Brand New Chickenhead Stories Uncovered!

It's been many years since we've able to bring you stories from the long-forgotten writer Chickenhead Antonucci, but we have good news. There is more. And who knows how deep this gold mine goes. What we don't know about these treasures is when they were written. We do have reason to believe that they might have been penned outside the February to September 2001 timeline.


Is it possibly that Chickenhead was more prolific than we thought he was?


Here are some newly-discovered short gems from the great Chickenhead Antonucci. Four all-too brief stories from the warped mind of a genius:

Marshmallow Stew

“Come in, Mr. Daniels,” the doctor said. “What seems to be the trouble with the lad today?”

“Well, doctor,” I explained. “Billy’s been crying and throwing tantrums when he doesn’t get his way. And when I tell him he’s a bad boy, he says ‘I know you are, but what am I?’ He draws on the walls with crayons. He never bathes. He won’t eat his vegetables. He’s been wetting the bed. He mailed a letter to Santa Claus and cried when he didn’t show up Christmas Eve. He begged me to get him a subscription to Highlights. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg.”

“I see,” the doctor said. “And how old is he?”

“Thirty.”

“Well," the doctor sighed. "I’ve seen this before. What he has is what we call 'Playground of the Mind.' He thinks he’s a little boy -- I’d say maybe seven or eight years old. What you need to do is get him to do older boy things. I recommend lots of porn, alcohol, and sports. It’ll probably only bring him to about eighteen, but it’s progress.”

“Will it work?”

“Why, yes. My son watches tons of porn and sports, and drinks like a Lohan. The mental institution says he’s one of their finest imbeciles.”

“Hmm.”

“Now, there is one more thing. I’m recommending daily portions of marshmallow stewpot.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s a stew with marshmallows.”

“Marshmallows? With beef and potatoes and carrots?”

“Beef, carrots, M&M'S, Cheez-Its. As long as there are marshmallows in it.”

“You’re a weirdo.”

“Just do it, my boy.”

That night, I bought fifteen bags of marshmallows and rented three of the recommended videos: American Booty, On Golden Blonde, and Splendor in the...well, let's just say Natalie Wood and Warren Beatty weren’t in this version.

I prepared Billy’s stewpot, throwing in whatever we had in the kitchen: Doritos, raisins, Rice Krispies, bacon bits, soy sauce, wheat bread, beer, Chex Mix, Meow Mix, tortilla chips, Pop Tarts, cheese slices, ice cubes, uncooked macaroni and cheese, and Skoal. Along with the marshmallows, I put everything in a big pot on the stove and stirred like crazy. When everything was finished, I handed Billy a bowl, a spoon, and a paper bag; then I hid behind the sofa. Hearing nothing, I peeked over and saw that Billy was enjoying it. This was like a demented Life cereal commercial. Billy liked it! He asked me what I called it, and I said “Marshmallow Stew" because I couldn’t tell him what else was in it.

The next morning, Billy woke me up by banging on my bedroom door.

“What?” I said, opening the door. “What is it?”

“Dude, it’s Saturday,” Billy said.

“Yes,” I replied. “And only nine in the morning. You’re never up before noon on a Saturday. Or Sunday through Friday, for that matter.”

“What do you say we just kick back, watch some porn, have a little beer, and you gimme some marshmallows, bee-otch?”

It was apparent that Billy was now quite fond my hideous marshmallow and miscellaneous concoction. After a week, Billy was addicted, but he really hadn’t changed. In fact, he was more infantile than before, especially when it came to demanding his new favorite food. He even created his own marshmallow demanding song:

Damnit, damnit, son of a bitch,
Oscar’s a grouch and Samantha’s a witch.
Put in the porn and pour me some scotch,
And gimme some Marshmallow Stew, bee-otch!

This was getting ridiculous. I didn’t care about most of the stuff, but I needed the bread and Doritos, and Lucy was very possessive about her Meow Mix. I went back to the doctor, who told me to be patient. According to him, the marshmallows usually took up to a month to work. I had my doubts, but after four weeks, Billy started looking and acting differently. He slowly became much more mature, but also angry and wrinkly. His eyesight and hearing became worse. By the end of the second month, he looked to be about 80 years old. When Billy died, I went to the doctor to complain.

“That’s not what you wanted?” he said.

“No, that’s not what I wanted, you quack!”

“Oh, well. You live and you learn.”

