a continuing story.......
The kind folks at Squid Music (working in conjunction with the esteemed mental health professionals who are supervising my re-entry into polite society) have offered me the opportunity to communicate in writing occasionally with you real people....as opposed to the voices in my head and my imaginary friend and former President, Shrub Bush.
My education is somewhat lacking because I only went through the 8th grade (I did that twice--once for my brother, Roscoe--on accounta he was a bit thick.)
Upon my successful graduation from Northern Nevada Home for the Criminally Insane Boys' Middle School, I discovered my true life's calling--a love of the English language.
As with many of my other ventures, I took this to the extreme --to the point where I was detained in 1965 in Tonopah, Nevada, and accused of having sex with an unabridged copy of a Webster's dictionary in the local library. (Thank God there was no DNA testing at the time). Anyhow, after that I did a stint in the Air Force (it was either that or prison.) The Air Force sent me to the Monterey Defense Language Institute to learn a special acronym based language called Gibberish. This linguistic experience was invaluable in teaching me the true manner in which the government communicates with its citizens. After that I edited an underground newspaper called the Charlie Flight Rag and wrote a nationally syndicated column called Dirty Marge's Advice to the Lovelorn and Perverted. In the late 70's I became a political activist and actually formed a political party based on my part Jewish, part Navajo Indian heritage. We called ourselves the Oy Veh/Ya-Ta-Hay Party and our motto was: "Two chickens and matzos in every pot plus a little pot in every peace pipe equals a recipe for world peace." I worked for a time with the World Health Organization's mental health communications division until I was summarily dismissed for authorizing the infamous "Support Mental Health or I'll Kill You" campaign. After that I lived for several months in a Tibetan monastery learning to swallow my tongue and levitate while subsisting only on goat curd and Yak droppings. Now I'm back; I'm strong and I'm ready to rock... Love 'n kisses, Ambrose
For instance, we are killing all the birds around our oil derricks. Because as every good American knows, birds eat a lot of grain and it take huge quantities of the sun's bountiful energy to grow that grain. Therefore, through the energy savings we are reducing a major carbon foot print.
Another successful pilot program is taken from the Inuit Eskimo culture. We are recommending that everyone over the age of 72 be placed on an ice floe. Everybody knows that old folks suck up a lot of energy watching tv-not to mention their flatulence adding to our ozone problems. This program has an added benefit of saving an endangered species--the polar bear--by adding a much needed boost to their food chain.
These bold pilot programs are just a few of our dynamic ideas for the restructuring our energy dependency. We are America; we are MONOLITH!"
"Well, it looks like we interrupted an emergency board meeting. Well, let's just mosey on down the R & D lab and see what the boys are working on."
Fenster turns his back to camera and motions to two men observing the shooting to come over. Off mike he is heard to say,
"Heinrich, Akhmed, be sure to get the outtake film from the Producer at the end of today's shooting."
"Heinrich, go back to the boom-boom room and tell Pork Chop Boy (the Secret Service code-name for Dick Cheney) to knock off the prostate exam and to get ready immediately for another dove hunting accident. Mach schnell!"
"Yawohl, mein Kapitan!" shouts Heinrich while clicking his heels and running off back down the hallway.
Akhmed asks, "If they won't voluntarily give it up, boss, how 'bout I strap on some C4 and blow 'em up? Huh, boss, huh huh?"
Fenster replies," No, Akhmed, that's not the Monolith way. You're here on a cultural exchange program to become more enlightened about handling such things."
"Well, then," asks Akhmed, "do I take a family member hostage and maybe cut off a toe? Or what?"
"None of that," says Fenster, " you simply issue a Monolith form 103 statement attacking the target's patriotism as well as quietly casting aspersions on his manhood...and if that doesn't work --Break his legs"
Under his breath Fenster mutters, "Towel-headed retard," and heads down the hall to where he comes to a purple door decorated with orange and green day-glo paisleys. A sign on the door reads Bernard Schmidlap, Assistant MIFWIC. "Abandon hope all ye who enter!" is hand-scrawled in magic marker underneath the name. The strains of Janice Joplin's Take a Piece o' my Heart are heard in the background as Fenster opens the door, carefully surveys the scene, and invites the camera inside.
