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.