I left the doctor’s office puzzled. How could marshmallows, mixed with anything, increase aging so drastically? Why did this so not bother the doctor? And why am I telling you people this? Who are you? Leave me alone. I’m grieving.

The Ice and The Transformers

 

We have a phrase we're trying to discourage around the house these days. It's called "Monkey see, monkey do," and it's an odd little phrase I used to use when I was an organ grinder, but now we use it for the kids. Anything they see on television, they imitate. That's how we came up with the black list -- the shows they're not allowed to watch. From violent cartoons to professional wrestling to The Three Stooges, we put the parental kibosh on most of them. We even had to stop taking them to the art museum after they saw a Dali painting and we later caught them putting all our clocks in the microwave.

We do let them watch the classic cartoons, because, admittedly, I'm like a five-year-old and I love that stuff. But we've come to regret this as well. It happened after the kids watched the Tom and Jerry episode in which the faucet runs until water fills the kitchen and then it freezes it so Tom, Jerry, and the baby mouse can ice skate. After that, we caught the kids flooding the kitchen and throwing ice and ice cream and other frozen foods on the floor in hopes of doing some figure skating. It was a mess we did not enjoy cleaning up. Next, we decided we would only let them read. But soon after this decision, they read The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe. Our oldest took a baseball bat to his closet, hoping to bust his way into Narnia.

It was no wonder the kids had an affinity for imitating what they saw on television. My brother and I were the same way at their age. There were the countless times we each tried to go through our walls trying to imitate the old Kool-Aid ads, the time my brother was beaten up at school for dressing like Boy George, and the time we tried to adopt some kids after watching Diff'rent Strokes.

There were two things in particular that led to our downfall. One was the Tom Hanks movie Big. We wanted desperately to be adults -- to drive, to drink, and to watch R- and X-rated movies. One weekend, as luck would have it, the carnival was in town, so we got to visit our father. He brought us to a machine much like the one that granted Tom Hanks his wish.

Now, here's where the second thing comes into play. My brother and I, of course, were big cartoon fans. We'd come home for school every day and watch our favorite trio of shows: Thundercats, G.I. Joe, and Transformers. A Transformer was a giant robot that could transform into something: a car, a plane, a gun. We decided there was nothing bigger or stronger than a Transformer. Long story short, our father couldn't have guessed that the carnival machine would actually work. My brother and I became two giant robots. I turned into a jet plane, my brother a shotgun. We ruined the carnival and terrorized the entire town. God knows how many people were killed. Then, my brother jumped into me and we flew off into the sunset. We were lucky enough to meet two nice robotic girls and we started our own families on an island in Hawaii. We had to kill all the human inhabitants, of course.

The Love Poem

 

My name is Cecil and I have always hated poetry. The problem is my girlfriend's birthday is coming up, and she said, "You don't have to get me anything. Just write me a poem."

Fantastic. So I went to a Starbuck’s, where all the hipster poets go, ready to write. I remembered an assignment I had in high school English to write a love poem. Mrs. Helmsley was upset when I turned in the lyrics to the theme from The Mary Tyler Moore Show. She considered it a step down, even from the first poem I handed in, which was chock full of profanities and graphic sexual images and got me sent to Principal Brewster’s office.

Now I was again tackling what I long considered my archenemy, the art of poetry. For I was in love. I think. Nonetheless, writing a love poem was a struggle. The occasions on which I had even said the word were few and quite long ago: to my mother when I was a child; the time I yelled “I love you, man!” to Kevin Youkilis outside of Fenway Park; the prostitute in Amsterdam.

My gal, Jambalaya, had accused me of being emotionless, loving other, “more important” things more than I loved her, such as my car, my stamp collection, and Natalie Portman.

“Why can’t she see how much I love her?” I said out loud, forgetting I was at a public coffee house. “Why can’t she see,” I continued, much quieter, “that I’m not like the other clowns she’s dated? Why is this poetry nonsense necessary? And why is there another Starbuck’s just across the street from this one?”

I stood up and, after disposing of the napkin on which I was trying to open my heart, shouted “Damn the love poem! Damn poetry in general! Damn…Nipsey Russell, or whoever writes these things! No wonder they all go insane!”

Finally, the manager approached me. “Excuse me, Sir,” he said. “Please calm down or I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Are you Starbuck?” I asked him, still hysterical, and now grabbing the man’s shirt and shaking him. “Why are there so many of you people?”

