The situation started to improve for the moronicist, except for the flies and foul-stinking clothes, hair, skin and breath. The virtuoso, doyen in literature, aristocratic, big wig needed to keep walking to stay ahead of all of it. The dignitary had no idea how long he had been walking; it now felt like hours...the last vestiges of the drugs were wearing off. The academician, genius had no recollection of the original bus that plowed into him and very little of his encounter with the second bus driver.
The professor had passed by the reason for the minor traffic jam without giving it much notice. The burned-out shell of an automobile sat smoldering by the side of the highway. The auto had apparently burst into flames for some unfathomable reason. The academic was too fuzzy in the noodle to give the wreck a second glimpse.
Professor Schwartz was walking along the ditch he had been thrown into; the steep-sided thing ran parallel to a four-lane highway that had remained surprisingly deserted in the intervening time period between when the Trailways bus disappeared. The professor was walking north as far as he could tell; the sun was starting to descend to his left on the western horizon. Several times during his stroll he thought he heard the noise of air raid sirens on the wind, but quickly dismissed the notion the republic was under attack.
The countryside was dry, arid with grass-covered hills and what looked like oak trees providing wind breaks here and there across the landscape. The hills prevented the dignitary from seeing any further than a mile or so in all four directions. He was walking in the same direction the bus and traffic had taken.
The roadway was in horrible condition and in need of major repair; the passenger lane closest to him had so many potholes it would have been impossible to drive at any reasonable speed without completely trashing the suspension. The passing lane was little better; nevertheless, at least the holes had been filled in with loose gravel.
This looks like a principal parkway, so where have all the automobiles departed to? The virtuoso, big wig would now and again ask himself. The same conclusion always popped into his noggin: the parkway is in all likelihood part of some sort of civil engineering construction project; that has got to be the explanation for why I have seen such diminutiveness of automotive traffic.
The scholar was thinking more clearly; he had been perspiring all along helping to remove the toxins from his system with every passing moment. It would be dark in the next several hours. The temperature was a balmy eighty degrees and much of the brown muck that covered his front side had hardened, and much of it had flaked off as he strolled along.
“This damnable parkway has the appearances of going on and on and on,” the dignitary squeaked despondently under his breath, now growing more frustrated with his situation. “Where in Gaia’s name are all the commoners?”
Schwartz now only vaguely remembered the automobiles of the traffic jam; any memory of the jeering, the catcalls, the horrified looks of the children had all but disappeared. The professor had not seen any exits off that darn highway yet. The academic was now approaching one more crest of another hill as he slogged his way northward.
Schwartz’s gait was brisk, as brisk as he dared, doing his best to create a gap between himself and the cloud of flies that now followed him regardless of where he stepped. The other challenge was to stay ahead of the blanket of fart gas that overcame him anytime he stopped to pull a sandspur from his foot.
“Wait a second, what about his beard? The professor, genius could not run away from his beard could he?”
Somehow, some way, walking fast kept the stench at bay. Only when he slowed down did the nauseating air catch up with him and cause him to gag. I’m not a physicist, I’m not sure how the academician managed to pull it off, but do you truly want me to aks [ask] the author how Schwartz pulled it off?
“Uh, no, I’m good.”
I thought so.
The professor had seen no further automobiles pass by. It was highly unlikely he would come across any electric autos, as most drivers would not dare venture out this far from civilization and battery rechargers.
The professor winced, Gaia! That loathable, despicable and effluvium of flatulence is horrendous. So damnable in view of the fact that it appears there is no escaping the fetid stench.
Any time the dignitary slowed his pace, the nauseating, invisible gas caught up with him causing him to gag uncontrollably. Therefore, the academic was much too distracted with his plight to notice some of the subtle differences that surrounded him.
One of the professor’s chores involved watching out for broken glass, used rubbers, beer bottles, empty soda cans, chicken bones, tampons, empty chili cans, automobile batteries, everything imaginable. The side of the highway looked like a public dumping ground. Whatever someone might carry in, or on top of a car, in a bus, or in a towed trailer was tossed out on the side of the road: sofas, a baby’s crib, there were even a couple of rusted out hulks of old automobiles that appeared to have caught fire.
Luckily large swaths of his path were free of the knee-high scrub grass that was growing everywhere along the highway. It looked to the academician as if the Department of Transportation must have been employing a technique often used by those backward rednecks to clear underbrush in the South: so-called “controlled burns.” That was up to when the anointed one saw the automobile crest the hill headed in the opposite direction, sparks flying everywhere.
Across the median, the vehicle came barreling along at forty miles per hour, five miles per hour above the posted speed limit. The academic noticed it was an older appearing car, but one with styling that looked to be foreign to him. The auto was too low for the bad road conditions and was showering sparks whenever the automobile-chassis passed over an irregularity of which there were quite a few.
Growing up, the virtuoso had often laughed at the so-called “lowriders” the Mexicans had created as their dream cars. Lowriders were badass automobiles like those seen in the Richard “Cheech” Marin and Tommy Chong stoner motion picture, Up In Smoke, with those amazing paint graphics and hydraulics that could make an automobile jump, or adjust height in any of ten different combinations. Invented by the Mexicans to impress the babes, it was rapidly adopted by Latino-Americans and were now a part of the new American culture. Today, almost anyone not using battery-powered autos was driving one of those fine, classy machines!
Schwartz now stared in amazement as one of the things, packed so tight it looked like a “Mexican orgy,” festooned with luggage tied to roof and trunk barreled, no not barreled, scraped along the highway like some gigantic sparkler, the undercarriage making a terrific, banging noise every time it bottomed out in one of the many potholes.
Bang!...Crash!
Bang!...Crash!
Who are these personages? Do they have some kind of death aspirations?
Crash!...Bang!
Schwartz watched closely as the vehicle passed on the other side of the median, half expecting to see a fiery explosion at any moment. That’s indeed strange. The driver is literally taking no notice of the fireworks, nor does he seem to be concerned with the potential disaster he is sitting on. The automotive driver has to see the pyrotechnics?
Bang!...Crash!
The racket eventually disappeared soon after the rolling firebomb crested another one of the darn hills.
Is this the dirtbag state of Texas, is that where I am?
Now that the four-wheel disaster was gone, he noticed the “spark machine” had started some of those “controlled burns” along the way, only these, of course, were not “controlled burns.”
“Gaia,” the dignitary whispered, not wanting to talk too loud, not wanting to be reminded he sounded like a girl. “Those halfwit dunces!”
Thank Gaia the breeze was blowing away from his side of the highway pushing the smoke and growing flames in the direction of...
Are those zea-mays (corn) fields?
That thought was all of a sudden replaced, as the flames had caught his eye...the professor
was being uncontrollably drawn to staring at those growing flames, particularly as they became more intense. Not realizing it, the former sanitarium inmate unconsciously started to slow his gait. For causes unknown to the academic, he became mesmerized by the flames, by the smoke...old habits are hard to break, and the mindless primitive’s cerebellum was at work, reminiscing about the good old times back at Grey Hall.
“Owww! Not another cenchrus [sandspur]!”
The cerebrum’s hold over the professor’s attention had been suddenly broken.
“I’ve got a question? For what purpose is the academician using all kinds of unheard of words instead of speaking like an ordinary person? ‘Cenchrus?’ Come on, honestly?”
