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Mikes Madness Issue 21
Mike's Madness #21
So anyway, I was sittin' in the park the other day, not doin'
anyone any harm, not doin' anyone any good; just lookin' for
wealthy older folks who might be wandering around the park, and
this dude comes up to me. Kinda hippy-lookin' dude.
"Whazzup?" I asked.
His glassy, bloodshot eyes stared passed me. The thick, miasmic
smell of bud hung around him, like a curtain of skunk spray.
"Hey man, you either need a bath, or are carrying some very
potent bud." I said.
The hippy gave a wisend nod.
"Whatcher name?" I asked.
"Phinias Phreak."
"Yer mom liked Head Comix, huh?"
"Yup. M'brother's name is Fat Freddy's Cat."
"Sorry to hear that . . ."
"M'Daddy had torquette's and named my sister
FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKSHITGODDAMNITSONOFABITCH - FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCK."
"WHAT?!"
"Yeah, real tragedy in the family. Ma'd call sis in for dinner
and half the neighborhood would call the police sayin' 'There's
that horrible Mrs. Ratpoison yelling obscenities at her daughter
again!'. And Fat Freddy's Cat would start crying because the cops
were gonna haul mom off again . . ."
"That's truly horrible. So tell me about this bud you have."
"THIS bud?" he asked as he whipped out this reaking, brownstained
bag of some unidentified black herbage.
"That's BUD?" I asked in amazement. It could have passed for raw sewage.
"Take a hit . . ." he challenged, offering me a bowl.
I met his challenge with bravery and bravado usually reserved for
Marines and other members of the mentally undead, and took a long,
sucking hit. They don't call me the Human Tornado for nothing.
And nothing is what I felt.
"Sorry, doesn't get me . . ."
Ba-WHAP!
". . . Hi. I'm not in right now, but if you'll leave your name
and number, I'll get back to you when I can remember mine.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEP!"
- THUD -
And I sat/fell on my ass and my head floated like 8 feet above my
neck. Then this door opened out of the side of this big oak tree
and out strolls God. He walks up to me, looks me right in the eye
and says "Oh yeah? Well I don't believe in YOU either!" and walks
back. ---
I could tell this was some good bud.
"This bud," the hippy tells me, "is the end product of 1,200
years of genetic experiments by Tibetan monks on a local species
of grass that has up to 65% cannabinol in its sap. The plant this
came from was one-hundred years old, over ten feet tall and
35 foot around. It weighed 380 pounds when harvested. The monks
dried it in a special room in the Abbey thats heated by the
fires of hemp plants. After being dried, it was preserved in a
protective cocoon of black Lebanese hash for the 7 month-long
trip to market across the Himalayas."
"Oh wow . ." I said intelligibly.
"You look like a man who enjoys good bud, so I'll give you an eighth
for free. If you see me without bud in the future, get me high. Okay?"
"Oh wow . ." I said intelligibly.
(I was honestly impressed with this act of charity, but speech or
sentences beyond two words were about as possible to form as a
Tel Aviv chapter of the Klaus Barbie Fan Club.)
The hippy dropped the eighth in my lap and strolled away.
So I sat there in Elk Grove Park. Stoned. Stoned stupid. For
three straight hours I sat on a patch of damp grass and grooved
on cars, truant high school students, squirrels (greatly amusing
and not hard to pick off with a well thrown rock), clouds, small
bugs, bigger bugs, BIG bugs, the public toilet, two rednecks
drinking Old Milwaukee (a horrible breech of etiquette and a sure
symptom of Conservativism) and endless other trivia that floated
in and out of my field of view.
I sat there and smiled an idiot's smile and lived in a fool's
paradise. Then a white car with a green word on its door rolled
into view. I wondered what the word was, but then remembered I
could read. I tried to revive the dormant skill.
"Sh . . ." the word on the door started.
"Sh . . ." I said to myself, trying to assemble the rest of the
letters into the rest of the word.
"Sh . . ." I just couldn't get it.
Then this big black man in a green suit with a black belt and a
large gun filled my sight like the ogre in that painting by Goya.
And then I filled in the rest of the word.
"Shit."
"Elk Grove Sheriff." the Ogre said. "Why you sittin' here on the
grass grinning like an idiot?"