The manager grabbed a triple venti Toffee Nut Latte and threw it in my face, and I screamed and slowly begin to melt. The place emptied as my words became more and more incoherent, and the floor more and more wet.

The next day, newspapers and television were awash with stories of the “melting lunatic,” as experts debated whether poetry and coffee were perhaps a lethal combination. Many, including my loving girlfriend, said that the moral was that if love is strong in your heart, you won’t go crazy and melt on the floor of a Starbuck’s.

There were eight more human meltings that year. They weren’t all poets, and they weren’t all drinking coffee, but they were all named Cecil.

Cup of Warm Love

 

 

"May I have a cup of warm love, please?" Mortimer asked Cecil, the man behind the counter.

 

"Pal," Cecil said, "Why don't you get out of my coffee shop with that kind of talk, huh?"

 

"Sir," Mortimer replied, "I just want a warm cup of love."

 

"Look," Cecil said. "I don't take kindly to guys coming in here propositioning me while wearing only Curious George boxers."

 

"My mom made these. I want a cup of warm love and I want it now! Now! Now! Now!"

 

Mortimer, a 32-year-old man, was now throwing a temper tantrum, nearly naked, in the middle of a busy coffee shop. Cecil flew over the counter like one of the Duke boys over the hood of the General Lee to calm him down.

 

"Hey, hey, buddy," Cecil said. "It's just we're fresh out of love right now. You know how busy it gets on the weekends. You see that woman over there?"

 

"Yes," a teary-eyed Mortimer replied.

 

"She got the last warm cup of love."

 

"She did?"

 

"Yeah, so maybe if you go across the street to Starbuck's, they'll have some love for you."

Mortimer stood up and dried his eyes, but, instead of walking out as Cecil had hoped he would, he walked towards the woman. Mortimer stared at this woman as if recognizing her.

 

"Excuse me," he said to her. "Did you purchase the last cup of warm love?"

 

"Yes," she replied, "And I'm gonna pour it all over your crotch if you don't go away."

 

This threat excited Mortimer and he sat down next to her.

 

"What's your name?" he asked.

 

"None of your business," she replied.

 

"Wow, how do you fit that on a name tag?"

 

"I don't work at a place where I have to wear a name tag. I have an education."

 

"You look familiar," he said. "Are you an actress?"

 

"I don't know," she said. "Do I seem to be acting like I want you here?"

 

"Aren't you Katharine Hepburn?"

 

"Yes," she said with an impatient smile, "And the guy behind the counter is Spencer Tracy. So I'm spoken for."

 

"I knew it."

 

"I'm not Katharine Hepburn, you idiot. Put you glasses and some clothes on and go away."

 

"You're not?" Mortimer said. "Well, then you're Claudette Colbert."

 

"What are you, ninety?" she said. "I'm just a girl sitting in front of an ass telling him to piss off, all right?"

 

Mortimer started to cry again before noticing a large group of children entering the store, followed by a man in a bunny suit.

 

"What's that?" he said.

 

"Whatever it is, go bother it and leave me alone."

 

"Why are all those kids crowding around my hallucination?"

 

"Tomorrow's Easter. That's the Easter Bunny."

 

Mortimer ran towards the children and began pushing them out of the way, shouting,

"Get away from my hallucination!" until angry parents wrestled him to the ground and the police arrived.

 

Mortimer spent six months at The Azalea House, a special kind of prison, with his giant rabbit hallucination and a cellmate he thought was Margaret Dumont. While in prison, he studied law and politics, and, when he got out, ran for mayor of Gardonia, a small, fictional town in the Northeast. He won by a landslide, but was arrested for parading in victory naked through the center of town. Thus ended the story of Mortimer, King of Warm Love and Giant Rabbit Hallucinations.

 

Chickenhead’s Book Reviews – Puppet Shows by Michael Frissore

First of all, anyone picking up Ploppet Sows because they think it’s some kind of how-to on puppet presentation should save their hard-earned money. Other than one story about a bunch of flying sock puppets, there’s hardly anything about puppets at all. That was very disappointing.

Secondly, what is a short story but a novel the author didn’t have balls enough to finish. Really? There are thirteen whole stories in this measly book? Well, unlucky for you, my friend. I get lost reading new sets of characters every eight pages, junior. Keep me interested, for Pete’s sake.