The answer is related to the part about how moonbats use flowery, five-syllable expressions to bewilder and confuse others, something akin to mentally masturbating all over the place to befuddle and confound. There is one other thing; using confusing diction gives asshat elitists like college professors and politicians an unfound sense of superiority over others. Most of those assclowns have spent most of their lives learning how to appear smart. Talking gives the goofnads a chance to show off their supposed smartedness; it is as simple as that.
“Good answer.”
So, the ‘now sane,’ former, sanitarium inmate stopped to pull the sandspur from his big toe then one more matter surfaced: the academic had remained stationary too long, that darn vile cloud had caught up and his olfactory senses quickly alerted him to the sudden variation in atmospheric conditions.
Blahhh! Gagggg!
Just for what purpose is humanity attracted to certain kinds of odors? Likewise, for what purpose do they abhor others? Has the answer got something to do with one’s prehistoric past? Were cave dwellers too simpleminded to know what to avoid and what not to avoid that they needed an unseen, higher power to make the call? Did everyone back then lack the common sense to gauge whether or not something was Kosher just by...
Uhumm! “Are you finished? I mean talking about getting off topic.”
Hey, I’m just reading the script.
“Are you sure you’re not just ad-libbing?”
No, I’m serious...though it could, however, have something to do with the time the novelist wrote those final few paragraphs: 2:30AM!
“I’d say that could have some bearing. Should we skip the rest of this chapter? I mean there’s no reason to follow along with the author’s obvious, muddled thoughts, right?”
There is much wisdom to what you say. I’ll skip the portion involving the novelist’s irrational tirade and move on to the time where I see the writer was working during normal business hours.
Hmmm...hmmm...hmmm...
A minute passes.
Hmmm...hmmm...hmmm...
Three, or four minutes have now passed.
Hmmm...hmmm...hmmm...
Six minutes later...
Here we go.
“Gee wiz, just how many pages did you have to skip?”
Do you truly want to know?
“Sure, quench my curiosity.”
Let’s see, looks like ten...no, eleven...make that twelve pages of nothing but delusional, mental nonsense. Let us pick up where the novelist becomes more coherent with his thoughts.
“Wait a second! Those pages could represent one of those ‘lucid dreams’ I heard about in an old psych course. Those twelve pages could offer some hidden meaning, something the author mistakenly let slip.”
You mean like a “Freudian slip?”
“Exactly, so just what were some of the key issues the novelist was venturing to make?”
So, you want to psychoanalyze the author?
“Sure, why not?”
Okay, I’m game.
Hmmm... Let me see, how to word this? I know...I would summarize the novelist’s categorically disorganized thoughts as an attempt rationalize ‘asshat voter’ behavior. His endeavor fell short of the mark. The author attempted to make, or show a direct correlation between the intellect and thoughts of most assclowns and that of the unthinking, sensory-driven, primitive, innocent, near brain-dead cavemen.
“...and cavewomen.”
Of course...and cave women. It appeared to me the novelist was trying to derive the reasons for asshat voters’ overall gullibility and naivety when it came to believing in and voting for obvious charlatans and snake oil salesmen.
“...and women.”
Yes, and snake oil saleswomen. The one conclusion the author drew from anecdotal evidence was that moonbats, the voters in particular, suffered from arrested psychological development...that the morons were psychological equivalents of five-year-olds in the bodies of adults, eighteen and older.
“That’s a leap, nevertheless I must admit there might be some truth to what the novelist wrote. What else could make intelligible an assclown voter’s consistent, irrational, near non-thinking conduct?”
I can’t think of a thing.
“Neither can I. You know this ‘novelist fellow’ is a lot more sinister than I gave him credit for.”
You ever heard the maxim, “Dumb was smart...and smart was dumb?”
“Don’t you mean, ‘dumb is smart....and smart is dumb?’”
No, ‘dumb was smart...and smart was dumb’...that phrase.
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
Well, I think the novelist was the dude to have come up with that locution of smartness.
“No way, you’re telling me that changing ‘is’ to ‘was’ took genius? I don’t think so.”
I’m just saying.
“I’ve heard enough. Let’s get on with the story before I send you, and it into digital oblivion.”
Okay...okay, don’t get so pissy. Uh, where was I...Oh yes, the English professor who had more than once considered discarding that schiessen’ified gown of his, but always thought better of it.
Got to perpetuate my forward impetus, must continue moving onwards. Must go perpetually onwards. Gaia, I must sustain my forward momentum.
As the hours passed, the moronicist continued talking to himself; jumbled, mind-spittling words, terms and phrases the professor would dump on any unsuspecting victims he met with...all to impress, all to exhibit his obvious superiority over both mind and verbiage. Little did the academic realize his Ivy League slathering might not be rewarded. In fact it may have been all for naught.
Time passed and things soon fell into a kind of rhythmic cadence; the English professor even had a chance to take an occasional glance at his surroundings. All the dignitary could see were cornfields as far as the eye could see.
Is this forsaken venue Nebraska? Where are all the plebs? Where is the automotive traffic?
Off in the distance the faculty member noticed hundreds of massive white windmills, the kind used for power generation. There was a breeze blowing; it had not stopped in the intervening period since leaving the ditch, but only a half-dozen of the leviathans looked as though they were spinning around. The remainder appeared to be in some state of disrepair like the highway. Some were missing blades and those that had one or two in place looked like gigantic pendulums with the blades rocking back and forth. The rest must have had their bearings seize up and were simply frozen in place.
As the academician came to the crest of one more hill, it gave him an unobstructed view of what lay ahead.
Something indubitably peculiar here.
Everywhere Schwartz looked there were more and more of those darn cornfields; that was what he guessed anyway in as much as there was no distinction to be made between crops for as far as the eye could see. Corn and hundreds more of those white broken windmills.
Ethyl alcohol? Could that elucidate why there are so many fields of zea-mays, as far as the eye can see? Is all that zea-mays being grown for ethyl alcohol?
Yes, ethyl alcohol, better known as ethanol...the corn derived fuel known by many names: pure alcohol, grain alcohol, drinking alcohol. Ethanol was a godsend for both t
he “Green Energy” lovers and alcoholics alike. Ethanol was clean, the result of fermenting (decomposition, distilling, boiling) corn mash. While true ethanol would have been ten times the price to produce as a barrel of oil, American automobiles were no longer running on gasoline...they were running on batteries, and ethanol!
America was no longer the world’s leader in manufacturing or technology. Instead wealth was now based on corn production, that and ethanol...the energy source that drove today’s economic prosperity and the engines of what remained of industry.
“What about all the oil? Where did it go?”
Most of it still remains...in the ground protected and preserved by at least sixty of the four-hundred plus Federal Government departments and agencies, or is leased out to foreign countries in the interest of balanced trade.
As I was saying, corn had become the most important driving force behind the American economy. Corn provided the work for most Americans, you know the low-skilled, benighted masses who had little real reason for communicating with one another what with all the various lingual dialects running around.
Maze production now accounted for over nine-tenths of all national exports. It was corn that elevated America to the title of...“Maze Basket of the World.” What was most staggering about corn was every part of the plant could be either eaten, distilled, smoked, worn, or used in place of toilet paper and facial tissues; besides wood products were no longer available as an option.
