tolerance for A.I. technology ended there; he was a relic from the 20th century, preferring nature over nanotech. As he contemplated his waning relevance in society, his eyes spotted an intriguing sight in the distance: a figure resembling a walking yield sign, holding what appeared to be a log. It made for an interesting shot, so he took it. As the figure drew nearer, Binky realized it was, in fact, a woman in a flowing yellow and black colored dress, cradling an infant. She halted in front of him and offered a smile, albeit one tinged with malevolence. Suddenly, she leaped toward the metal railing on the dock where it met the inviting water and callously hurled the baby into the harbor. Initially, Binky couldn't believe his eyes; his moral instinct was to jump in and save the defenseless child. However, he remained paralyzed, seated in shock. The woman turned to him, stuck out her tongue and departed casually. Then, as if someone pushed a restart button he quickly rose to his feet but sheepishly headed towards the railing to peer over the edge. As he wiped the beads of sweat dripping from his brow, all he could discern was a vague, dark shape descending into the depths. His trembling hands fumbled for his iPhone, but it slipped from his grasp, plunging into the olive abyss. With his eyes bugged out, he tried to scream, yet all he managed was to vomit before fainting.
When he awoke, he found himself in an unfamiliar location, bathed in a sterile, clinical white light. Dazed and disoriented, the memories of the horrifying harbor incident began to coalesce into a nightmarish reality. As his faculties gradually returned, he realized he lay on a narrow, clinical bed in what appeared to be a hospital room. The sharp scent of an antaseptic pervaded the air, and the rhythmic beeping of nearby medical equipment circled around him like an alien timekeeper. Binky struggled to sit up, his mind racing to comprehend how he had ended up in this unsettling place, far removed from the peaceful harbor scene he had last recalled.
Breaking the silence that had enveloped him, a gentle voice spoke from nearby. "You're awake," a middle-aged nurse said in a comforting tone as she approached his bedside. "You gave us quite a scare. You've been unconscious for a while."
Binky's throat felt parched, and he struggled to find his voice. "What happened? Where am I?"
The nurse explained that a little girl had discovered him lying motionless on the harbor dock, blood seeping from under his face. She immediately yelled for help. Binky had been urgently transported to the hospital, in critical condition, suffering from shock, a concussion and severe dehydration. The medical team had worked tirelessly to stabilize him ever since.
As the nurse recounted the details of his rescue, Binky's thoughts gravitated toward the distressing memory of the woman and the infant. He was overwhelmed with guilt and responsibility for failing to act when it mattered most. "Did they find the baby?" he asked, his voice quivering.
The nurse gave him a confused look before responding. "What baby?"
He recounted the horrifying scene to her and as he lay in his hospital bed, Binky’s heart sank, and an overwhelming sense of remorse engulfed him. He had failed to intervene, and the consequences were unbearable to contemplate. The image of the woman's evil smile and the infant's helpless descent into the harbor continually haunted him. He replayed the scene over and over in his mind grappling with his own conscience. He knew he had to find a way to help bring the perpetrator to justice. The chilling act of cruelty was indelibly etched into his mind, destined to haunt him long after his physical wounds had healed. In the hours that followed, Binky wholeheartedly collaborated with the authorities, offering a comprehensive narrative of the incident. Even though his iPhone had become a buried, watery relic, they managed to retrieve the photo of the walking yield sign from "the cloud." Although it didn't provide much assistance, it convinced the police to initiate an extensive search for the woman responsible, causing a sensational stir in the local news.
After a week of rehabilitation he was back on his feet and plugged into his mundane routine. But still, every morning a voice in his head urged him to re-visit the site of the nightmare. He resisted for a while but eventually he couldn’t take it any more. He had to return.
As he made his way back to the site, the redolent aroma of the receding tide transported him to cherished moments from his past when his family would gather for picnics in this very spot. In the distance, the melancholy intro of Seals and Crofts' song "Humming Bird" emanated from someone's car, striking him with profound sadness that penetrated the depths of his soul. Then the lonesome cry of a solitary seagull served as the final catalyst that propelled Binky to leap over the railing and plunge into the harbor. Unfortunately, he had never acquired the skill of swimming, and this impulsive decision ultimately marked the tragic end of his life. He perished, drowned by guilt.
At the same time, Binky's mother, who relied on a high tech wheelchair for mobility, entered his bedroom after he failed to respond to her knocking. Nearby, a lottery ticket that Binky had played earlier rested next to his Jesus flower vase. The abrupt swing of the door's force sent the ticket soaring through the air, slipping through the narrow gap of a slightly open window. In a stroke of synchronicity, as the ticket gently landed on the pavement below, a passerby, (astonishingly the very same woman who had thrown the infant into the harbor), caught sight of it and swiftly snatched it up. That evening, to her absolute surprise, Binky's ticket displayed the winning numbers, subsequently catapulting her into multimillionaire status.