I started reading these “short stories” and, sure, they were funny, but not funny ha-ha, if you catch my drift. I mean, a talking monkey? Stop it. Is that supposed to be hilarious? Not in my book, pal. First of all, monkeys don’t talk. Second, this isn’t Animal Farm.

All in all, if I’m going to read a short story, mister, it should be at least 20-25 pages and about a man or woman who has a disease and kills him or herself by walking into the ocean. That’s a story.

So thumbs down to Poopet Shoes. You want funny, go read some Christopher Moore. Now, that’s a funny fellow fit for the whole family. That’s right. Alliteration at no extra cost to you.

One BAWK out of five.

Good day.

Writings We Set Fire to a Hobo to Obtain

In chronicling the all-too-brief writing career of Chickenhead Antonucci we've done a lot of things we're not very proud of. We've stolen from babies, we've staged suicides, we've even threatened a number of celebrities. But when we set a homeless man on fire to bring to you the words you will read below we knew we had to leave the country. Thus, from an undisclosed location, here now are more wonderful stories from Chickenhead.


Also, a lot of people have been asking, and yes, Chickenhead was decidedly anti-Chick-Fil-A, both their food and their beliefs.


And now, Chickenhead.

April 7, 2001

The Great Remodel

Guiseppe stood in front of the theater, sweeping the sidewalk. As people passed by and sullied what he had swept, he whacked them on the legs with his broom. One happy couple stopped by the door.

“Oh,” the woman said. “What is it you’re doing with the theater?” 

“What?” Guiseppe said.
 

“The theater. What are you doing to it?”
 

“I am doing nothing with it! I love this theater! My father owned it, and he handed it down to me! Screw you yuppy bastards! Get out! Go!”
 

The couple walked away, baffled by the crazy man with the broom. After they left, a young man approached with a cup of coffee, which he handed to Guiseppe.
 

“Hey, Guiseppe,” he said. “Here’s your coffee. How you doin’?”
 

“Carmine, thank you. I could use this coffee.”
 

“Guiseppe?”
 

“Yes?”
 

“What are you doin’ to the place?”
 

“What? What are you talking about?”
 

“I mean, what are you doin’ with the theater?”
 

“Get out!” Guiseppe screamed. “I’ll jam this broom so far up your rear end, you’ll look like a unicorn! This theater is the same that it’s always been!”
 

Guiseppe chased Carmine away, as a group of high schoolers noticed the commotion and gathered around the theater.
 

“What do you kids want? You want inside?” Guiseppe said.
 

“Aren’t you remodeling?”
 

“Why does everyone think I’m changing my theater?”
 

“It says ‘The Great Remodeling’ on the sign.”

Guiseppe looked at the sign and became quite upset. “Hey, Houdini! Get out here!” A man the spitting image of Oil Can Harry from the Mighty Mouse cartoon came outside.
 

“What is this?” Guiseppe said to him. “Did you spill ketchup on my sign?”
 

“I a spill nothing!” the man said.
 

“Are you one of the remodelers?” one of the kids asked.
 

“I am the magician, the Great Remode, accent grave over the E. Re-mod-ay! The exclamation point has a filthy stain on it.”
 

“But, you’re Italian,” another kid said. “Isn’t Remode French?”
 

“Which of a you did this? I send a you all to Africa!” And with a wave of his magic wand, the Great Remode sent four innocent students to the Sahara Desert.
 

“Remode,” Guiseppe said. “Why did you do that?”

Remode waved his wand again and turned Guiseppe into a box of Cocoa Puffs.
 

“There,” Remode said. “He’s a cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. I get a myself some a low-fat milk and a bowl.”

Thu. 5/3/01

I STILL DREAM (OF SQUIRRELS AND DANDELIONS)