America, through the brilliance and grandeur of the “Forever President,” no longer cut down trees needlessly. Trees could no longer be felled except for a select few national necessities: smokers’ pipes for the millions of potheads, hockey sticks for the hybrid version of professional football, baseball bats (aluminum was scarce and had been outlawed) for beating off your wife, husband, gigolos, rioters, chillan, et cetera, et cetera, and the furniture in the White House and “Forever President’s” twelve or thirteen villas. Even Congress had to make due without wood furniture.
“For furniture, too?”
For furniture, too.
“What the schiessen replaced wood?”
One of the most durable and easily molded materials to be created by humanity, ‘concrete.’
“That is a bit unbelievable.”
What, the part about corn? No, corn was goout.
“No, you dip-schiessen, the part about wood!”
Well, that was the price for a greener, cleaner, better America. Let’s spend a moment and talk about some of the uses for corn. For example, Marijuana smokers needed something for their pot and found corn husks to be the next best thing to rolling papers; a little harsh for most at first; nevertheless, with time, the potheads got used to the stuff and it helped account for nearly twenty-five percent of the byproduct.
Clothes too could be made from corn, cornstalks to be exact; however, there were some things that took a little getting used to. For one, the new garments usually felt like burlap for the first year, or so, but once past that misery, once the “corn clothes” were broken in, someone could wear them somewhat comfortably for decades! Just think of it: a half-dozen pairs of underwear, a couple pairs of green jeans, or overalls, several shirts, a half-dozen pairs of socks and you would be set for two, three...ten years!
“You’re kidding?”
The academic’s gown was a great example of how well “corn clothes” held up. The English professor had been wearing his gown for well over a decade and it still looked as good as the day the dignitary first had it put on...except for all the stains, of course.
There were, however, a couple of glitches with cornstalk fiber. For one, the fabric was highly absorbent and tended to change shape when it got wet, so if you got caught in the rain, what started out as something resembling a Polo Shirt could easily become something that looked like a Muumuu an hour later.
“Wait a second, I’ve got a question. What happens to the corn cobs? They’re not used in place of toilet paper are they?”
Yes, in some parts of the nation, most definitely.
“Ha! What parts?”
The South for certain, the western parts of the Mid-Atlantic states around the Appalachian Mountains, the states along the southern border and San Francisco.
“San Francisco, too?”
Sure, why not San Francisco?
“It’s just that I think of San Francisco as being kind of a sophisticated place, so I’m having a hard time picturing the Bay Area citizens using corncobs in place of toilet paper.”
Remember when I said most well-healed asshats had fled to France?
“They all moved to France?”
Yes, the wealthy ones. Almost everyone else moved to the Freeport of Seattle and the void was filled by cultures who had been using corncobs in lieu of toilet paper for centuries. I should not have to say more, right?
“No, you’re right.”
Back to the corn garments for one last point; one of the drawbacks of corn-fiber clothes were they tended to catch fire when close to a flame, burning embers, or sparks. That’s why a warning label on the inside of each garment carried the universal symbol for “fire dangerous,” a stickman, or a stickgirl for women’s clothes, surrounded by the imprint of a flame.
Symbols had become a very important part of the Ebongo-Edongo society and were an example of how far the country had come. Simply put, there was just not enough room inside clothing with maybe the exception of jeans, or overalls to write down twenty-five variations of a written warning label. Besides, there were no guarantees anyone would be able to decipher what it was, given the nature of constantly evolving terms and phonetic spelling.
Symbolism itself presented a problem in the early years of the country’s switch to Ebongo-Edongo and it was not until the time the Department of Defense came up with standardized symbolism that consistency prevailed near and far across the land.
“Why the Department of Defense?”
Too many soldiers were blowing their heads off owing to faulty symbolism. Some raw recruits, mostly potheads, were mistaking the symbol for cleaning the rifle barrel, “Mister Clean” smiling with hand pointing in the direction of the muzzle, to mean, “look down the barrel.”
Some joker at the Pentagon saw one of those DVD’s of 60’s commercials from a White Cracker Restaurant, a “Mister Clean” ad and thought, Mister Clean - that caricature would be the perfect spokesman for our gun safety program!
The typical bureaucrat had not considered, however, the new breed of enlistments the military was now accepting...anything from drug users, to prison inmates, to potheads, to cats who had created their own terms, all of whom might not understand what on earth “Mister Clean” was all about.
“I’ve a quick question, what about the women, were women allowed to serve in the armed forces?”
Of course women could serve and some did; nevertheless, most opted for the life of leisure filling their days with ‘Jerry’s Bastard Junior Show,’ or the ‘Opie’s Adopted Daughters’ Network,’ eating potato chips, having sex with just about any male specimen that darkened their doorway, to getting pregnant and collecting bigger welfare checks.
Silence.
I guess that answers your question, so back to cleaning gun barrels.
Gun barrels had to be cleaned, otherwise, they could blow up in a soldier’s face, but communications had broken down between the military instructors and new enlistees. The matter was now solved and the populace could snooze more easily knowing that they were safe, secure and defended by the world’s twenty-fifth greatest military. Those who lost their gourds had not sacrificed their noggins in vain.
“Mister Clean” remained the symbol of cleanliness on the barrels of combat weapons, but instead of pointing at the muzzle, the caricature held a “mop,” something that no matter how dense, or stoned a soldier was, they could relate to and understand without twenty-five variations of Ebongo-Edongo.
Thanks to the Department of Defense the pot-smoker, fire
man, fire-woman, fire-persons, anyone cooking, anyone around, or playing with an open fire, or stove, anyone with a fireplace, anyone who cooked out, anyone who was near the flying sparks of a skipping and sliding lowrider, anyone near a person who was smoking pot, anyone near a person who was near a person with one of the aforementioned fire hazards...they were now aware! Alert to the hazard, wary and safer because they were more aware and more wary.
“I get it, but why was corn-fiber so flammable?” I don’t remember cornstalks alive, or dead ever being a fire risk.”
I am not a scientist, but it seems to me when corn-fiber is processed in the same facilities as ethanol and ethanol happened to be a primary ingredient in the process for making the fiber more flexible, supple and malleable like its cousin burlap that there could be some issues that might arise. I’m sorry, but that is all I have got on this one.
“Well, what in the world happened to cotton?”
Cotton was unacceptable, even though you could wear it, conceivably even wipe your ass, or blow your nose with it; cotton fell short in two of the “Forever President’s” mandatory requirements: you had to be able to eat your clothes in times of emergency without any serious side effects; and the nation’s 150 million potheads needed something that burned to replace rolling papers. Cotton fell short on both counts.
“Where in the world is this conversation going, anyway?”
Glad you asked. Now that trees were missing from the American diet; except for pot pipes, hockey sticks for football, baseball bats (aluminum was still scarce and still outlawed) for wife beating, or staving off rioters, and the furniture in the White House and “Forever President’s” twelve, or thirteen mansions, the EPA found overall air quality improved for most Americans and the threats of ‘Global Warming’ and ‘Climate Change’ had been abated...a truly fantastic, stupendous thing.
“What about fireplaces?”
There was always the dung-impregnated cornstalk logs to fall back on, or you could install one of the new fangled ethanol-burning fireplaces. Don’t look so dubious, both were excellent choices and contributed little to nothing toward the demise of the planet due to ‘Global Warming’ and ‘Climate Change.’
“What about the aesthetics of a burning fireplace? The noise of flames licking at the logs, the scent of burning wood and what about the smoke?”
