Category: The Brain… It Bleeds!

Scaziblap con Graff stared at the road, the road gilded with lilies or whatever. It was not really gilded with lilies, not even the kind carved from wrought iron or marble, but still it was a pretty nice road. Clork, S.c.G.’s sidekick, amanuensis, and personal gadfly, snickered and poked himself in the ribs.

“Wha…?” S.c.G. said.

Clork stammered in a way that was impossible to represent in written language. “Clobbler blabber dysphasia junk rock Jubba gubba toop!”

“Have you, I mean, have we, I mean, you understand? Oh why’d we eat that moldy toast?” wailed S.c.G.

The fractal lampshade turned inside out to look at them and pointed some boneless tasseled fingers at them. That glance spoke novels. Too bad they were all in German, a language with which neither of them were familiar.

Doughnuts rained down. The two chums danced with glee, tromping, jelly swooshing out everywhere.

Finally, they hugged, sobbing under the grey-green light of the throbbing lampshade. The road rose up to meet them, hissing and rattling.

Something I’ve been thinking about:

A while back I read this truly horrifying book called STALIN: THE COURT OF THE RED TSAR. Those Stalinists did some terrible terrible things. They killed many many millions of people. You know what I don’t ever remember them doing (in this book I read)?

Shooting someone in the street in broad daylight and leaving the body lying on the ground. Murdering a child in the street and leaving the body lying on the ground. Gunning down a child in the street and leaving the body to rot lying on the ground.

That child who grew in his mother’s womb. That child who nursed at his mother’s breast. That child who thoughtlessly, as all children do, received the love and hope and care of those around.

We are all of us, ALL OF US, at every age, at any age, our mother’s sons and daughters, our mother’s children. And there’s not a one of us, not a one of us, NOT A ONE OF US, that deserves to be killed in this manner, nor killed in any other.

Not even this vile thug, this betrayer of the public trust, this murdering colossal waste of human life, this parasite on the CITIZEN-FUNDED government, not even he, this child killer, not even he deserves to be gunned down in the street.

Something to think about.

Something I can’t stop thinking about.

Something I have the PRIVILEGE not to have to think about, if I don’t want to.

Still, I fear, with a not unreasonable fear, that someone might some day–some fearful white man, probably, with one of the murder weapons that blight our country–kill my children.

But I have the PRIVILEGE not to fear this as much as those whose skin just happens to be darker than my own. I have the privilege not to live this fear every time I see a cop car drive by. I have the privilege not to have to teach my son how to avoid getting shot by the police.

Madness.

Do you hear me, my friends?

It’s madness. And I can only look on in helpless horror, because I don’t know what else to do.

Me, I’d rather write about presidents riding pterodactyls and moons made of cheese, King Kong in a diner, and all the silly thoughts I have.

I didn’t feel like doing that tonight, though.

Maybe tomorrow.

(Or was it the moon?)

Circling back to the Fount of Chocolate, James K. Polk (our 11th president) whistled loudly and an immense roc crunched to the ground behind him. There was, like, this astoundingly patriotic moment where James K. Polk perched astride the roc’s back. That is, until he slipped and toppled off the roc’s back into the chocolate fountain.

“Yum!” James K. Polk murmured.

Theodore (Teddy) Roosevelt (our 26th president) rolled his eyes and Martin Van Buren (#8) snickered. “Jimmy!” William Howard Taft (#27) bellowed. “Get outta that pool, you goddamn fool!” William Howard Taft and Theodore (Teddy) Roosevelt high-fived.

Warren G. Harding (#29) snuck onto the roc’s back and flew away with it while all the others were distracted.

“Harding’s the worst!” said William Henry Harrison (#9, barely) quietly.

“Oh shut up, William, what are you even doing here? I mean, really?” said John “And Tippecanoe” Tyler (#10, but basically #9). William Henry Harrison slunk away. Or he would have, except he had nowhere to go.