Mitch and I sat on the front porch, drinking glasses of Country Time and watching a family of squirrels take over the yard.
“Do you know,” I said. “that I can’t remember the last time I actually had a dream?”
“You mean like a sleeping dream or an MLK kind of dream?” Mitch asked.
“Sleeping dream.”
“Well, I still dream,” he said. “I dreamed last night that I was Rocky.”
“The boxer or these little bastards’ flying cousin?” I asked.
“The boxer.”
“Marciano or Balboa?”
“Balboa,” he said. “I love those movies. Don’t you?”
“Not really, no,” I replied. “And you’ll never convince me that that frigging movie should have beaten ‘Taxi Driver,’ ‘Network,’ and ‘All The President’s Men’ for the Best Picture Oscar in ’76. Who were you boxing?”
“Jesus.”
“You were fighting Jesus?” I said. “The man died for our sins.”
“It was a dream,” he said. “It’s not like I jumped him in an alley and took his wallet.”
“Yes, but it means something,” I said.
“All right, shut up, Freud.”
“No, you shut up.”
“Hey,” Mitch said. “That squirrel’s eating a dandelion.”
“Yeah. Check this out,” I said, grabbing a dandelion. “Mama had a baby and its head popped off.”
“What are those squirrels doing?” Mitch asked.
“I don’t know,” I said. “They’re coming to us. They’re usually not this friendly.”
“Uh, dude, they look pissed.”
Mitch and I were then mauled by the vicious pack of squirrels that had
been quietly living in the yard all summer. Someone once said that there’s
nothing more boring than hearing about someone else’s dream. Boring, yes,
and perhaps deadly when mixed with those pesky little yellow flowers growing
on the lawn.

July 18, 2001

Stars Threw Down Their Spears

It was March 10, 1938, the night of the 10th Annual Academy Awards. Fans gathered outside the Biltmore Hotel, hoping to catch a glimpse of their favorite celebrities, and they were all in attendance: Humphrey Bogart,
Lionel Barrymore, Ginger Rogers, Greta Garbo, even little Mickey Rooney was dressed to the hilt.
 

But when Rooney screamed and pointed towards the roof of the building across the street, panic ensued. It was Cary Grant, Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, Carole Lombard, and Barbara Stanwyck, all standing on the roof holding spears. Within seconds, they began throwing a seemingly endless arsenal of spears. Stars and pedestrians alike fell victim to this heinous attack. But why? Why would our greatest stars, many of which were nominated, commit such an atrocity at the Oscars? Perhaps it was the competition.
 

Perhaps it was how stunning Ms. Rogers looked that evening. Perhaps we’d never know. Luckily, Hollywood had a group of heroes that night when the Marx Brothers flew in to save the day. Being gentlemen, our heroes could only take care of the men. For the women, it was Margaret Dumont and Mae West that they’d have to stand up to.

Within minutes, the battle was over, and Hollywood rejoiced as Ms. Dumont, Ms. West, Groucho, Harpo and Chico took their bows, and, not being nominated, flew home wishing for an invention that would enable them to
watch the Awards over dinner.

Chickenhead Goes Nadsat!

In yet another excruciating find from the debris of Chickenhead's former domicile comes a story of sorts called "Solitude."

SOLITUDE
07/26/2001

Jordan sat at her computer, typing in her journal. She had plenty to write about, having just broken up with her boyfriend of two years, Alex. She kept typing and typing and, before she knew it, she had typed three and a half pages. At twenty-six, she thought she was too old to be carrying on in this way. She thought about the mixed tapes she used to make for her boyfriends in high school, and the ones she made for herself after break-ups. She knew these tapes, with songs by Dokken, Danger Danger, and Beau Nasty, were somewhere in her parents’ house. Well, what did you listen to in the early nineties, or whenever you were in high school? Leave the girl alone.

She then went on the internet to download songs about loneliness, something she had been feeling since even before the break-up. She grabbed anything having to do with being alone, no matter whether she liked it. She copied songs by Laura Branigan, Eric Carmen, Gilbert O’Sullivan and others onto a CD. Quality didn’t matter in times like these, as even Roy Orbison, whom she had always made fun of her father for worshipping, was now bringing tears to her eyes. This was certainly an embarrassing moment for her roommate Marisa to walk in.

“Are you listening to Elvis?” Marisa asked in amazement.

“No,” Jordan replied. “It’s Roy Orbison.”

“What are you, sixty?” Marisa said. “And you’re crying. I’m calling 911.”

“Stop,” Jordan said. “I’m fine. I’m searching for songs about loneliness.”

“Because you broke up with that putz?”

“Yes.”

“Well, what about ‘Lonesome Loser,’ by Little River Band?”

“Jeezy creezy, Miss Obscure-Song-Title-Reference-Girl,” Jordan said.

“From where did you pull that suggestion?”

“It was a big hit in, like, the late seventies,” Marisa replied. “My mother still loves them. And what about ‘Hey There, Lonely Girl,” or ‘None But The Lonely Heart,’ or ‘Only The Lonely’?”