That’s what the Fidel Industries ‘Heat, Glow, Incense, Fogger’ fireplace kit was for; just make sure you have an electrical outlet handy, or a spare 350-amp automobile battery and presto! You’re set to rock and roll.
We have spent too much time on these absurd topics; nevertheless, it is important to recall what has been discussed: everything good was due to the resplendent, magnanimous, imperial leader’s leadership skills and genius. The EPA found highly elusive evidence that overall air quality around the land had improved. Americans were now breathing marginally cleaner air except when anomalies arose: the Chinese pollution clouds that occasionally made it across the Pacific; any volcanic eruption anywhere in the world; one of the frequent forest fires that broke out in just about every part of America save the Mohave Desert. Except for those instances, Americans could now doze off more soundly knowing that the air they were breathing was sometimes cleaner, conceivably even healthier at times.
The point was cleaner air had to be a marvelous thing, had to be helping Americans live longer...possibly by days, perhaps by weeks, conceivably even by a year or more, and they all owed it to the constant meddling of one man, the “Forever President.” Sure the facts did not support “el Presidente’s” contention: over three decades of data had proven inconclusive, but Americans had to be living longer...the leader of the world’s fiftieth greatest economy had pronounced it was so.
Now that the “Forever President” had decided Americans were living longer, they needed to be reminded that they owed it all to him. It was only through his benevolence, foresight and mental prowess that they were living longer. It only made sense that more statues of Castro needed to be erected, more bridges renamed after him, and the twelve cities that carried his name...they were simply not enough.
-----
Professor Schwartz heard the rumbling noise of an un-tuned automobile engine approaching from behind him. He looked back to see a further low-slung automobile showering the roadway with sparks in disbelief.
Do these vulgus (common people) realize petrol explodes?
Schwartz did not yet know gasoline had been replaced with ethanol, but he was beginning to suspect as much; nevertheless, that did not of course matter...ethanol would also blow that auto to kingdom come.
The professor began making quick strides away from the highway as the four-wheel sparkler approached. The last thing he needed to do was become a part of the fireball the academic expected to see at any moment. Had Schwartz seen the symbolized warning label?
The Ivy League scholar kept a steady eye on the approaching disaster as he made his way to a safe distance.
This should be far enough.
The professor stooped into a crouched position, gagged, and got ready to hit the dirt.
The styling of the four-door sedan seemed modern at least compared to anything the academician remembered, more angular yet streamlined. As the automobile drew nearer, the scholarly genius heard the banging racket of chassis against road become increasingly audible.
The noise of the wreck as it approached made a racket of...
Bang!...Clang!
The English professor could not believe his peepers.
Gaia what a piece of feculence (schiessen)!
Clang!...Bang!
As the jalopy drew closer, he could see that the chrome bumper had worked partially loose and was also clanging noisily with each passing jolt...and there was a painted mural on the side of the piece of schiessen that looked like a...
A Witchdoctor? I cannot believe this, it is a Witchdoctor!
That was not the only absurdity our dignitary noticed.
...and the automotive windscreen is missing, too?
Clangity!...Bangidy!...Clangity!
Schwartz watched on in disbelief as the vehicle passed within a stone’s throw of where he was crouched. The academic wizard saw that the passenger and driver making up for the missing windshield were wearing a pair of...
Aviator goggles? Yes, aviator goggles!
The passenger looked like a Latino with his brown skin color and dark black hair looking like some crazy ponytail, or more like the crown of a pineapple tied on the top of his noggin. The academic scholar was too busy marveling at the appearance of the passenger to notice the driver, nor the third fellow in the backseat.
Bangity!...Clangity!
Well, at least those working-class stiffs are not...wait!
The fellow in the front seat all of a sudden looked to be shouting while pointing in the professor’s direction...and that car...that car was coming to a sudden stop!
Bang!...Clang!
Holy, Gaia!
Bang!
“They have stopped!” he squeaked.
Two fellows jumped out of the wreck when it came to a halt. A short Latino wearing his airman’s goggles leapt out of the front seat first, soon followed by a tallish black fellow wearing sunglasses who had jumped out of the back seat. Both fellows were wearing blue-colored hospital scrubs.
The professor was scared schiessenless. The auto and the two men were not more than twenty-five yards away. The Latino stood stationary for a moment then blew what sounded like a police officer's whistle.
Tweet!
What in Gaia’s name is that lowlife trying to accomplish by blowing that silly whistle?
The Mexican-appearing fellow blew his whistle again as if expecting something to magically happen...
Tweet!
The academic did not stir from his crouched position, trying his best to hold his breath, so as not to be overcome by his stench.
Adding hand gestures, the short fellow with the deranged pon
y tail began signaling for him to walk over to them.
Absolutely no way. Why in Gaia’s name would I just get up and walk over to those two pedestrian looking fellows.
The English professor remained stationary and motionless trying to decide what to do.
Are those orderlies here to help me?
Schwartz was starting to put one and two together. Both fellows were sporting hospital uniforms. He, of course, was wearing something that resembled a hospital gown.
All this while the black fellow was slowly creeping up on the scholastic scholar’s position as the Latino blew the whistle one more time.
The academic was still undecided on his next step and did not move.
The Mexican was now screaming in the doyen in literature’s direction. “Get yo' ass back upside here numb-a one, one, twoff!”
The professor could make nothing of the gobbledygook; nevertheless, decided to respond. Clearing his throat, the Ivy League faculty member tried again to make an utterance like a man, not a little girl.
“I say gentlemen...”
Darn it, I still sound like a ficken little girl.
Ahem...“I say gentlemen, are you here to assist me in some way?”
The professor looked around for a way to escape as he spoke...there was no place to run. Behind him was a standing fence to keep animals off the highway; it was one of the few things the dignitary had seen that was still doing its intended job. There was no way he would be able to jump over that thing in his hospital gown and as for running away, those darn slippers sucked just walking in them.
His options were limited to one.
I suppose I have no choice in the matter? I just have to trust the gods are watching out for me.
Schwartz picked himself up and started walking toward the two orderlies. As the academic approached he could now make out some of the noise the Latino was yelling. Whatever that weird little man was saying was amazingly incoherent and meaningless sounding.
“Hey mo’on, git back on over hyar.” [Hey you, get back over here.]
Hmmm... The prattle that immigrant is spittling reminds me of something. I have an ill-defined recollection of...of...a chauffeur! Yes, there was a chauffeur...of a bus. That pleb was making as much sense as this little Mexican.
Too busy with his own thoughts, the professor forgot about the tall, black fellow who was now slowly creeping up on him.
“I say, what are you wailing in my direction?...ummph.”
Appearing much like a Zulu warrior stalking a gazelle on the savannas of Africa, the taller orderly galloped the final ten yards like a cheetah leaping then tackling the academician to the turf. The momentum of the leaping man, however, carried both men into that open, drainage ditch that ran alongside the parkway. Now, even the professor’s relatively clean backside was soiled...just great!
Schwartz gasped after almost having the wind knocked out of him.
“What are you doing?”
Pausing to catch his breath, he continued with his protests, “Get your mitts off me you brutish lowlife!”
The English professor’s protests were in vain and to no avail. Neither the Mexican, nor the black character understood what the academic was shouting. Both orderlies thought only that Patient No. 112 sounded like a girl squealing nothing but hogwash noise.
Professor Schwartz was unceremoniously rolled on to his front side, thankfully not in the sludgy bottom and pinned by the taller fellow who held his arms behind him. The guru wizard was too weak to resist and lay there helplessly making meaningless protestations.