The answer to which is, of course, "Because I'm a total fuckin'
loadie and, as is my usual state, I am stoned off my ass."
But some small section of my brain dedicated to survival didn't
want want the Ogre to find this out, so instead supplied the answer:
"Dolphins put me here to observe your culture. Pay no mind to me."
That same section also instantly regretted the results.
"Oh, think you're a funnyman, huh?" The Ogre asked in an edged
voice. "Well why don't you just supply me with some I.D., or did
the dolphins supply you with any?"
This answer, unfortunately, kicked in my deep-seated sense of
moral outrage. I was not so outraged that the local Bund member
didn't believe my admittedly lame excuse, but that the peabrained
little Nazi would actually have the gall to suggest that
dolphins were in anyway imperfect. I love dolphins. A LOT.
Probably more than is really healthy. But I haven't been caught
yet and I can hold my breath longer than anyone in Sacramento.
Regardless, I wasn't about to let this feebleminded twit get away
with that little slight against the Cetacean race.
"Dolphins," I informed the simp, "are far more advanced then the
culture that spawned you and your Nazi-minded, authoritarian, law-
enforcing ilk. Dolphins have lived on this planet in their
current form for five million years! That's roughly 100 times
longer than the entire recorded history of man. During that time,
they never managed to destroy a rain forest, pollute a river,
annihilate another species, kill billions of their kind in
moronic conflicts, or produce Elvis Presley music. That's not to
say they never thought about it. Regardless, they had the
presense of mind to supply me with a perfectly legal California
Driver's License, and here it is."
The obviously humbled fuzz took my somewhat authentic California
Driver's License and looked it over.
"So your name's Pink Floyd, huh?" he asked, not quite believing
my carefully constructed ruse, which was a total shame as I had
wasted three crayons faking that I.D.
"That's Floyd Pink, you simpering subhuman goose-stepping
bastard!" I politely corrected him.
"One more smart remark and your name's gonna be Blacken Blue!"
"Watch it! My real name is Dr. Hunter S. Thompson and I'm a
famous Gonzo Journalist and molester of aging porn stars. If you
don't piss off directly, I'm gonna write a 15 page story about
the failure of I.Q. testing in the local militia and mention YOUR
name about a hundred-nineteen times!"
That little gem of information so impressed the flat-foot that he
grabbed me up off the ground, threw me against the white car with
the green word on its door, and with detectable lack of finesse,
searched me and found the eighth of the Fabled Bud. He opened the
bag and took a HUGE whiff. Then he looked at me.
"Any reason you're keeping cow shit in a bag?", he asked me.
"Gotta have something to throw at cops," I told him.
And that's why I was late for church, Father.
-----------------
RIP OFF COMPUTERS
-----------------
Spring 1990 Catalog
TRS-80 Model III ..................... $900,000
Osbourne Portable .................... $18,000,000
TI-99/a .............................. $47,000,000,000
Commodore Pet ........................ $732,000,000
Apple II GS .......................... $1.75 (after the Crapple
"A Good Reaming Never
Hurt Anyone, Just Ask
Any Faggot" Rebate)
Y'know when you buy a Crapple Computer, you get some letter like:
Dear Honored and Esteemed "Computer" Buyer,
Dear Sir/Madam/Both/Other,
We thank you for buying the amazing Crapple (insert model number
here). We at Crapple stand behind this machine. WAY behind it.
That way when you come looking for us after it fails, we'll have a
good running start.
As Father Bruce Ritter usedta say, "Bend over."
With sincere and honest intentions,
(bah-ha-ha!)
Martin Borrman
U.S. Rep., Crapple Computers
(Not THE Martin Borrman)
(Not THE truth)
-----
Remember: A fox, duct tape and a dirty mind -- instant fun!
Obnoxious tripe conceived, written and performed by:
Mike "Who needs women when we got sheep?" Beebe
(C) 1990 Yucks For You, Inc.
Comments & Flames to Author:
{ ucbvax | uunet }!ucdavis!spked!sactoh0!smb (Mike Beebe)
Mailing List Requests: smbancroft@ucdavis.edu (Steven Bancroft)
All Back-issues are available by E-mail request from smbancroft@ucdavis.edu
or by anonymous ftp from bikini.cis.ufl.edu [128.227.224.1] in directory
/pub/mikesmad.