“All right, who are you, Casey Kasem?” Jordan said. “Slow down. And I already have ‘Only The Lonely.’ That’s the Roy Orbison song.”

“No,” Marisa said. “There’s also the Motels song from the early eighties. You remember ‘Suddenly Last Summer’?”

“Good Lord,” Jordan said. “You’re like the non-evil version of Rick Dees.”

“Ohh, and don’t forget the theme from ‘The Lone Ranger’ and ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’.”

“All right, you’re drifting, Marisa,” Jordan said. “And no longer helping.”

“But, Jordan, you know what?”

“Chicken butt?”

“Okay, grow up,” Marisa said. “You should make a CD of songs having nothing to do with love or solitude or loneliness, like ‘Helter Skelter’ and

‘Kung-Fu Fighting.’ Ooh, is ‘Shaddup A You Face’ in there?”

“You are nuttier than squirrel shit. You know that?”

“I know,” Marisa continued. “Let’s watch wrestling! Or let’s go to Blockbuster and rent ‘Dick,’ ‘Pecker,’ ‘Private Parts,’ and ‘Snatch’.”

“That’s a malenky bit expensive for a stupid joke,” Jordan said.

“That’s it!” Marisa shouted. “Let’s go on a rampage of ultra-violence a la ‘A Clockwork Orange.’ Invite a couple droogies and bust some devotchkas in the gulliver real horrowshow.”

“Well,” Jordan said. “Look what I’ve started. You’re speaking nadsat now?”

“Viddy well, my little ptitsa,” Marisa continued. “Don’t sit here all nochy being all oddy knocky and platching and razdraz.”

“You’re losing me, and I’ve read the book twice.”

“Tell me you’re interessovated in peeting and getting all pyahnitsa. Let some malchick filly with your groodies and your sharries.”

“All right, that I understood,” Jordan said. “You dirty, filthy girl.”

“Well I’m gonna itty over,” Marisa said. “You can sit here and horn to Bog and platch on your podooshka if you want. As for me, time to tolchock malchicks in the yarbles.”

“Oh, for the love of Bog,” Jordan said. “Let’s go.”

“Not so skorry,” Marisa said. “Give me at least one.”

“All right,” Jordan said. “My brooko is a malenky bit nadmenny.”

“Mm-hmm,” Marisa said. “You just told me your belly is arrogant, but that’s okay. We’re off.”

And the ladies had a wonderful evening out, and, for a while, Jordan forgot about Alex and her loneliness as she and Marisa terrorized children and old people and drank themselves silly, but made it home okay.

"A Hush" - Penned on July 19, 2001

If there was two things Chickenhead liked it was actress Jenilee Harrison and the Nazis. Both are on proud display here in this story found recently in Chickenhead's gay porn drawer. 

7/19 A Hush

“When one flew east and one flew west, a hush fell over the cuckoo’s nest.”

“Excuse me,” a man said. “Did you say my name?”

“What?” Jameson replied. “No, I didn’t say your name. I’m rehearsing a play.”

“A play?”

“Yes,” Jameson replied. “It’s called ‘The Beer Hall Putsch’. Now go away.”

“’The Beer Hall Putsch’? What is it? The sequel to ‘Springtime For Hitler’?”

“Now, look here,” Jameson demanded. “What is your name?”

“Hush.”

“I will not hush, damn you. What is your name?”

“It’s Hush,” the man said.

“Your name is Hush?”

“Yes,” Hush told him.

“As in shut the fuck up? That kind of hush?” Jameson asked.

“Indeed,” Hush confirmed again.

“You mean as in the Deep Purple song and the Gwyneth Paltrow film?”

“Damn it, yes,” Hush said, clearly annoyed. “What the hell is your name?”

“The name’s Milano, Jameson Milano.”

“Of the Pepperidge Farm Milanos?” Hush asked.

“Of course not, you fool,” Jameson said. “Now let me get back to my play.”

“Your play about Hitler?”

“It’s not about Hitler, you simpleton.”

“Now, listen,” Hush said. “I happen to know a little bit about this Beer Hall Putsch.”

“I’m not listening to you,” Jameson said.

“In 1923,” Hush started, “Adolf Hitler attempted to overthrow the Bavarian government in Munich. He entered a beer hall, fired a pistol towards the ceiling, and announced that he was revolting.”