“Damnable tarnation, get off me you peasant!”
"Woo, woo, woo [blah, blah, blah],” responded the black person imitating what he understood the patient to be shouting.
The Mexican, who had been watching the Grey Hall patient squirm and was holding his sides with laughter, now spoke up, “Goout, now dig him down, Josh.” [Good, now get him up, Josh.]
Laughing again, the small character continued with his drivel, “How many times habe I told you t' stay in the fess!” [How many times have I told you to stay in the fence!]
“Doihh, COOL and you is goigg t' get shock treatmin f' dis you idiota!” [You’re going to get a real scolding for this for sure!]
The professor answered the unintelligible slurs of the Latino with, “I’m going to have both of you rogues thrown in prison for this affront.”
The taller character (Josh) with the shorter man’s help picked him up by the arms.
Holding the academic’s arms behind him once they both were standing, the taller orderly then spoke up, “Uh, Rej’ee, dis one’s talkigg now.” [Uh, Reggie, this one’s talking now.]
“De knock in de gord must habe helped hib.” [The knock in the noggin must have helped him.]
The shorter orderly (Reggie) replied, “Duzn’t mattah Josh, numb’a one, one, twoff ain’t makin' any cent, can ya' dig it whut he’s say?” [Doesn’t matter Josh, No. 112 is still not making any sense?]
“Ah' sho' man kin’t...Dog!” [I cannot understand a thing he’s saying...Man!]
“He’s de last one, come on, let’s go. 'S coo,' Bro…wha de be muhfuka Kiss do’int?” [He’s the last one, so come on let’s go…what is Chris (the driver) doing]?
Schwartz tried to resist the taller man’s grip and direction he was being forced to go, towards that ticking time-bomb lowrider.
“Wait a ‘dikadoobeldo’ second!” shouted the professor.
“‘Dick...what?’ Is that even a real word?”
No, but does that genuinely matter?
“Well, yes, I think so. What would it say about the state of the teaching profession if every asshat English professor just started making up expressions whenever and wherever they felt like it?”
You don’t think they already do that? Who do you think has come up with a word like “valetudinarian” to describe someone who is concerned with their health; or “ulotrichous” for wooly hair; or “pauciloquent” for a brief speech. I can guarantee you it wasn’t the proletariate who were coming up with those scanty vestiges.
“What, you think that just cuz those goofnads never leave academia that they should be the ones entitled to making up senseless expressions?”
Why not, just look at how butchered English has become with the simpletons running America in the future. At least the expressions the assclowns come up with can be pronounced and besides it is only the assclowns who use them. Given all you and I have seen, all the misspellings, grammatical mistakes, made up expressions and overall dorky speech of the characters in this yarn, does it matter if this English professor and former sanitarium inmate has some fun, too?
“I must say you’re beginning to make some sense. Let the professor have his fun. To hell with all the old conventions. Let us move on...into oblivion.”
I’m glad you agree, so back to Schwartz. That rolling firebomb was the last place the academic wanted to be, but his protests were getting him nowhere.
“Who are you ruffians and for what purpose are you coercing me toward that bucket-of-bolts misadventure inimical to my wishes?”
“He sho' man duz rap funny, Dog” [He sure does talk strange, boss], said Josh who was having little problem muscling the professor wherever he wanted him to go.
“Yep, he’s rappin,' but he’s still some mo'on. 'S coo,' Bro” [Yes, he’s talking, but he still sounds like a nut], responded the Mexican orderly.
The two Grey Hall orderlies were quite talkative with both continuing their exchange in that nonsensical discourse of theirs while all three men walked back in the direction of the rattletrap.
“Hey, Chis!” shouted Josh. “Could hep bring this mo’on boer at th’ caro ovah to the wheels?” [Could you help us get the patient over to your car?]
“Whew, he smells like sheet! We kin not put him in th' car like thet” [Whew, the patient smells like schiessen! We cannot put him in the vehicle smelling like that], remarked Reggie after getting a whiff of somethi
ng that overpowered his own foul-smelling odor.
“Let’s die hibe t'th' frunk [Let’s tie him to the trunk],” replied Josh with a big, schiessen-eating grin.
“Shet mah mouth! Yea, thet will wawk. Tie him t'th' trunk,” [Great idea! Yea, that will work. Tie him to the trunk], responded Reggie with gleeful radiance emanating from his also gleeful smile.
“Let me go you imprecate simpleton!” yelled the professor to no avail. Both characters had inwardly decided that while the academician was now talking, he was still the same old patient No. 112...an insane dunce that needed to be put back on the horse tranquilizers, soon.
“Naw, we kin not tie him t'th' trunk” [No, we cannot just tie him to the trunk], Reggie added after giving Josh’s idea some careful thought.
“Naw, shet mah mouth.” [On second thought it is not such a great idea.]
“De in’mitah wi’ll mez up th' dude’s job.” [The inmate will mess up the paint job.]
“Well, bust mah tanks an' call me a DJ…jed'd git unbelee’bly pissy as a cop Dog if his job were t'git schiessen’d.” [Chris would get unbelievably mad if his paint job were to get sullied.]
One side of the car, as already mentioned, was a painted mural of a Witchdoctor with dreadlocks, war paint and a bone through the nose. Painted on the trunk, for some unfathomable reason, the car’s owner had decided upon another kind of colorful mural of...
Is that Mother Mary? the professor axe’d himself.
Josh noticed something that could solve their paradox. “Wit de seqund, dere be a pot uh a cardbo'd ox upside dere.” [Wait a second, there is a part of a cardboard box over there.]
“Let’s put dat unda' him and den tie him t'de trunk!” [Let’s put that under him and then secure him to the trunk!]
“Yaba, yaba, dat wuld wo’k, Ya' know [Yea, that would work you know],” replied the Mexican who continued.
“Let me dig it, Dog.” [I’ll go and get it my dear man.]
“You's plum snatch...Ah be baaad muhfuka…Dog.” [You are one observant dude.]
“Mmmmhmmm…” [Whatever muhfuka], Josh responded and then yelled out, “Hey Dog, gimme some hand.” [Hey Chris, give me a hand.]
The driver now stepped from his car, his aviator goggles also pushed back on his noggin and sporting a five o’clock shadow that looked to be several days old. This was one serious looking redneck dude what with his dirty blond, stringy hair tied in a ponytail only more stylishly to the right, no, make that the left side of his gourd, nevertheless, a failed attempt at a comb-over for his receding hairline.
The redneck was dressed in green overalls, was wearing cowboy boots and a belt with a huge brass-plated buckle. There were no belt loops on account of these were overalls, so the driver looked utterly ridiculous. With utter disinterest and a hung-over look written all over his face, Chris glanced at the condition of No. 112 and without hesitating for a moment responded, “No, muhfuka’in way Dog!” [No, way man!]
“'S coo,' Bro. I’m not touchin' dat nut. Dog! Look at all de schiessen dat be all upside him. Word! Muhfuka.” [What in the ficken do I look like...an idiot. I’m not touching that patient. Look at all that schiessen the inmate has all over him! How would it appear if I involved myself in such a ridiculous activity?]
“Yeah Dog, yo’ muhfuka dumbass, ah' know, so cut me some slack, Jack. Ah' wearin' some baaaad part uh it now as well o' gotsn’t ya' noticed.” [Yes, dumbass I know. I’m wearing a good part of it now as well, or haven’t you noticed.]