All those presidents had nowhere to go, being stuck on the back of that turtle. Still, it was a pretty big turtle, so it wasn’t all bad.

(Or was it the velociraptor?)

There once was an elevator that went to the moon, only no one knew about it because it was invisible. That was a shame, because it was a pretty nice elevator: speedy, not too busy, tastefully chosen music, satisfyingly thunky buttons. If you wanted to get to the moon, it was pretty much your best way to get there. Lord knows, the astronauts weren’t jaunting up there as often as they used to do. No sir (or ma’am), a real dearth of moon-jaunting!

So, if you wanted some moon cheese, well the elevator was pretty much the only way to do it.

One day, though, the elevator broke down. Maybe the elevator technicians went on strike. Maybe it got hit by an asteroid or some space garbage. Maybe some elevator gremlins took it over. At any rate, the problem was pretty hard to diagnose, what with it being invisible and all.

This enraged Harbey Quint, famed roboticist and culinary expert, whose jaded palate had never grown tired of the delectable moon cheese. Once that moon-cheese-train stopped running (by which I mean the elevator), Harbey Quint sunk into a deep despair that lasted at least 17 minutes. After which he settled on a plan.

Hunkering deep within his robot workshop/kitchen, Harbey Quint worked feverishly night and day, only stopping occasionally to peer longingly at the moon. And, yes, his mouth did water a bit.

Finally his work was done, and Harbey Quint unearthed his massive robot: a rabbit! (Yes, Harbey Quint was not without some gentle humor.) The rabbit robot blasted off into space, landed on the moon, and began to eat. And eat. And eat. And eat. And EAT.

The plan had been for the rabbit to eat all the moon cheese and then fly back down to earth, where Harbey Quint would have all of the moon cheese for himself. (Cue sinister laughter, if you’re into that kind of thing.) Only the rabbit robot just kind of stayed up there, big and round as the moon. Maybe it got stuck on the elevator or something. The President called Harbey Quint up on the phone and was like, Hey Harbey, you gotta put the moon back, man. Then all the other world leaders called too. Word had gotten out!

Anyway, Harbey Quint, somewhat reluctantly, built ANOTHER machine, and sent it off into space. This was a cheese making machine. It used space aether to make cheese, don’t ask me how. Science!

Soon, the moon was whole and round and made of cheese again. But as soon as the moon was whole again, that darn rabbit robot just set to eating it again, til there wasn’t more than just a sliver of it left. Well, that cheese-making machine wouldn’t stand for that (it was shaped like a cow), and set to making cheese just as fast as it could.

Well, those two just kept eating and making cheese forever and ever, and that there moon just keeps changing shape all through the months of the years all down the roads of time forever. Or just about as good as, as far as we’re all concerned.

(Or should we not not try to avoid doubling up words?)

Winceworth the Pianoforte was sentient. Yeah, that was all it took: one day this little girl named Annabella Contessa Branciforte Montouth con Fragx played just the right combination of keys and voila! sentience. I mean, it was still a pianoforte. And it still had no independently moving parts. And it still had no means of communicating externally to those around it or, honestly, really even perceiving them apart from when someone sat down and tinkled away a little tune.

Some were better at playing, obviously, and over time (sixteen years or so, not that Winceworth the Pianoforte was really conscious of the passing of time nor even really aware that such a thing was), Winceworth the Pianoforte got pretty discerning about the quality of the music played upon itself.

So, OK, then about 20 or 40 years passed and a mad scientist type person got his or her hands on the pianoforte in order to play, one supposes, mad scientist type tunes. (Quite possibly the mad scientist type would have preferred an ominous pipe organ or perhaps a marimba, but those were tough to come by.) Over time (again, not something of which Winceworth the Pianoforte was really aware, but you know, for convenience sake) Winceworth the Pianoforte came to grow fond of the mad scientist type person’s intense pianoforte-playing sessions. “Wow, this being of which I know very little, having no sensory perceptions of any kind, sure does love to hammer away at my keys with a ferocious intensity. If only one day this being might discover some way to communicate with me, and I to it!” thought Winceworth the Pianoforte.