“He’s not the only one.”

“Shut up,” Hush continued. “Along with General Ludendorff and three thousand troops, they marched through the streets of Munich and were met by police gunfire. Sixteen men were killed and Hitler was arrested and sentenced to five years in prison, where he wrote Mein Kampf. He was released nine months into the sentence.”

“You’re a loony,” Jameson said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’re a wacko,” Jameson reiterated. “All this Hitler lunacy, it’s very unhealthy. Do you know who else was obsessed with Hitler? Charles Manson. The Trench Coat Mafia. Jenilee Harrison.”

“What?” Hush objected. “Jenilee Harrison?”

“It’s why she left the Los Angeles Rams, Three’s Company and Dallas. She was forced out. She and her Nazi propaganda.”

“You’re a bloody liar,” Hush said. “It’s not true.”

“All right. Maybe not, but I had you going.”

“Bastard!”

There was a moment of silence.

“So, you’re name’s really Hush, then, is it?” Jameson asked.

“Yes.”

“Like ‘Sweet Charlotte’ and ‘Hush Little Baby,’ that’s your name?”

“What’s wrong with my name?”

“Oh, nothing, Shut Up,” Jameson replied.

“What are you, telling me to shut up?”

“I’m not,” Jameson said. “I’m calling you ‘Shut Up.’ Can I call you Shut Up?”

“No.”

“Piss off?”

“No.”

“What about Shhhh?”

“No, no,” Hush said. “Now hold on. How could this play not be about Hitler?”

“Oh, we’re back to this again, are we?” Jameson said. “It takes place in a pub, a beer hall.”

“But what about the putsch?” Hush pointed out. “A putsch is a secretly plotted and suddenly executed attempt to overthrow a government.”

“All right,” Jameson said. “All right, you’ve got me. You finally got me. I’m a Nazi. And for a few shekels, I’ll show you my swastika tattoo, but I must warn you that I could be arrested.”

“You’re a Nazi?”

“Ah, yes,” Jameson continued. “Glorious white power. God bless bleach, Casper the friendly ghost and crack-cocaine. May you put salt and sugar on every single thing you see, kiss an albino, and have intercourse with a polar beer during a blizzard. Hitler, God bless you, you Aryan bastard, wherever you are.”

“You’re completely insane,” Hush said, running away.

“Insane with love for the master race!” Jameson shouted, watching Hush run with fear.

And Jameson carried on, practicing his lines for the play.

Now, my kind reader, you may have been offended by some of what you read here. I can assure you that neither the author nor our friends Jameson and Hush subscribe to any of the beliefs of the Nazi party. Those who contributed to the telling of this story hold no feelings of prejudice against any group of people. Except the Swedes. None of us like them very much. And Jenilee Harrison? A wonderful woman with no affiliation to the Nazis whatsoever. For, as everyone knows, it was the guy who played Mike, the bartender of the Regal Beagle, who was the neo-Nazi hatemonger.  

Transformers, Gary Lewis and a County Fair

Guess what? No, not chicken butt, but, rather, more Chickenhead!


His writing keeps getting found in the rubble that was his 8x10 cabin.