“Yo, yo, I’ve notis’ed. Hey Dog, ya’re not digtin' back in mah' wheels covered in de schiessen. Dog! You's goin' t'have t'ride on de hood Dog. 'S coo,' Bro.” [Hey man, I hate to tell you this, but there is no way you’re getting back into my car covered in that schiessen. You’re going to have to ride on the hood man.]
“De mahfuka’inh hood!” [The fickening hood!]
“Whut do ah' look likes, some muhfuka’in hood o'dojiggernt?” [What do I look like, a hood ornament?]
“Awwww…so’ry Dog, dat’s de only way ya're digtin' some ride back, Ya’ know.” [I positively don't care man, but you needed a response. Sorry man, that’s the only way you’re getting a ride back, you know.]
“Goddamnit ya' moder muhfuka’er, coo,' but ya' betta' roll supa fine and slow, so cut me some slack, Jack…you's hear me?” [Darn it, you better drive nice and slow…you hear me?]
“Yea Dog, coo,' supa fine and slow, so cut me some slack, Jack.” [Yea man, nice and slow.]
The Latino came walking back with a fairly clean section of a cardboard box.
“Kiss, we’re goin' t'tie Bix t'yo' trunk, Ya' know.” [Chris, we’re going to tie Bix to your trunk.]
Professor Schwartz’s name had gone through a further subtle evolutionary step: “Bic” to “Bix.” That is what made Ebongo-Edongo so sublime and entertaining.
All this while Schwartz, arms held tightly behind his back by the black orderly and no chance of getting free, just gaped at and listened to the trio in utter bafflement.
Where in Gaia’s name am I? The academic asked himself with a frown. The Ivy League scholar was positively unhappy being handled so cavalierly by such obviously deficient underlings.
I’ve got to come upon where I am. It is crystal that I am not in America, but where? Mexico? El Salvador? Chile? Just where am I?
The blathering between the fellow holding the professor and the redneck driver continued ad nauseam, a conversation the dignitary could not understand, a verbal diatribe of non-conjugating verbs, misused pronouns, combining of terms and dozens of references to “Dog.” Translated, the two morons’ exchange spun around the plan of how the black character could become a hood ornament without falling off, without being run over, without becoming road kill.
The driver finally gave up discussing the matter with the other fool when Reggie came strolling back with some ‘bungie cords’ he’d pulled from the glovebox. That is when the driver climbed back into the ride and within seconds appeared to have passed out. It was a near exceptional time for the professor to uncover some intelligence on his whereabouts.
While the nitwits aren’t perorating in that Pig Latin of theirs, thought the academic, now is my fortuitous opportunity to find out where I am. I know they are going to be too simple to grasp my use of English, but I’ve got to give this a shot. I am going to have to stoop to their low levels.
“Hey homies, listen up.”
Both orderlies paused for a moment to look at No. 112.
They understand me...so far!
“Where I be?”
Josh was the first to laugh and blurt, “Muhfuka!” [This patient could actually be talking some sense!]
“Wha’ chu tink, Dog?” [What do you think, Reggie?]
“Where be I?” repeated the professor, this time switching the position of “be” in the hopes it would make more sense to the buffoons.
Reggie laughed as well adding, “This be Caiforn’a stupid’o.” [This is California.]
“California?”
Reggie answered, “Stupid’o mo’on, yep’y Caiforn’a, Dog.” [Yes, California.]
“How can this be? I was in New York!”
This was when the professor made the big mistake of dropping back into his normal English...and for the orderlies akin to “talking in tongues.”
“I demand to talk with your superiors immediately!”
The genius had made an error in judgment for both orderlies returned to their incoherent bantering, ignoring the professor as they would any inmate back at the sanitarium.
“Do you know who I am?”
Fortune had come and gone.
“I said, do you know who I am? I am Professor Felix Schwartz, an Ivy League university...”
“Slap him upside the gourd,” demanded the short Mexican when he had had enough of the inmate’s incomprehensible jabbering.
Whack!
Professor Schwartz was whacked upside the noggin by Josh’s big hand. The slap to t
he academic’s noodle was hard and startling enough to daze him into immediate silence.
“That goout, Nah may bee idiot shut down nah,” [That’s good, now maybe the nut will shut up for a moment], remarked the Mexican with a laugh.
“Yup.”
Professor Schwartz had never been physically struck before, not punitively anyway. Yes, he had been spanked on the ass numerous times during some of those BDSM rituals he had once regularly attended, but never before struck as part of a disciplinary action...at least nothing the dignitary remembered. One of the academic’s nannies had once tried to spank him for peering in on her through a keyhole as she went to the bathroom; nevertheless, she had been quickly fired once he told on her to his parents.
Schwartz’s checkbook had always come to his aide as he got older. For instance, there was the time when the professor was caught by another faculty member with an underage boy on an overnight field trip. That little incident had cost the professor a couple hundred grand. Then there was the time the guru educationist was photographed running naked around the Delta-Delta-Delta sorority house during “Pledge Week.” That teeny-weeny episode set him back a further hundred grand. Then, there was the time...you know this list of his goes on for...hold on and let me take a look.
Noise of papers being shuffled.
Three pages!
Three pages of sordid acts and deviant behavior ranging from having sex with his youngest sister to numerous instances of public nudity; there is even an incident where he was caught without pants, high on something, in a farmer’s pen with a bunch of sheep!
“Jeez, this dude has some real perversions.”
I do not believe there is any reason to go into the details just right now. There is a further point to be made.
“I don’t know, the thing about the sheep sounds weird and, therefore, intriguing. Wouldn’t some of those sordid acts of the professor’s give readers like myself a better understanding of what the fellow is, actually. I mean, the academic scholar is representative of most all moonbats, right?”
True, but I’m not sure we should venture too far off the beaten track at least for the moment. We are, after all, in the middle of a less than extraordinary situation that is bound to get more captivating. The point is the professor’s money has always managed to get him out of tight fixes.
“Come on, let’s hear more about the sheep.”
Look, I’m going to leave that one up to your own imagination. Now, jumping back into the moment...so, where was the scholar’s money now? That checkbook that had always gotten him out of tight situations, what now?
Stunned by the abuse he had never before experienced, he stood in stony silence fearful of being slapped again if he said anything. As the academician stood there half listening to the orderlies’ constant babbling he did not realize what the characters were up to...that they were going through the motions to tie him to the hunk of junk.
Reggie now asked Josh, the man holding the scholar, “Domas’ birfday, what we on?” [What are the plans for Thomas’ birthday?]
The security guard back at Grey Hall was going to be celebrating his twenty-sixth that night. "Caught a lick for Domas’ birfday.” [I came up on a deal too good to pass up for Thomas’ birthday.]
“Chu meannnnnnmm?” [Explain please.]
“We's watch’in sex movies wit girls at my crib.” [We are going to rent some porn movies over at my place to get us in the mood, then I’m going to call up a few neighborhood hoes and get them to come over after which we will have sex all night.]
“Ima hit u up doe.” [I may, or may not contact you later on as the day progresses...but keep your phone near in case I do.]
“A hoegregation is I ain’t invited?” [You’re having a gathering of girls to achieve a common goal and I am not invited?], responded the short Mexican with obvious disdain in his heavily accented voice.
