What the Hell?

Fellow Go Figure Reads writer, Stanley McFarland is working on a project about hell. He writes on a blog a few times a year, and it’s usually something long, churchy, and egg-heady. It’s pretty boring stuff, but feel free to check it out. boring blog  

Anyway, Stanley says he’s reworking the concept of hell, and he asked me what I think of it. I wanted to say that hell was reading long, churchy, egg-heady blog posts about stuff I don’t understand, but seeing as he writes for Go Figure Reads, I decided I should be more helpful.

So here are the top ten ways that I see hell.

1) An eternal presidential campaign.

1a) A campaign where the two major candidates are the worst people I can think of. Wait! Are we in hell already?

2) Gnats.

3) Endless root canal session with about 50 trillion requests of, “just a little wider, please,” from my polite demonic dentist.

4) Celine Dion tribute on steel guitars.

5) Being next in line at the Department of Motor Vehicles while the person at the window refuses to leave until he can vent his complaint one more time…

6a) I pay to go to France with friends and find I’m the only one in my group that doesn’t speak French…

6b) And doesn’t understand art…

6c) And doesn’t like wine…

6d) And is allergic to stinky cheese.

7) All Award Shows, All the Time!

8) Lima bean Pop Tarts.

9a) To have that dream again where I’m back in school and I’m not wearing pants

9b) And find out it’s not a dream.

10) Any given day in Caitlyn Jenner’s life.

      Then again, some animated characters don't seem to mind hell.

Dirk Destroyer Part 38 Chapter Twenty

I suppose it’s a little late to mention it, but those chapters that are spelled out (like Twenty,) are diversions from the story, while those that are enumerated (thanks CL for giving me that cool word,) (like 21,) move the story along.

Kinda cute, right?

Well who asked you?

I don’t care if I did ask you – I thought it was cute even if nobody else did. Remember, this entire magnum opus (‘nother cool word, but this time I got it from Star Trek reruns,) is free of charge.

But back to the beauty of these nonenumerated diversional chapters (wow am I cranking out the cool words tonight!) You can take these chapters almost like short stories and you might even understand what’s going on without reading the previous 37 Dirk Destroyer posts.

Chapter Twenty

Fassentinker

The scratchwing and bellow had been such a fine combination for instrumental duets that when I was born people in my village thought they had been part of civilization forever. Two years later when Dirk was born, most people still held the same opinion.

Though the scratchwing is a precision instrument and the bellow more tonal and percussive, it was the fad of composers in my youth to ask the direct opposite of each. The result was a musical product that resembled a raptor swimming under water next to a leviathan farting.

It was unpleasant, but it was art, and to expect art to be pleasant is common, base, uncultured, and ignorant. The annual art endowments were thus awarded to the artists, composers, choreographers, sculptors, and nose pickers who most made you wish that your head was an internal organ.

Those were heady days for the arts.

Dutifully, Dirk and I studied music and practiced every day. Dirk developed a sardonic sense of humor; I developed allergies; and our mother went through three divorces.

I remember a particularly cruel punishment I received in middle school after my rendition of V. D. Popengut’s ninth inversion was greeted with applause by my classmates. I was forced to listen to the correct interpretation repeatedly until I was light-headed from loss of blood and mucus.

It was into this world of poignant artistic integrity that Captain Kangar Fassentinker rose to prominence. Kangar Fassentinker was a tug boat captain on the continent of Pogo where his primary trade was to take tourists to the one toilet, or loo, as they were called down there, that flowed in the correct direction. Captain Kangar –loo as he was popularly known to the inhabitants of those parts, had very little adult trade, as most people over the age of seven felt no need to see a toilet flow the correct way more than once. Smaller children however, could never get enough of it, and after some time, parents began habitually leaving their children on his tugboat before leaving for work, or to score drugs.

Kangar Fassentinker was not pleased with this turn of events. An accomplished scratchwing player in his youth with four suicides to his credit, Captain Kangar-loo began playing his scratchwing – not properly, but in a contrarian fashion - in opposition to the accepted artistical forms of the day.

Unfortunately, the children of his tugboat nursery had not yet developed the sophistication necessary to understand that what they were hearing was asinine, derivative crap, and so they loved and adored the Captain almost as much as he loathed them. The Captain lived in an increasingly unbearable world of happy children, swirling water, and deplorably pleasant music.

