Archive for February, 2010
Three Salesmen in Defense of Neoteny
Tuesday, February 16th, 2010
So the Michelin Man, Mr. Clean, and the Quaker Oats Pilgrim finally get kicked out of the Luscious Lady Roadside Trip and Strip and literally stumble down the steps to the dusty Nevada parking lot.
Pilgrim falls and lands in gravel. At his age, it shouldn’t be funny, but he gets to his knees, laughing, and puts his dirty hat on backward.
“Did you see the sidewalls on that blond?” Bibendum, the Michelin Man, shakes his head. “Unbelievable.” He leans his white treads against Pilgrim’s Mustang and takes a swig of beer. “Cheers. Now is the time to drink!”
“Hey, Veritably,” Pilgrim says, “did I do anything I shouldn’t have?”
“Of course,” Clean says. “And some things even I wouldn’t.”
Pilgrim, hurt, says, “I have my image to uphold.”
“Didn’t you experiment on kids?” Bib drops his empty, lights up a joint. He takes a drag.
“I had nothing to do with that.”
Clean says, “You paid for the Willy Wonka movie, so I forgive you.”
“And your oatmeal rocks,” Bib says.
“True, Bibelobis,” Clean says. “You’re looking good. Company must be rocking.”
“Company, sure,” Bib says. “But me? I mean, look at me.”
“You look awesome,” Clean says.
“Stopped smoking decades ago.” He takes another drag. “Cigars, I mean. Started running, trimmed down. Got a puppy.”
“I like the puppy,” Pilgrim says.
“Fuck the puppy. Wasn’t my idea. None of that was my idea, you get it? I used to be mean, smart, erudite. They used to know me for my ‘wit without vulgarity.’ You fucking believe that shit?”
“Times change, man,” Clean says.
“Easy for you to say.”
“Me? I’ve got an earring, everyone thinks I’m a pirate. Or a genie. I’m a goddamn sailor from Pensacola. Yeah, I hate dirt, but who am I? A mysterious man to MILFs? Most people think I’m gay.”
“Are you?” Bib says.
“If you’re made of tires, why aren’t you black?”
“I hate that question,” Bib says. “Touché. I used to be a ladies’ man, now I help stranded families and give them parts of my body. I have to keep my hands in sight at all times in public after that Disney groping lawsuit. That ain’t right.”
Pilgrim shrugs. “Wear this get up for 130 years and see how you like it.”
“I’m made of fucking tires. I’ll trade you.”
“Let’s just go,” Clean says.
“Fine, I’ll drive,” Bib says.
“No way,” Pilgrim says. “It’s my car, and I’m going to drive it. End of discussion.”
“My ass,” says the Michelin Man. He pulls a revolver and pumps two rounds into the car’s right front tire. “I ever tell you how much is riding on your tires? No one ever fucking listens to the fat guy.”
He puts the pistol back between two low profiles and stalks off toward Vegas.
Pilgrim slumps against the car. “I’ll get the jack and the spare.”
“Jack?” Clean says. “Who needs a jack? I’m Mr. Clean!” He tries to lift the front bumper of the car. “Yeah, get the jack.”
They look down the road but Bib is already gone.
“He’ll be back,” Clean says. “With a champagne goblet full of nails and broken glass, grabbing tits, smoking weed, living life as only he can.”
“Guess you’re right,” Pilgrim says.
“Times change,” Clean says. “For some of us.
The Dolls’ Crusade
Monday, February 15th, 2010
This is a sequel to The Cabbage-Patch God
After Kayla’s adoration elevated the cabbage-patch doll to godhood, the spontaneous creation of new deities ceased. Kayla ate with the doll, slept with Her (although the God arose and engaged in divine activities while Her creator slept), even put the doll on the bathroom counter when Mother gave Kayla her bath.
For the first week or so the Cabbage-Patch God consolidated Her power over the other toys and commanded them to seek out new worshippers beyond the playroom. This was not particularly successful. Raggedy Ann and Raggedy Andy formed a colorful team, but they were easily swayed from the one true path. They had to be recommitted to the faith every night. On the third night the African mask over the fireplace convinced them to sacrifice the glass candy bowl to it and they were confined to the playroom henceforth. The Buddha by the front door persuaded a squad of plastic soldiers to renounce violence. They founded a monastery under the dragon’s-foot credenza. Several stuffed animals embarked on a pilgrimage to the den to liberate the 10-point buck, but were unable to remove it from the wall.
The failure of Cabbage Patchism to spread wasn’t for lack of miracles. The Cabbage-Patch God parted the shag on the carpet in front of the loveseat. On the west side of the room the threads leaned west and on the east side they leaned east.
“The vacuum can do that,” the African mask said, “should we worship it?”
The God rotated all the pictures on the wall 5° clockwise. She used the shag carpet to make crop circles. She commanded all of the windows to stick shut, and the next day to refuse to stay shut. She caused the telephone answering machine to leap off the end table and crawl under the couch. Everything in the house (except the obtuse humans) recognized the Cabbage-Patch God’s divine power. The dearth of converts did not result from a failure of belief. The problem seemed to be that many household objects just did not get the concept of worship. (Unlike toys, which were apparently anthropomorphic enough to share this trait with humans.)
The Cabbage-Patch God had a sinking feeling that, as worshippers, toys didn’t quite count. Kayla was Her only human worshipper, and her long-term loyalty was in doubt. Gods hear everything their worshippers say about them, and that morning Kayla told Mother that the Cabbage-Patch God’s dress was “ugly.” Something would have to be done.
The end