"Yo babe-bitch been on de bullschiessen!” [What, so you believe I’ve not got any money for hoes!]
Reggie, the Mexican, perplexed by the new news continued, “Whatchu schiessen’in?” [Can you repeat that last statement, again?]
"Naaaaah it ain't ebeen ike dat bruh” [No money, no chicks], replied the tall, black orderly.
"Naaaaah it ain't even ike that bruh, I gots my side-bitch handed,” responded the short orderly. [Sorry my brethren, but the conclusion you have drawn is far removed from the truth, the girl I treat with the utmost respect and attention between the hours of 11pm and 3am is taken care of, my payments are up to date.]
“I int whor’ed bout nu’fin!” [I am not worried about anything!]
“Youse gots ganja?” Josh now asks looking for a reason to let Reggie party with him and his fellow hoodees. [Do you have any marijuana?]
“If youse gots de weed you be in.” [If you can supply the marijuana, you are in].
“Yah bruh, I gots de ganja.” [Yes, my friend I have some marijuana.]
Reggie had the right credentials, he was now as good as gold.
“OK, you in, just’n keep it on da low.” [Congratulations, you are in for the party, nevertheless you must keep this a secret.]
“Hey, is thet ram rod, Detongie gon’da be th’ah?” [Do you know if the girl who goes by the name Deltonia will be there?] asked Reggie, thinking ahead about ramming someone new.
Reggie had heard through the grapevine about that woman’s extraordinary talent.
“Listen up bruvvah, dat bitch got dat mouf!” [My friend, that girl’s fellatio techniques are unmatched by her peers!]
Reggie did not realize the birthday boy was already banging the aforementioned woman of unknown attractiveness, but with an apparent reputation for ‘slutchomping.’
“Sheeeze, you know Domas be gangbang’in dat hoe.” [Come on, how about a little dignity. You know Thomas is dating that girl.]
“Dog, we’d tink bout dis lat’ah.” [You and I will talk about this matter later.]
-----
“Gaia, almighty! Someone, please help me!” the doyen yelled in his squeaky feline voice.
It was a half hour after that slap to the side of the gourd when the professor found himself now part of the rolling disaster. Precariously perched on the trunk lid, his situation was both terrifying and humiliating. Secured by some rather uncomfortable bungie cords, the academician was lying face up and getting a spectacular view of the heavens while his backside slid around on top of that sheet of cardboard and in turn on the mural of ‘Mother Mary.’ Sparks, of course, were flying everywhere and naturally his…his…tallywacker was flying at full mast thanks to the boost the scholar was getting from the strong headwinds.
Schwartz looked like he could have been part of a demented TV commercial whose plot-line could have gone one of two ways.
“Too old? Having a hard time keeping it up with all those bad girls in that hood of yours, especially as you come into your golden years? What about all those ‘welfare cougars,’ are those bitches and their ‘spending money’ going elsewhere to get some? It doesn’t have to be like that...no, you too could be like this sixty year-old stud...a twenty-four hour breeding stallion. ‘Come-Thru 500’ is the answer to your prayers! ‘Come-Thru 500’ carries the Castro, Presidential ‘Seal of Approval,’ so you know it has to be good. Just one pill a day and you’re back in action, just like this guy. Only, don’t waste it on some trunk lid flying around at full mast like this poor sap.
“Come-Thru 500,’ you can find it at your local convenience store.”
Or...
“Old...tired of being ashamed when you’re always waiting for that next government, welfare check? Chicks cost money, so do prostitutes. So, what’s someone like this bloke supposed to do when he ain’t got no ‘spending money?’ Fidel Industries has the answer to your prayers! The ‘all new’ inflatable doll, ‘I’m a Virgin.’ ‘I’m a Virgin’ has everything a dog would ever want, or need. Just think, no longer will you have to go around appearing like this miserable soul. ‘I’m a Virgi
n’ is from Fidel Industries so you know she’s got to be good.”
Of course, in this day and time the first commercial would have gone more like this...
“Too old? Havin' some hard time keepin' it down wid all dose goat homeys as ya' dig into yo' golden years? Whut about all yo' wifey’s, is dey goin' elsewhere t'get some satisfacshun? It duzn’t gots'ta be likes dat. Dog!..ya' too coot be likahs dis sixtee-yea-ole stud...a twenty-foe, wha-ja-ma-call-it muhfuk’n machine. Introducin' Come’a to 500! Right on! Come’a to 500 cari de Super-dudeial Seal uh approval and it’s fum ‘el Presidente’ so's ya' know it gots'ta be baaaad.”
...and the one about the ‘I’m a Virgin Slutchops’ doll’s head would have sounded more like this...
“Ti’ed uh bein' m-bar’raced wich yo' goat homeys is mad at ya'...when yo' yo' wifey’s aren’t puttin' out? Tired uh goin' arown likes dis dude when dere’s not some hook’e around? Well, Castro gots de answa' to yo' prayahs. Introducin' de all-new, pocket-size, inflatable ‘I’m a Vegan’ three som’tin...she gots everydin' some Dog would eva' wants' o' need in some great hedd. Co' got d' beat! ‘I’m a Vegan’ carries de super-dudeial seal uh approval. Available at yo' local convenience sto'es in de toy secshun...bat’rees not included. No hammy, it’s fum ‘el Presidente’ so's ya' know it gots'ta be baaaad.”
It probably would not have mattered if the male audience even listened to the commercials, the symbolism was all there, it was all they needed.
To say that Professor Schwartz was upset would be an understatement...he was mortified by his circumstances. Not only the newfound discovery that he was not in some foreign land where the inhabitants talked in some kind of hybrid-ghetto dialect...he was still in America!
The academic was constantly asking himself, What could possibly have happenedth? Those underlings in their orderly gowns can’t be representative of commoners everywhere? First things first. I’ve got to get off this anathematized (damn) ficken firebomb with wheels.
Schwartz took a closer look at the bindings. The knots looked menacing enough with each hand and each foot bound by what looked like a round-turn knot with two and one-half hitches, only these imbeciles had used ‘two,’ instead of ‘two and one-half’ hitches!
The guru, moronicist had been a Boy Scout, a Tenderfoot, so he knew knots. Scouting had been a delightful, character-building experience and rope tying had been one of those incredible, moral-building exercises in that great, personality-building year; the same year the dignitary discovered NAMBLA, the ‘North American Man, Boy Love Association,’ a topic we will reserve for later.
It looked to Schwartz as if all he needed to do was to take some pressure off the knot and it would loosen and he could simply wriggle his hand free; then his foot; then his other foot and lastly his other hand which the academic would hold fast to while riding the bucking bronco up to the time he was prepared to leap off the rolling disaster.
First, the professor took a look up over his shoulder to make sure no one was taking an interest in him as he slipped his left hand free from its binding. The Latino and white redneck dude in the front seat were too busy laughing at their companion, the human hood ornament, to notice him and, of course, there was no rearview mirror.
Next, Schwartz slipped his left foot out of the noose. The automobile was not moving along all that quickly, but he lost some of his stability and was now sliding about with each passing jolt on top of what had become a cardboard sled.
The plan was to jump into the highway median and hide there long enough to see his fellow amigos off then hightail it into one of the cornfields...simple!
Whoosh...there went the cardboard and the academician was now sliding back and forth in a kind of arc that was just enough to unwittingly desecrate Mother Mary with his exposed soiled ass, which now added something resembling a ‘cac eating’ grin to her otherwise dour countenance.