The investigation eventually turned up a submerged item at the initial crime scene, only to discover that it was a super realistic A.I. baby doll that coincidentally Binky’s mother helped to design years earlier. Ironically, the fishes became the sole witnesses to Binky's fate, bringing his script to a rather dark yet comical conclusion.
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13. |
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TIME TO PUT OUT THAT CIGAR
By the wild and twisted cosmos, buckle up, my freakish compadres, for a tale that'll make your brain do somersaults in zero gravity. We're diving headfirst into the undefined mayhem of an omniscient being holed up on a tiny pebble called Jupiter Moon. And this being, let's call it “God” for simplicity's sake, is bored out of its celestial mind, stuck in the middle of nowhere. Population: One.
So, in its infinite wisdom, or perhaps out of sheer loneliness, God decides to play a little game. It decides to create infinite factions, hidden away within itself, like some ever evolving Russian nesting doll. One of these factions gets the dubious honor of being dubbed “Humans”, and they set up shop on a little blue, white, and green atom called Earth. Quite an unattractive name, if you ask me.
Now, here's where it gets interesting. These humans, fueled by their own cocktail of external confusion, ego and arrogance, formed smaller subgroups and started doing some seriously nasty stuff to each other. And get this, they claimed it was all in the name of this bored-out-of-its-mind, all-knowing God. They even picked a dry and barren wasteland, called it sacred ground, and decided to stage most of their barbaric theatrics there. I mean, what's wrong with a nice beach? But hey, humans will be humans.
Unfortunately, things took a weird turn. These Earthlings, due to some cosmic misinterpretations and what seemed like mystical coincidences, started believing that God was their divine best friend forever. They thought the Lord was there to protect and guide them to a promised land, where they'd eternally party and have sexy angels serving them the creamiest of ice cream without any calorie concerns. Seriously, who could blame them? Sounds like a pretty sweet deal.
Turns out, all this chaos and wall wailing commotion these humans are stirring up is like nails on a cosmic chalkboard for God. It's got this being's holy knickers in a twist. Thus, it was determined, perhaps divinely, from a celestial vantage point, that a direct and impartial visitation to this minuscule atom in the cosmic vastness was imperative.
Now, you can imagine these humans weren't too thrilled about God's indifference to their well-defined doctrines of right and wrong. They'd spent centuries crafting those, refining them like a fine breed of dog. Naturally, they began to doubt this God of theirs. I mean, what kind of all-knowing, all-loving being leaves their own children high and dry, without answers, payback, or, most egregious of all, sans ice cream delivered by alluring angels? That's enough to make a camel fart in the eye of a needle.... The Earthlings were quick to label God as a phony! And wouldn't you know it, this omniscient being now soaked in the very essence of their skepticism and suspicion, which, mind you, it cooked up in the first place, decides to snuff out its colossal Cuban cigar (previously lit from their sun) right where all this Earthly hubbub is brewing.
Turns out, deserts make for mighty fine ashtrays.
"No more fuss," God thought to itself in all it’s existential pomposity. "Maybe I should create a new kind of earth creature, one that will live in rainbow harmony. And for Christ's sake won't complain"!
"How about a sentient cannoli, filled with strawberry truffle ice cream and Dr. Scholl's Odor Eaters for angel wings?"
"Yeah, that’s the ticket!”
"Abra kadabra...allaka zip!"
“It’s done.”...
And just like that, Paisans, the cosmic cannoli angels were born...
In the ever-bizarre carnival of existence, such fickle absurdity is just another day at the races.
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14. |
Or So It Is Said
01:00
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SO IT IS SAID
“E.E. Is Totally Fish Like”
Said the pauper to the king
Your rein of pain is through now
It’s time to pawn that ring
Decked out in masks and shooters
Sharpened pencils filled with lead
They’ll impregnate the queen of Urania
And in the morning the queen will be dead
Or so it is said…
Or so it is said
Jack joke tails of Zebra
Beyond all measured meat
The ace and spade of diamonds
Are here for a meet and greet.
But first a trip to Gremlin pizza, for a sock puppet pie or two
The home of where this club of foolishness
Only makes sense to you
And only you
And Mercury Stew
Or so it is said
Or so it is said
25 or 6 to war beyond the 52 states of wrath
Will never outshine the solo bequeathed by young Terry Kath
So for now poor papal pope pawning perverts, de-unite
‘Cause chaos controlled collusion concludes this kooky, kooky write
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John Tabacco Stony Brook, New York
John Tabacco is a composer, singer-songwriter, producer, recording engineer, and visual
artist.
Like an unfolding musical diary / puzzle, Tabacco’s music and art are constantly being re-worked, juxtaposed and intertwined.
For more info : www.johntabacco.net
... more
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