After twenty-five years, and a dozen unexplained drownings, Luke Gandolf, a writer of fantasies, and creator of toys that were particularly harmful to children, remembered his dear Captain Kangar-loo, and bailed him out of jail, in order to bring Kangar Fassentinker’s music to the world.

Unfortunately, only a handful of Fassentinker’s pieces were released to the world including his exquisite third duet for scratchwing and bellow before Fassentinker slipped on a cube of ice and accidentally impaled himself on an ice pick left carelessly propped, point up, on the floor. This occurred at the apartment of the aforementioned composer, Vladimir Draculo Popengut, who was the only witness to the event.

Not sure if Danny Kaye was Fassentinker or Popengut, but I love his movies.

Crank Calls

I don’t believe in crank calls. I never called a store to ask if they had Prince Albert in a can. It’s not that I don’t like a good joke – I just don’t like aggression, and there are few things more aggressive (in my humble opinion) than to activate a klaxon in someone’s home, place of business, pocket, or blue tooth that demands immediate attention.

So I don’t believe in making phone calls of any description, not to mention crank calls.

Transforming a call into a crank call when someone aggressively rings a bell in my ear is another matter entirely.

Ring, ring

Headley: Beauchamp, ques-que-sais?

Caller: I’m very sorry; I was looking for Headley Hauser. I seem to have called the wrong number.

Headley: De rien. (hangs up.)

Of course I’m counting on the caller having neither a knowledge of French, nor an ability to distinguish that my accent comes from that part of France that is just west of Greensboro, North Carolina.

Maybe that’s more properly in Quebec.

If the caller responds in French, I would probably say – uno momento (completely ignoring the fact that that’s Spanish,) put the phone receiver down and leave the room. They can wait all day if they want – I don’t mind the phone staying off the hook. What’s the worst that can happen – I miss a few phone calls?

As soon as email came around, the telephone was dead to me. I hear that some folks say that as soon as texting came around, that email was dead to them – but they’re barbarians and they don’t even write out their words properly.

But still the phone hangs on the wall in my kitchen taking up space like that slicer/dicer machine that does EVERYTHING… except I’ve yet to use it out of fear that it will scoff at me for not properly appreciating julienne fries.

Yes the phone is on the wall and NOT in my pocket. Why anyone would want to carry around a device that can rip them out of the serenity of driving in rush hour traffic, or the enjoyment of an ice cream headache from sucking on a Friendlies Fribble, I’ll never know.

Once in a while that phone on the wall rings, and the routine begins again – “Volkov, kak va?”

I’ve made a point to learn foreign-sounding names and terse greetings in 15 different languages. I may not remember them all correctly, but it’s not as if my goal is communication. That’s why I had to stop using my Spanish greeting – too many people understood what I was saying, or even corrected my gringo pronunciation.

Those who know me well are not fooled. They just ignore whatever I say.

Headley: Jer shrr Li.

Caller: Yeah, Headley, you need to tell Go Figure Reads to move your books out of my store, nobody’s going to buy them.

Headley: War yaoww chyoo tser-swor.

Caller: Right, and soon, please. James Patterson is coming out with a new book he had someone else write for him, and if I don’t display 30 cases, a crack CIA strike team will burn my building down.

Headley: Wor ting boo-dong

Caller: Yeah, you too.

…

I know I had a point to make here.

If you can think of it, give me a ring.

But the master of phone humor will always be the beloved Bob Newhart.

Dirk Destroyer Chapter 37 Chapter 19

The Fellowship of the Bring and their target, Dirk Destroyer (whose real last name is McFarland,) are in close proximity.  Between them is Dirk's brother Elmer (who is narrating this story and is also named McFarland,) and Ono, a magical, confusing young woman who makes Elmer's 8000-year-old heart go pitter-patter.

 Chapter 19

Showing Off

In hindsight, mentioning that Dirk was going to meet me was probably not a good idea.

“Ah hah,” said Jonma Claim, now thoroughly possessed by Uriculous.

“The inverted stewpot has shutdown for the day,” Mage-e-not explained. “Now all the pols are out eating rubber chicken and looking for Champagne money,” (or something like that.)