With a little more...Yes!
Both of Schwartz’s feet were now free!
Professor Schwartz now looked like one of those groundbreakers of the 1980s, the guys and some chicks who were fearlessly riding mechanical bulls. Think Urban Cowboy. That was no nonsensical fad, but the dawn of the revolution, a time where the clothes, mustaches, country music and Marlboro Man cigarettes made the man and some women. The mechanical bull represented a time when men were men and some dames were trying to be men. It took balls, bravado, and machoism to climb on one of those ugly mechanical animals. It was...
“What are you ficken’in talking about? How could this guy, this English professor tied to a trunk of a car turn into this...this whatever it is you’re saying?”
I was just trying to add some colorful memories to the professor’s current plight; nevertheless, you’re right! I must move on.
The only difference between those pinheads and the virtuoso academic were those fools were consciously paying to climb and ride one of those stupid mechanical bulls, while Einstein wanted no part in riding a mechanical bull even though that was exactly what he looked like he was doing at the moment.
I have a question for you. Could mechanical bull riding have been an early sign of the moral decay of the country?
“Nah, it might have been a sign of how naive and vacuous some Americans were, but nothing at all related to social decline. Possibly a decline in intelligence, but nothing else.”
Nevertheless, you have to agree rot has happened, right?
“Well, of course, just look around.”
Which time?
“Today.”
Any ideas why things are tanking?
“I have no ficken idea. I was hoping this book would clear up some of the reasons.”
Oh, cac! The author just heard you! Schiessen, the novelist was not asleep for once and wants to add something.
“Just great, here we go.”
“I could not help but overhear your conversation and I’d like to add a couple of things that might clear up the ethical decay question. For forty-five years I have investigated...by the way, my research began when I was twelve years old...in all likelihood owing to the fact that I had no social life up to the time I was thirty-three,” the author stated for some ungodly reason.
Oh Lord, please end my misery. [Narrator]
“On the topic of depravity, I found moral corruption does seem to exist in today’s American culture, but not for the reasons most would think. Hollywood, the Democrat Party, the news media, none of them are to blame for the decline in virtuousness we are seeing among our fellow citizens. No, I have found the reason is something completely different. The cause for the moral decadence we now see is…is the Pope!...and possibly some of the...the...whatever they’re called, oh yea, clergy. Is clergy the right term?”
Silence...
“Did you, or ‘the reader’ ever see The Da Vinci Code?”
“What, you mean the book?”
“There was a book?”
“Of course there was a book. Don’t you go to the bookstores?”
“No.”
“Don’t you read other novelists’ fiction?”
“No.”
“Jeez, what kind of writer are you?”
“I appreciate your interest in what my reading habits are, nevertheless movies...books, they are all the same to me. I’ve got a dentist’s appointment I’ve got to run to, so can I finish up my point?”
“Oh well, sure.”
“Back to my theory...the answer to your question is ‘no,’ those who saw and mimicked the nincompoops who played the parts in Urban Cowboy have nothing to do with today’s social decline. Furthermore, Hollywood had no involvement in the nation’s declining, decadent culture; the Democrat Party had no part, nor the news media. Our problems started in the Vatican, in Rome...that motion picture Tom Hanks starred in proves it!”
He’s losing his mind. I knew it. No, he’s lost his mind. [Narrator]
“...the sinful state we live in today will become the utopia liberals have been promis
ing for so, so many years. By the year 2050, and hopefully sooner, everyone will experience the rejoicing and happiness that accompanies...”
“Please shut the ficken up!”
“But, I was just about to mention the plan by the Pope to...”
“Move on, or I’m throwing this book in the trash!”
“I can take a hint, there’s no need to get so worked up.”
Nothing but a rebuking sort of silence descends on the scene.
Here we go, again! Frankie, thanks for the wonderful insight, I’ll be happy to take things from here.
“All right, mister narrator. Be sure to let me know if either of you have any more questions.”
Oh, I will.
What sounds like a phone being hung up, then silence...
Kaplunk…
More silence...
“Is the author gone?”
I hope you can fathom that I have no control over that guy?
“I understand and sympathize with you. Is that the novelist’s picture on the front cover?”
No, but you would think it was. The author is the unintelligent appearing person on the back cover.
“When does Alzheimer's kick in?”
I don’t know, but I hope to be long gone before that happens.
“This novelist chap isn’t playing us for fools is he? I’ve got a boss who acts like this, playing dumb to lower your guard then, Whack!”
I don’t know...? Do you think he’s listening right now?
“Could be, so what?”
I’ve got to live with the cat...you don’t, that’s what!
“What? Is the author a bully?”
I’d rather not go into that just now. Maybe, later I’ll shed a little more light on the matter. For now, let’s get back to this farce.
“Go ahead, before the novelist decides to come back for some unexplained reason.”
Call to mind that the academician was now holding on with one hand, his other limbs flailing about like he was riding a...a...bucking bronco.
The assclown grabbed the bungie cord with his free hand and pulled himself up to slacken the binding just enough to slip...yes, both hands were now free!
The Professor now went from someone looking like a bronco-riding cowboy to someone being pulled behind a ski boat, only he looked like someone who had fallen off his skis and was being dragged along in the wake, wincing in pain. Bouncing up in the air with each passing pothole, busting his balls while his legs dangled in the air off the rear of the car, somehow the academician managed to keep his slippers from flying off. Thank gooutiness the bumper on this thing was big and deep enough for him to catch his footing.
Schwartz now looked like a skier who was up on his skis, hunched over as he bounded over imaginary waves. More bounding, more rough waters. What was the professor waiting for? He just keeps skiing! Was the guru having fun, or something? What, what is that coming up? Could it be? Yes...yes it is...
The professor leapt as if from a diving board. Distance was good, his form near perfect; nevertheless, his timing was a little late. The academic missed the discarded mattress he was aiming for and instead did a pile-driver into some lawn-size, plastic bags filled with...with...dirty adult diapers...in all likelihood from the sanitarium.
Schwartz felt like he had been hit over the noggin with one of those heavy pillows his father used at the NAMBLA sleepovers. The scholar knew he did not have time to reminisce about those good times at the moment; the dignitary had to make good his escape.
“You’re ficken kidding!”
I’m reading straight from the teleprompter.
“Does this author have some kind of axe [axe] to grind with English professors? It sure seems like it.”
Wait for ‘Part Two,’ or ‘Part Three’ and I’ll answer that.
“Move on then.”
Okay.
The academician listened to the rough running engine, the gnashing racket of metal against the hard road surface become fainter and fainter. In all the excitement, the professor’s adrenaline had temporarily overridden his olfactory senses and the pounding his ‘gametes makers’ had taken. He raised his diaper, camouflaged noggin, and peered through the scrub grass as the junk pile continued its trek into the distance climbing and finally disappearing over the hill.
“Adios muchachos!” the academician squeaked, a broad smile on his face.
It was time for the English professor to disappear into the fields of maize and with some luck he might find a place to clean up. The corn had to taste better than flies.
Those cursed olfactory glands now began to reassume their importance as the excitement of the situation died down. It took their higher power no time to discover and alert their boss of the newfound, ‘more overpowering’ stench.
“Gaia! Where the cac is that ficken reek coming from?”
Gagggg...
“Owww...my Maximus Gonadius...”
The Corn Field