Here it is, the HIGHLY ANTICIPATED (if two people following this thread constitute high anticipation,) conclusion to Dirk Destroyer's Less Destructive Brother. What's happened so far?
Mostly political cheap shots and cigar innuendo. (Wow! That sounds painful.)
And now the end...
Chapter 27
Mysterious Ending – That Is, Until You Read It
I was back on the couch in So-Ho. The twins must have gotten up
because the futon was empty, and I could hear them moving around in
the kitchen. Dirk was playing around with a magic box on his desk.
“Check this out,” he said. He manipulated a small item on the
desk, and suddenly there were two people inside the magic box and
they were singing – which would probably not be my reaction if Dirk
had imprisoned me in a magic box.
My goodness they were singing! I’d never heard anything like it
before.
“Who are these musical people you’ve imprisoned?” I asked.
“Steve and Eydie,” said Dirk.
“Steve and Eydie would be musical gods on Two!” I said.
“I know,” said Dirk, manipulating the magic box in such a way
that Steve and Eydie shut up. “That’s why I had to leave. Maybe
tonight we’ll go hear some real music.”
“We could play some Fassentinker,” I said.
“I don’t see how,” said Dirk. “You lost the scratchwing.”
“I lost the scratchwing?”
“Yeah, and I don’t know how I’m ever going to find another one.
I told you to hold onto it.”
“That wasn’t the real reason you asked me to hold onto it,” I
said.
There was a suspicious gleam in Dirk’s eye. I checked my fanny
pack. There was no fish stick. What did that mean?
“If I didn’t know you better…” said Dirk.
Maybe it wasn’t the Stevens twins in the kitchen, maybe it was…
Mage-e-not came in bare-chested. I was glad to see him, but not like
that. He held up a wet ball of shredded cloth. “Your magic
cleaning box ate my shirt.”
Dirk looked at me. “Tomorrow we go find you a place of your own.”
I nodded absent-mindedly. Mage-e-not was here, but what about…
Something crashed in the kitchen. “Broken dish,” squawked
Swampy.
“Oopsie,” exclaimed the voice I most wanted to hear.
“Tomorrow,” I agreed with Dirk. Would we be looking for a
short-term lease, or one for the next several thousand years? I knew
where Ono’s immortality switch was, and where mine was as well.
Whichever we decided, we’d live at the same setting.
What - that's it? I wrote the stupid thing and I think that was a lame ending. It's a good thing I didn't charge anybody for this. Bundle up these posts and give them to someone you can't stand this Christmas.
For those who
feared chapter eleven ended last Friday, fear not! Chapter 11 ended,
but eleven lives on. And with such semantic garbage comes a flicker
of hope for our protagonist, Elmer who pretty much blew his chance
for happiness with the lovely Ono.
Chapter Eleven
Desperate Male Insecurity
Over the millennia I have observed odd things about how the genders
interact. I will not attempt to define what women think or want as
that would require far more millennium than I have lived for me to
understand, but I have come to a basic understanding about us men.
Men want to eat what they want when they want it; they want to have
sex with who they want when they want it, and otherwise they want to
be left in peace to watch mindless entertainment – jousting, the
dog and cat fighting, or the neighbor’s wife undressing in front of
an open window.
In short, the male mechanism is simple and gratification oriented –
a very efficient mental machine – most of the time.
One might think that due to male simplicity that all of the great
innovations and advances in society would have been developed by
women who are, at the very least, more complicated.
But it’s not true. Many, if not the majority of innovations and
advances were developed by men. The reason for this is the most
powerful, least understood, and clearly least respected dynamism of
human history: Desperate Male inSecurity.
Desperate Male inSecurity, or DMS™
is responsible for the lion’s share of changes in human living –
both good and bad. The scratchwing, for instance was created by
Horace N. Scratch on the coast of Pogo.