“Too shmuch shmoney in shpoliticsch,” said Jonma Claim who was apparently not thoroughly possessed by Uriculous.

In spite of the occasional blurt, Jonma Claim was not about to let me out to wander freely and meet with Dirk.

“Ish our Schance,” said Jonma Claim in an increasingly bothersome lisp. “Wesh getsh shou botsh togesher.”

“Which we could have done where we were last night,” said Mage-e-not.

“Doeschent schmatter,” sputtered Jonma Claim.

“The other place had better showers,” said Lip Ton Tease.

“And fewer pigs,” said Lustavious, who had mistaken a mound of pig excrement for a mound of dirt to sit on.

“Doeschent schmatter!” repeated Jonma Claim around great gobs of spit that found their way to the few remaining un-besmirched areas on Lustavious’ bandage. “We wash shim, and we getsch boschhh.”

“We wash him?” asked Tease.

“Wash shim!” corrected Jonma Claim. “Wash shim, wash shim, wash shim!” He was pointing to his eyes, until we all got the message.

“I don’t think you lisped this badly when we started out, High Priest,” sang Lustavious.

“Wash shim!” Jonma Claim snapped.

So they washed… watched me – all of them, even Jonma Carry – even Swampy. I started pacing, not because I felt like pacing, but to see what they would do. Every pair of eyes watched me back and forth. I started jumping. Whatever other skills I might lack, I have always been a fine jumper. Every pair of eyes watched me up and down.

I was about to start somersaults, when Tease said, “The sheep.”

“Washaboutem,” said Jonma Claim.

“Wash a bottom?” asked Tease.

“I think he means,” said Lustavious, “what about them.”

“They’re back.”

“Baaaaaaaaaack,” said Mage-e-not.

A phalanx of sheep, rams in front, ewes in back, and little lambs eating ivy on the side, marched lock-step toward our position.

“Not sheep-like,” said Lustavious.

“Schut upsch!” said Jonma Claim.

They formed up twenty paces away, then their phalanx split.

“What are they doing?” asked Mage-e-not.

“Schut upsch!” said Jonma Claim.

“Should have stayed where we were,” muttered Mage-e-not.

Through the opening in the phalanx came eight sheep with branches across their backs forming a crude platform. On the platform was a large ram.

“Completely un-sheep-like,” said Lustavious.

Jonma Claim didn’t say ‘Schut upsch,’ or ‘quietsch,’ or ‘do shnot dischturb,’ or even ‘no moleschte por favor.’ He, like everyone else in our party but Ono and me, were focused on the ram standing on the platform.

“Dirk?” mouthed Ono quietly, and I marveled that she could mouth as difficult a name to mouth as Dirk, as perfectly as she did, with such a subtle question mark inflection.

I clawed out of my marveling enough to grab the scratchwing that Dirk had given me and nodded my head in the affirmative – (except in the land of Pogo on the other side of the planet, where such movement of the head meant a negative, or ‘hey, the water in the loo is moving the wrong way,’ depending on the occasion.)

Apparently Ono was not from Pogo, because she understood my affirmative nod – at least she didn’t go off to watch the water in the loo, which was a good thing, because we were quite distant from the nearest flush toilet which happened to be at the inverted stew pot, where at that very moment, they were flushing the day’s legislation to make certain that no voters ever read it.

I have to be honest. I had no idea if they were flushing the day’s legislation at that very moment.

The ram opened its mouth and did not say Bah. It said instead, “Uriculous Wisehind!” which is something I had rarely if ever, heard a mammal other than human, or politician say.

“Uriculous Wisehind,” repeated the ram with a lovely little goat vibrato through the hind part. I mean to say the vibrato vibrated through the end part of Uriculous’ last name – or “hind.” As far as I could tell the ram’s hind part was unaffected and remained unvibrated – not that I habitually study the hind parts of rams or other male mammals.

“Uriculous Wisehind… answer me!”

“Yesh?” said Jonma Claim.

“Ewe… Ewe… ewe… BUG ME!”

The words bug me were not capitalized in speech, of course, but they were very loud, and on further reflection the ram might have been saying “you” as opposed to “ewe.” Of course, it being a ram, and rams having a fondness for ewes, it was a natural mistake on my part, as I’m sure it might have been for many people – especially those who were accustomed to the preferences of sheep, both sexually and by association to think that the ram was speaking of the female of his species, and not a short, bald, possessed human male.