The mad scientist type person had no idea that its pianoforte was sentient. So its mad idea to use the pianoforte as a control mechanism for its world smashing robot was only slightly mad, compared to how mad it would have to be to put a sentient pianoforte in control of a world smashing robot. Still, that’s pretty mad, because really? Piano keys as a control mechanism? Crazy!

Later on the mad scientist type person came to regret its choice, after it became clear that the sentient pianoforte (everyone knew its name now: Winceworth the Pianoforte) was sentient and now in control of a giant world-smashng robot.

Pianoforte SMASH!

(Or was it more curiously filling?)

The Hrordks and the Mutresps had been fighting for 22 years over the question of whether Old Father Grorp’s crackers were Satisfyingly Crunchy! OR Curiously Filling!

It all started when Gutrum Hrordk and Philologer Mutresps sat down to discuss the Flyminder Creek situation over a box of Old Father Grorp’s You Got ‘Em! Sassemfrass Crackers. A casual remark from P. Mutresps about the curiously filling nature of the crackers led to a pointed retort from Gutrum Hrordk that they were satisfyingly crunchy.

The silence between them lasted 217.3 seconds, and then the two patriarchs went at it, hammer and tongs, as it were, until they’d made three cutting boards, seventeen butter knives, three compasses, and a garden gate hinge.

Twenty-two years later, and their output rivaled that of the not unindustrious nation of Hoovelmaskerpoot. Every week, it seemed, some new warehouse was being built just to store all the new stuff.

In his darkest moments, old Gutrum Hrordk wondered if perhaps those crackers were curiously filling after all. These thoughts he quickly and viciously squashed whenever they arose. Philologer Mutresps never had any doubt in his mind.

Curiously filling!
Satisfyingly crunchy!

Both were true, but you’d never hear the younger set saying that out loud. And, sure enough, after enough time, there was a bonafide, full meal deal Romeo and Juliet-type situation that went down.

After all the weeping, those crackers weren’t quite as satisfyingly crunchy as before. Also, who wanted to eat?

Freaking patriarchs.

(Or did he?)

King Kong and Donkey Kong were having coffee and cigarettes at a very large diner in Queens. This was the 1980s, so people still did that, or maybe it was the 1930s, I forget which. Donkey Kong had this, like, perpetual grimace on his face. It was a great sadness for him in his life, because he felt like, hey, just because he looked mean, didn’t mean he actually was. OK, for real, he did have this compulsion to set barrels on fire and throw them down ramps. Especially he liked doing this toward overweight, balding, Italian plumbers who had, like, this chip on their shoulder whenever he seemed to be going out on dates. Still.

King Kong, whose expression was slightly less stuck in an “angry face”, stirred his coffee with a sugar spoon, dumped, like, the 37th packet of sugar or nutrasweet or whatever into there. King Kong was pretty unhappy to be in Queens. He missed his prehistoric jungle hideaway, missed romping with dinosaurs, and missed eating gigantic bananas. Still, it wasn’t all bad, he supposed.

“DK, how ya doin’ ape?”

“Oh, you know. Apart from this infestation of Italian plumbers I got, not so bad. They’re always all up in my face, but at least I got no plumbing issues at my place. Silver linings, ape, silver linings. You?”

“I still have this compulsion to climb the Empire State building, but ever since that restraining order. Well, I gotta stay away. Been in therapy for my aviophobia. Only got dive-bombed twice yesterday. Can’t complain. I guess.”

Donkey Kong took a bite of toast. “That’s tough. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it.”

King Kong sipped his coffee. “One day at a time. One day at a time.”

Donkey Kong stared out the window.

King Kong stared out the window.

The waitress left them alone.

(And also the glories of war?)