Horace was a trader in coal dust. Coal dust gathering,
consolidation, and merchandising is usually a painstaking and
solitary profession. It also tends to clog the nose. For this
reason, coal dust traders were, as a group, inveterate nose pickers –
or at least they were if inveterate means what I think it means. If
it doesn’t, then coal dust traders were not inveterate nose
pickers, but they sure picked their noses a lot, because every spec
of coal dust dreams, from it’s early days as a little spec, to
someday settle down in a spacious human nostril, and maybe raise a
couple of…”
I’ll spare you.
Horace’s problem was that he wasn’t nearly as solitary as was the
rule for coal dust traders – or at least he didn’t want to be.
Horace was cursed, (by coal dust trader standards,) with
non-repulsive features, and a personality that bordered on
companionable.
“That boy will never make it big in coal dust,” said his Uncle
Scrofulous, and Uncle Scrofulous needed only point to
Karen-Judy-Joan-Dusty Carpenter-Collins-Baez-Springfield-Blondie as
the reason why. You see, in spite of the fact that Horace was a less
than successful coal dust trader, Karen------ didn’t find him
immediately repugnant. As a matter of fact, she might have had
serious interest in the guy except for one thing – you know - the
nose thing.
“I’d never give up a healthy nose picking for any dolly,” said
Uncle Scrofulous, who like most coal dust traders, had done his
procreation through Speedies Mail Order procreation service, which
may have explained why Horace’s cousin, Sniff looked a bit like an
anteater.
But Horace had heart-fire for Karen-Judy-Joan-Dusty, which is a
dangerous thing to have around so much coal dust, and as a result, he
developed that most powerful and dangerous of all creative forces –
Desperate Male inSecurity – DMS™.
The problem was to keep his gnarly fingers out of his nostrils, and
so Horace began wearing wool gloves. He knew that wasn’t working
when the tiny dust families started dressing their specks in tiny
wool sweaters. He tried keeping his hands in his pockets, and ended
up having surgery to remove a blue jean rivet from his septum, (which
became a short-term fashion statement in art schools and
snake-handling religious sects.)
Finally, in desperation, Horace attached a wood frame around his neck
to keep his hands away. This simple device made a rich man out of
Uncle Scrofulous, who sold the idea to the Shackles weight-loss
company.
It also began Horace’s journey to a pick-free life. In the early
days, he bruised his knuckles against the wood frame, and grunted
with frustration at the population explosion of dust and specks
populating his nostrils. The knocks and grunts reverberated through
the frame creating interesting and not unpleasing sounds.
Then one day, while coal dust buying and needing his hands free,
Uncle Scrofulous carelessly placed his horickvock on top of Horace’s
neck frame. I don’t need to tell you how a horickvock responds to
knocks and grunts, but within the confines of Horace’s ingenious
frame, the horickvock mutated Horace’s knocks and grunts into…
Music.
This was a foreign concept to the coal dust trading community, and
rich Uncle Scrofulous feared it might be some religious thing, but
Karen-Judy-Joan-Dusty knew music when she heard it, and knew Horace
for the musical savant that he was.
They lived happily for three months until Horace was swept away by a
moose of unknown gender and never heard from again.
But the music that Horace and KJJD created was a sensation that
lasted three or four times the usual end-by date that traditionally
limit sensations. More importantly, they accidentally created a
musical genre known for its excessive use of the scratchwing, and a
coal-filled nasal quality to the vocals.
Was I any different than Horace? Well, I hoped I was, but one thing
we had in common – Desperate Male inSecurity, DMS™.
And I knew only one place where desperate male insecurity could
create the kind of help I needed.
The school of amazing stuff.
Will Elmer be
able to return to the school of amazing stuff? Will he find
something he needs to save his budding relationship with Ono? Will
he even understand what he finds without Dirk to guide him?
Why am I asking
you these questions? I wrote this silly parody; you’d think I’d
have a clue what’s ahead.
One thing’s
for sure. We’ve had chapter 11 and chapter Eleven. There can’t
be any more 11/Eleven left, can there?
Again, I’m
asking you? We’ll just have to discover what there is to see next
Friday.
Sometimes villains just have to sell it - from Phineas and Ferb.