Though Jonma Claim did not enunciate his reasoning, he chose that moment to leave the area, as did all the party, even Ono, who mouthed a rather lengthy message to me, which though I am certain must have been mouthed perfectly, my inadequacies in lip reading left me with only, “so long.”

“So long,” I said to all of them, including Ono, hoping that it was a sufficient response to her mouthed message.

I walked up to the ram on the platform and said, “You know, I could really use a cigar right now. Do you have any?”

“Eat me,” said the ram. Then he climbed down from his platform, and moments after reaching the ground the phalanx became a much less un-sheep-like flock.

“Come on now Brother,” said Dirk standing up from the back of the flock. “That was some first rate work.”

I had to agree. No one can do simultaneous animal control, telekinesis, and ventriloquism like Dirk. Each was a natural ability, but it takes talent and thousands of years of practice to make them work in concert so well.

“You have the scratchwing,” said Dirk, handing me a cigar and match. “Good, come this way.”

So I went, which is the mirror reflection of come, which would make Dirk the mirror…

I’m not sure what that last sentence meant, but I went with Dirk.

Of course we know that sheep never do stuff like they did in this chapter.

A Slay on Words

The proper response to a pun is an ursine growl, whether you can bear the hulaBaloo, or it makes you want to cave. If the pun comes from your cub, don’t let it give you hives. If it comes from your sweet honey, just let it bee. If you friend Nate tells a pun, you might through a few prickles his way, but then be polite and say, “Hi burr Nate!”

Does a bear crap in the woods? I don’t know, but all the following picture puns were crapped on FaceBook, and not a single one from my paw…

(or my maul, for that matter.)

Pun humor didn't start with animals but they are now infected.

This might explain it.

Yeah, cows are now good humor intolerant.

And it's passed on to each generation.

Not surprisingly, domestic animals are afflicted.

Though some domestic animals are too smart for me to understand how.

But let's face it; we humans are the source of this infection.

It might have started with our mating rituals.

Which we pass on to our young.

It affects professions like criminology.

And medicine.

Which even spreads to non-animate objects.

Which in turn might affect politics.

Even the planet is shaped by it.

And energy as well.

And if you want to escape it - I'm afraid there's...

   Then again - maybe it all started with the bears after all.

Dirk Destroyer Part 36 Chapter 18

This is another full chapter, and more than twice what I’ve been told (by people smarter than me,) what a blog post should be. The problem is that there are no natural breaks in the chapter other than a few hundred words into the chapter and a few hundreds words from the end. I considered offering you the beginning and end of the chapter in one post and the middle in another.

But then there’s the possibility that someone might actually be reading this story, so I’ll just post the whole chapter.

Chapter 18

FrankenDodd

As old as I am, I was never much of a wanderer. By mid-day we were far beyond any place I’d ever seen and even closer the infamous Ton That Needs Washing. There was a loud creaking sound in the distance, and it looked like Lustavious was going to lead us right to it, when something went wrong with the Jonma Claim. He walked five steps towards where Lustavious was pointing, then turned, shouting, “No schishsway.” He walk five paces toward a pola-beer tree, then turned shouting, “No shishsway!” heading back toward Lustavious.

The patterned repeated four or five times.

“We’re in the land of entitlements,” muttered Mage-e-not. “Beyond the pola-beer tree is the inverted stewpot of politics. I guess the Jonma wants to get back to it, while Uriculous wants to follow Lustavious.”

Seeing the dual-possessed body alternate back and forth I realized how similar the original Jonma was to the Uriculous Wisehind I knew. Maybe that’s why Uriculous was having so much trouble controlling the Jonma.

That, and the fact that Uriculous wasn’t too bright.

“What now?” I asked Lustavious.

“We stay here,” sang the Light Bringer. “This is fine entertainment.”

“No schishsway,” said either Uriculous or Jonma Claim. It was getting hard to tell the difference.

After a hundred or so, “no schishway,” I lost interest. “I’m hoping the pola-beer tree gets him,” I said to Mage-e-not.

“Not likely,” said Mage-e-not. “My grandfather planted those trees all around the inverted political stewpot for just that purpose. It’s disappointing how few politicians they eat.”

“But the tree looks so healthy,” I said. “How does it survive? It doesn’t eat sheep, does it?”

“You’re in the land of entitlement,” said Mage-e-not, licking his lips. “This place is crawling with pork.”

The creaking in the background got louder, followed by a large crash.

“creaking rattling, kerplunking,” said Ono.

“Yeah,” said Mage-e-not. “I’ve seen the creaking rattling kerplunking before. It’s pretty interesting.” He didn’t say any more. Lustavious was still fascinated by Jonma Claims spasmodic changes in possession, Lip Ton Tease was training a small rivulet to form into a shower, and Jonma Carry was staring stone-faced at Jonma Claim, giving no indication how he felt about the other Jonma’s struggles, so the three of us, along with Swampy, went on to see what the creaking rattling and kerplunking was about.

We came to a wide valley set between three hills. On each of the hills were large beautiful homes. In front of one hill was a group of well-dressed people by piles of gold they had banked against the hill’s side. In front of another hill stood a group of people in work clothes with tools and building materials piled on their hill’s side. On the third hill was a double throne perched high on a pile of gold. On the throne was one of the strangest two-headed monsters I’d ever seen.

In the valley were scores of thin, poorly dressed people looking longingly on the cause of the creaking sound. The creaking came from a great plateau of land, balanced precariously on a spike of rock. As the plateau’s weight shifted, it tilted on the spike, making a creaking sound that we’d been hearing for miles.

And hundreds of pigs were running in all directions.

“That’s the FrankenDodd,” said Mage-e-not pointing at the two-headed apparition on the throne. “He’s such a great monster that he gets two thrones.”

“What’s a FrankenDodder doodoo?” asked Ono.

“Right now he’s just collecting,” said Mage-e-not. “See the little pigs running around? The bankers with the gold are sending coins with the pigs to give to the FrankenDodd. They don’t want the monster to force them to lend their gold. The builders are doing the same thing, but they want the FrankenDodd to force the bankers to lend so that they can build.”

“What about the poor people?”

“They don’t have any gold, so they’re offering their votes. After the FrankenDodd has collected enough gold and votes, it’ll decide whether the bankers must lend or not.”

“What are they going to build?” I asked.

“Homes for the poor people.”

“Ding dong!” said Ono.

Mage-e-not laughed. “Wait and see.”

For some time the only thing to see was the scurry of little pigs. The banks of gold shrank slightly, and the builder’s pockets got lighter. The people pleaded and pledged their undying loyalty until the FrankenDodd stood and declared – “We Build!”

The bankers groaned while the people and the builders cheered. The poor formed a line in front of each banker where they signed a paper and received a bag of gold. Then the poor took their bags and gave them to the builders. The builders took their building materials and started throwing them up on the plateau, causing the plateau to tilt and creak more energetically.

“Oh no,” said Ono. “They’re hammer-banging on the tippy-top?”

“Sure,” said Mage-e-not. “The poor can’t afford to live on builder hill, or lobbyist hill, and they certainly can’t afford to live on banker hill. Where else can they build their homes?”

“Somewhere stable,” I said.

“Stable costs gold,” said Mage-e-not.

“But they’re getting gold from the bankers.”

“But only enough to build homes on Nomargin Plateau. That’s the name of that area balanced on Variablerate Spike.”

“Cuckoo!” said Ono, “They should juggle ker-ching from knock-knock to splosh on firma-terra!”

Mage-e-not laughed. “That would actually solve a problem. You don’t understand the land of entitlement at all. You’d make a lousy politician.”

“Is that an insult?” I asked.

Mage-e-not made a face, which considering how strange looking he was to begin with was not any more alarming than his regular face. “Think of the politicians you’ve met,” he said. “Jonma Claim, Jonma Carry, the speakers, All Bore, do you think I insulted her?”

“RunPol didn’t seem so bad,” I said.

“That’s why RunPol never wins! Gee Elmer, for an eight thousand-year-old guy; you can be pretty thick at times.”

I wondered if that was an insult too, but decided not to ask. Instead we watched as the builders built all over the plateau. When they’d covered the entire area, they even started building on top of the houses they’d already built. The plateau was tilting from compass point to compass point so rapidly it almost looked like it was spinning. The people cheered as the builders built, and the bankers wrung their hands as the piles of signed papers got higher and their banks of gold got lower. They still sent pigs with coins to the FrankenDodd, but the builders sent other pigs and people danced and praised the FrankenDodd. The FrankenDodd smiled beneficently as its throne rose higher on an ever-increasing pile of gold.

And so it went on all afternoon and into the evening.

“Oh no!” said Ono, “The tippy-top…

Just then the whole area stopped tilting, and started tipping. One edge of the Nomargin Plateau slammed into the ground and all the new houses slid off the surface.

The poor people cried in dismay, and the bankers threw up their hands in frustration. The builders didn’t seem to mind. They just started pulling apart the building materials and putting them back in piles against builder’s hill.

“We lost our homes!” the people cried to the FrankenDodd. “What shall we do?”

“What was wrong with their homes?” the FrankenDodd barked to the builders.

“There was nothing wrong with their homes,” said the builders, still busily gathering up materials for the next build. “Nomargin Plateau was unstable.”

“You!” shouted the FrankenDodd to the bankers. “Why did you loan money to have homes built on an unstable plateau?”

“You told us we had to,” said the bankers. “We tried to avoid it. We sent you gold and petitions but you commanded us to loan our gold.”

“Shame on you!” shouted the FrankenDodd. “You should have known better.”

“We did!” said the bankers.

“See! You admit your fault.”

The bankers held up their papers. “We are owed,” they said. “Our banks of gold are low, and the homes are gone. Who will pay us now?”

FrankenDodd took his baby finger and pointed at each banker in turn. “Oinky-oinky, piggy-wig. Who has paid us most to rig? Who stays hale, and who gets jail, I pick the most corrupt one.”

And the banker he ended up pointing to, got all his gold back – except of course, the gold he had sent by pig to FrankenDodd. That gold was there to make certain that FrankenDodd got to keep its double throne right where it was.

After a couple more rounds of Oinky-oinky, FrankenDodd sent the remaining bankers to jail, and confiscated the remaining gold in their banks. It didn’t seem to matter. New bankers came down the hill with their gold, setting up for the next day.

“This is terrible,” I said.

Mage-e-not shrugged. “It’s politics.”

“We have to do something.”

“What?”

“Jon and Jonma screech and snarl,” said Ono. “Whip and zip the FrankenDodd.”

“You’re right!” I said. “Let’s go tell the Jonmas.”

“Sure,” said Mage-e-not in a voice that made me doubt his sincerity. “Let’s go tell them.”

By the time we returned, Jonma Claim was showing the strain. His changes of direction were now lurches, and his shouts of, “no schishsway,” were almost indistinguishable sputters. Lustavious, arms crossed, was still watching. Tease was showering, and Jonma Carry was sitting upright against a tree, looking like a stone carving.

“What do we do,” I asked Ono.

“You bark,” she said, “I’ll purr.”

That was less clear than most of what Ono said, but we ended up standing on each side of the lurching and stumbling Jonma Claim, explaining the situation, and what the FrankenDodd was doing. While Jonma Claim was heading for the inverted stew pot, I told him he needed to act now; when he headed back towards the pola-beer tree Ono – in a surprising variety of sound words – pleaded with him to save the poor people.

We had no way of knowing if he could hear us at all. Finally Jonma Claim stopped. He turned to Ono and said without the slightest lisp, “That’s not our mission.” He turned to me and said, “That’s not my committee.”

“Oh no!” said Ono, rushing over to the immobile Jonma Carry. “You glug our pitter-patter?”

“I heard,” said Jonma Carry.

“You whizz and whomp the FrankenDodd?”

I wasn’t sure he heard her because he didn’t say anything for a while. Finally, he asked, “Were there any trees or bushes nearby?”

“Near the FrankenDodd?” I asked.

Jonma Carry’s head gave one stiff nod.

Ono looked over at me. It wasn’t a question I was expecting, but as I thought about it, there had been a short prickly bush not far from the double throne. “There was a bush,” I said.

Jonma Carry, and Jonma Claim spoke in eerie unison: “Blame the bush.”

   At this point I'm supposed to tease what happens in the next chapter, but I've forgotten what that is...  But won't it be terribly exciting?

   So here's the video.

   I first heard these guys this week.