Incense is burning, old Fillmore posters from the '60s are on the wall and a work bench covered with empty candy bar wrappers and pizza boxes is in the center of the room. Behind the bench sitting on an old black upholstered bar stool is the Assistant R&D director--a bleary eyed, overweight bearded man in his early 60's wearing a soiled Chicken Little Was Right! T shirt, ragged denim cutoffs, huarache sandals. He is in the process of intently looking at a simple white plastic propellor attached to a small block of balsa wood that he is spinning with his fingers. ",Whee, whoopee....way cool!!" he yells in an exuberant voice to no one in particular.
"Uh, Bernie," says Fenster in a softly modulated voice, "would you tell the nice man with the camera what you are working on today?"
"Sure thing, pal of mine," Bernie replies , "neenie, nahnnie, nonnie, nu-nu...today I have postulated a theory that by attaching a propellor to the back of all cars on the highway and harnessing their spinning kinetic energy through the use of Tesla Voodoo Coils, we could supply all the power necessary to run the ten Ben & Jerry Icecream factories in the US for 3 whole weeks! Chunky Monkey power to the people, man!"
"Wow, isn't that special," replies Fenster. "Have you figured out the likelihood of bringing this to the marketplace?" asked Fenster.
"You betchum, Red Rider," Bernie exclaims while shaking a magic 8-ball and reading it, "definitely maybe!" "Amazing technology, Bernie. Two more questions:
1) What other incredible things are you working on? and.... 2) What in the world does MIFWIC stand for?"
"Ah,am I glad you asked that, chief-o-matic!" Bernie proudly exclaims. "This is my piece d' resistance"
Bernie walks over to an easel and lifts off the Star trek sweatshirt covering to reveal a series of equations done in red and blue crayon. A stick figure that is vaguely bovine in nature is drawn in one corner.
"This series of equations proves unequivocably that by simply harnessing all the dairy cow flatulence, we can easily heat all of our new underground cities."
"Uh, what underground cities, Bernie?"
"Oh, you know, the ones modeled on the ant hill concept where we all run down the tunnels and serve the queen."
"Hookay, Bernie, that's terrif...really! Oh, how about MIFWIC"
"MohFoh What's In Charge," replies Bernie.
"Bah bye, Bernie." shouts Fenster and he hurriedly gathers up the camera crew and pushes them out the door ahead of him.
"Akhmed, go to the dispensary and get a 6-pack of Thorazine and force feed it to Bernie...NOW!"
"Allahu akhbar, it's so good to be helpful!" replies Akhmed as he scurries off down the hall. Just then the overhead speaker crackles, "Code blue, code blue. Crash cart to the boom-boom room. Pork chop boy has blown a gusset. Repeating: Pork chop boy is down for the count..." "Well, there goes the dove hunting scenario..." mutters Fenster. "What next?"
Newton Fenster hurries down the hallway towards a door marked Dispensary. Four burly looking secret service types with dark glasses, dark suits, earpieces and bulges under their coats are guarding the entrance. "Where's 'Pork Chop Boy'?" asks Fenster, using the Secret Service code name for the Vice President, to the Agent in Charge.
"Inside, sir, resting and heavily medicated."
"What's the status on 'Minor League', Agent?" questions Newton.
"Sir, the President is over at his ranch at Crawford. According to his schedule...let's see...he's been down for his afternoon nap for the last 45 minutes."
"Did he get his milk and moonpie before he went to sleep, Agent?"
"No, sir, unfortunately he didn't behave well today. The head of his security detail caught him smoking a joint while peeing on the back tire of one of the armored vehicles while laughing like a loon and singing You Were a Good Ol' Wagon, Daddy, but You Done Broke Down!. Minor League had to go to bed without his afternoon treat. Should we wake him, sir?"
"No, Agent, he'll be too cranky. Let him sleep and when he wakes up make sure he changes out of his jammies and puts on his blue suit and NO TENNIES. Let him wear his blue beanie with the propeller--he'll be easier to handle. Helicopter him over here to the Monolith main offices and put him in Executive Lounge #2. I'll have the executive chef prepare his favorite meal: a grilled cheese sandwich/Wonderbread-no crusts; celery slices filled with peanut butter with raisins on top/he calls it rabbit dung on a log; and a big mug of hot chocolate with lots of mini-marshmallows. I will make sure there are coloring books with a good selection of big crayons. Keep him there until I'm finished. If Minor League gets bored, the DVR will be set up with Top Gun. Now I think we'll be going in to see the Vice President, Agent."
"Uh, excuse me, Mr. Fenster, but I don't think you should go in with those cameras..."
"Excuse me, Agent, " exclaims Fenster giving the Secret Service agent a look guaranteed to burn through an inch of titanium at 100 paces, "you're not paid to THINK! You're paid to DO! Or DOO-DOO, if necessary. I AM IN CHARGE! Is that clear, young man?
"Yessir!"
"As a matter of fact," says Fenster nodding to the attractive Assistant Producer behind him, "Alyssa, isn't it?... Is there anything our young friend might bring you?"
"Why thank you, sir." Alyssa replies sweetly, "I believe I would like a double chocolate non-fat frappuchino flavored with half vanilla and half raspberry syrup, covered with low fat whipped cream, and lightly sprinkled with nutmeg, cinnamon, and powdered cocoa."
"You heard the lady, laddy," barks Fenster at the Agent, "make it snappy, Pappy!"
"Yessir, will do. On my way! Chop-chop!" replies the agent as he double times down the hall towards the Uber Executive Dining Room.
"Uppity youngsters," mutters Fenster under his breath, " Make a note to self to have the Director of The Secret Service assign mature Agents that are more understanding in the ways of the world..." The other agents quickly open the Dispensary door and stand aside as the Fenster entourage enters.
The Fenster group enters a very large room paneled in dark cherrywood, with indirect lighting gently illuminating a king-sized hospital bed containing the supine form of the Vice President hooked up to various monitors and machines built into the walls.
The VP's eyes are half closed, his lips are moving, and an occasional chuckle can be heard coming from him. An IV is automatically dispensing liquid into the VP's left arm. Vivaldi's 4 Seasons-Winter can be heard playing softly in the background. Three stark naked doctors holding clipboards stand huddled together in the center of room talking in hushed tones while glancing nervously over at Pork Chop Boy (PCB to Monolith insiders).
Fenster approaches them and says, "Ok, gentlemen, I'll need an immediate situation report. Dr. Wesley, if you please."
A handsome, tall man with a worried look on his face approaches Newton and says, "Well, sir, it started out as a routine prostate exam and lower GI check up. PCB was a little anxious about it so we gave him a diazepam to calm him down and then we followed up that up with a oxycodone and he had an adverse reaction to the drug interaction during the procedure. We appear to have him stabilized."
"Adverse reaction, doctor? More details, please."
"Basically, he took out the probe during the exam, jumped off the table, stripped off his night gown, and became delusional. He said the following to the terrified tech, 'Do I look like your bottom booty boy, sonny? I am the king of this castle and your all are my vassals. All of you, off with your clothes or off with your heads--your choice. Back to nature! Where's my shotgun?...I believe it's time to take my vassals quail hunting...' and then, sir, he laughed hysterically and passed out cold. As we proceeded to get him into his bed the only intelligible words coming from his lips was 'Naked'. We thought it best to humor him while we sedated him with an IV. Within the last few minutes he has finally become stabilized."
"Doctor, how long will this delusional behavior last?"
"With his age and size it could be as long as 6 or 7 days, sir. He appears to be able to recognize acquaintances at this point and would probably help if you would try and talk with him...his words may be a little strange"
"Alright, Doctor, will do. Stick with me."
Fenster walks over to the VP's bed and asks quietly, "Dick, it's me, Newt. Do you know me?"
The VP's eyes open wide and take in his surroundings and he looks at Fenster and says, "Why, Newt, you ol' sombitch, what you doing here in Oz? Them flying monkies'll be back any minute now...Hey, who's the naked dude? Put some clothes on before the Wicked Witch of the West finds out about your shortcomings. Hey, Newt, I'm writing a book for my vassals entitled I Upped Halliburton's Profits--So Up Yours!* What do you think about that?"
Fenster looks at the Doctor and out of Cheney's earshot says, "Best increase the sedative until the delusions wear off. How long do you this will last?"
"Sir, let me take two readings and get right back to you."
Just then over the loudspeaker is heard, "Incoming helicopter from Crawford...Incoming from Crawford...get prepared." Dr Wesley yells over to Fenster from the readouts, "Minimum of 4 days of delusional behavior, possibly 5."
"4-5 days?" repeats Fenster to himself, "Hmmm, that means...Oh my God! By the transferrence of powers due to the 25th amendment of the US Constitution that means that George W. Bush will actually become President of the United States! Heaven help us!"
((*Note: the title to the Dick Cheney book was stolen from former Prez Secretary, Scott McLellan--it was a perfect fit. Ambrose))