“Et tu, Miranda?” Julius Caesar bellowed, as she handed him toast that was firmly in the well-done spectrum of toastiness and bordering on burnt. Everyone knew (or should!) that Julius Caesar liked to have his toast only slightly toasted, the barest hint of warmth and crispiness and browning. Julius Caesar sighed and reflected on the difficulty of hiring reliable toasters. His eyes glazed over and he reflected on some far off future time when a device or contraption might be used to toast a piece of bread identically every time. Perhaps it would involve springs, timers, and highly contained fire. Also, this piece of toast was ever so much thicker than the last!

And then, to top it all off, some purple jam oozed off his terrible toast and slipped onto his second best toga. I mean, it was purple too, obvs, but it was the principle of thing! He would have to settle for his third best toga (he only wore his best during official state events). Julius Caesar roared in fury. Calpurnia Pisonis said, “Oh, I’m sure it will wash out dear.”

Julius Caesar pouted. “I’ll look like such a slob!” He stomped off in a huff. Calpurnia Pisonis rolled her eyes. As he stomped out of the room, Julius Caesar turned back to say, “You were right about the Ides–” and then promptly stumbled into some kind of urn thing.

I mean, could the Ides of March get any more terrible?

(Or was it not really Екатерина II Великая {Yekaterina II Velikaya}? Or still even rather yet: Sophie Friederike Auguste von Anhalt-Zerbst-Dornburg?)

And when I say she ate an orange, she ATE an orange, did our Tsarina Yekaterina. One might be forgiven, were one an emissary from the French court, for thinking that perhaps one should peel an orange before eating it. Were one an emissary from the English court, which is not outside the realm of possibility in those days, perhaps, one might have a strong sense of, not deja vu exactly, but a strong resonance with those stories one heard of Queen Elizabeth at grandmama’s knee.

Yekaterina cleared her throat and, had there been any noise whatsoever, one imagines it would have ceased immediately. “Louise Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun, approach us,” she said, though not in English, and probably not even in a Russian easily recognizable to today’s Russian speaker, one thinks.

Vigée Le Brun approached Yekaterina as she sat at table, biting into another orange. Vigée Le Brun (Louise to her acquaintances, Betty to her friends, something else entirely to her lovers, one imagines) curtsied deeply, and spoke something in French. Oh, I’m sure it was recorded somewhere what was said, who laughed, and who kissed whose hand. The Tsarina said something about being a fancier of art, and Vigée Le Brun, who had hardly expected to find a place more civilized, a place less fraught with terror, but then there you go, could barely even remember agreeing to paint the portrait, much less the painting of it.

When painting Tsarina Yekaterina’s portrait, Louise Élisabeth Vigée Le Brun endeavored, with all her skill, to portray the brief moment of kindness she had felt, in the eyes perhaps, or maybe the mouth.

The large sack of rubles didn’t hurt, either.

(Or maybe it’s his toe?)

Hey, that dragon he slew with his magical spear, Askalon, was nothing compared to this, St. George thought. Really, he wasn’t a saint yet, but there wasn’t much else to distinguish him from all those other Georges out there. He was pretty sure there were a few other Georges of the Toothache, you know? Still, even though he’d killed that dragon, suffered through its bilious fire, its rending claws, and snatching teeth, he’d not yet had a sit down with some pope or other, which he thought was probably a requirement, if he remembered right. Still, there was something to be said for disambig–

OWOOWOWOWOWOWOowow! It was funny how the pain came in waves, a rolling tide of hurt. The last thing he wanted was to eat something, but he was so hungry. He was just so tired of the left side of his face hurting. You know what sounded great, and also terrible? Two pieces of bread with a whole lot of meat in the middle. Just the thought of it made his mouth water and daggers of pain (he knew what those felt like, for real) shoot through his head. Oh yeah, and just so you know, every time he groaned, dandelions sprouted up around him. You’d think saints wouldn’t have to deal with things like toothaches, and maybe St. John the Divine was beyond that or even St. Phocas, but here he was, feeling like his head was being ground down between two giant molars.

Anyway, St. George had a toothache, and where the HECK was St. Apollonia when you needed her!?!