Ravaged By Ravage

Date unknown

It was a cold winter evening. My parents put my sister and I to bed after
watching Joe Don Baker in “Mitchell.” It was a quiet night, almost too
quiet. We weren’t in bed long before hearing a loud banging that literally
shook the entire house. Then the wall of my bedroom crumbled and this
enormous thing came through it. At first I thought it was the big Kool-Aid
guy, yelling “Oh, yeah!” in the middle of the night. We weren’t this lucky.
It was a giant robot firing a huge gun at all my stuff. He was accompanied
by a much smaller robot, who used his arms as pile drivers to create an
earthquake effect in my room.
“Ravage, eject!” the big one said in a bizarre, robotic voice. His chest
opened up and something came out. “Ravage, Rumble, attack!” the big guy said
again. I was scared, unbelieving, and yet familiar with these three
monsters. I was a ten-year-old human boy being attacked by the evil
Transformers the Decepticons. The big one was Soundwave, who transforms into
a cassette recorder. His friends were the tapes that fit into his chest,
Rumble and Ravage. Rumble was a quick-tempered street punk, Ravage a vicious
jaguar.
Ravage came at me, tearing at my sheets and clothes. My parents tried to
save me, but couldn’t due to Rumble pile driving.
“Laserbeak, attack!” Soundwave said, and the condor flew in out of
nowhere to help Ravage by pecking at me mercilessly. I couldn’t believe that
the characters in the cartoon I loved so much were now trying to kill my
family and me. But why? I was nothing but a loyal viewer who enjoyed the
program every afternoon after school with Thundercats and G.I. Joe, followed
by wrestling on ESPN. Why me? And where were the Autobots, those bastards?
Why weren’t they saving me? Where was Optimus Prime? Smokescreen? The
Dinobots? If this were Cobra and Destro, I knew G.I. Joe would be here. Why
wouldn’t anyone help me? He-man? Josie and the Pussycats? Barbapapa?
I was nearing the end of my rope. This damn bird and cat were almost
finished with me. Then I saw ten figures flying toward the house. They
landed and began fighting off the Decepticons. I barely had it together
enough to recognize them as legendary fifties tribute group Sha Na Na. All
of them: Bowzer, Chico, Zeppo, Fleagle, Bingo, Ringo, Pixie, Dixie, Diaper
Man, Cuckoo Man, Boober and Curly. All right, so I counted twelve, and I
don’t know most of their names. They were saving me. That was all that
mattered.
Within minutes, Sha Na Na disposed of Soundwave and his cassette-tape
friends. My parents and sister showed the band their gratitude, thanking
them for saving their son and brother. The boys said your welcome by singing
a medley of fifties hits, and the four of us chased after the Decepticons,
begging them to finish us off.

Untitled

May 1, 2001

It was a rather disturbing sight. Jerry was on stage singing karaoke to
“This Diamond Ring,” by Gary Lewis and the Playboys while dressed as Little
Bo Peep and sucking on a giant candy cane. It paled in comparison to his
rendition of “Baby, It’s Cold Outside;” nonetheless, this was a bit much.
The problem with Jerry was that he fancied himself a performer. Once he was
in the spotlight, you needed a hook the size of a skyscraper to get him off
the stage. When he finally did leave the stage, it was only for a costume
change so he could come back as Norma Desmond from “Sunset Boulevard” and
inexplicably perform “Springtime For Hitler” from Mel Brooks’ “The
Producers.” This led, even more inexplicably, to Jerry doing a scene from
the fictional soap opera “The Sun Also Sets” from the movie “Soapdish,” then
reading sections from Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises.” The crowd,
recognizing this as a blatant stealing from Andy Kaufman, began throwing
veal marsala at Jerry until he was forced out of the building and we all had
to follow.
The ride home was no less interesting than Jerry’s karaoke performance.
Jerry threw in a mixed CD he had made of music from the eighties, which
began with “Down Under” and “Be Good, Johnny” from Men at Work’s “Business
As Usual.” When I suggested that “Cargo” was a better album than “Business
As Usual,” you would have thought I had said Dick Sargent was better than
Dick York on “Bewitched,” because it started quite an argument. The car
became a world at war as we segued into “Bewitched”/Samantha vs. Jeannie. To
me, this was a no contest as Jeannie was no more than a “Bewitched” rip-off
and I always had a thing for Elizabeth Montgomery. I vowed to wrestle anyone
choosing Jeannie, just as I did with those who chose Kirstie Alley/Rebecca
Howe over Shelley Long/Diane Chambers from “Cheers.”
It was amazing to me that the songs on the CD would suddenly bring
everyone together, and we all knew the lyrics to the songs, despite all of
us being only infants when they were released. “Come On, Eileen,” “The
Safety Dance,” and “Our House” each received rousing choruses unlike any I’d
ever heard. Even Irene Cara’s “Breakdance” threw us into wild refrains, just
as it would have in 1984 when the movie “Breakin’” somehow necessitated the
immediate release of “Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo.” We decided that, just
like every part three should be in 3D, every part two should be called
“Electric Boogaloo.” This summer we would have “Scary Movie 2: Electric
Boogaloo.”
The eighties seems to be the weird nostalgia for college-age kids these
days. Nick at Nite even has their eighties line-up containing “Diff’rent
Strokes,” “The Facts of Life,” and “Silver Spoons,” when just five years
ago, when we were in high school, they had good shows like “The Dick Van
Dyke Show” and “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.” The other interesting thing,
especially with those in this car, is that every college-age kid’s idea of a
classic movie is “The Breakfast Club” or “Sixteen Candles.” