Friday, January 12, 2007
Hotlantus the Lesser minced down to the bank of Uglifugga River with a Mopar 340 polished chrome crosswind intake manifold and naught but a sprig of Kawakawa obscuring his naughty bits from general viewery. Hotlantus, feeling his oats --for he'd learned his lesson-- reached deep into one of the rusted out shaved ice carts whistling "Hocus Pocus" (by Focus) to the tune of "Danny Boy (Slight Return)." He knew the very cart for he'd marked it discreetly with a life-sized etching of Vic Damone as Gunga Din. (A kid can dream.) From it, he pulled a jug containing a three gallon mixture of gasoline, nitroglycerin and mango chutney. He lay firmly, but eruditely, atop the styrofoam hammock, lit his pipe with a well-aimed flaming arrow and was promptly blown to smithereens.
He then fashioned a fishing pole out of mud, bark, grass, bugs, twine, vinyl, macrame, fish, spit, radon, teeth, parliament, pvc, peach pits, herman miller aeron chairs, discarded ticket stubs, old and aging bats and gray squirrels, a copy machiavelli's mandragola, two parts lemon zest, one clove garlic, a night in prison with hakim olajuwan and a tube of calomine lotion pried the cold dead fingers of the indigenous people of iceland. He then fashioned fishing line from, well... a lot of things. He threw his baitless, hookless line into the water and began cursing a blue streak.
The halibut lined up for miles. They'd lived a sheltered life and weren't accustomed to the salty language save for the one time dad dropped the Precious Moments porcelain bust of Gerald McRaney on his fin after mom opined aloud about the whether or not the Pasat was ever going to get fixed and moved from the front lawn so that maybe her geraniums could get a little sunlight for once this century. Hotlantus was moved by their story and lovingly showered them with praise, Uruguayan currency and the remaining gasoline/nitroglycerin/mango chutney mixture that he'd stashed moments before his penultimate explosion into indecipherable matter back in 1721 (days before Mount Everest was invented by Murray Fogelman [nice man] for Resorts International).
The halibut (having no word in their language for "What are you, nuts?! Get that unholy chemical backwash away from me!") began reciting the Oath of the Common Prestidigitator and accepted their fate, secretly wondering if they shouldn't have thrown caution to the wind and gone back for another helping of schnitzel when they had the chance. I mean, screw the diet at this point, right? Hotlantus, bemused by the inconsolable caterwauling, began whistling along to the tune of "Old Man River" as sung by the Haitian Symphony Orchestra's second oboist, Dieter.
After a refreshing beating about the neck and nethers, the Office of-- DAMN! End of story. Gotta go "feed the meter" (a polite euphemism for having to "spike the melon.")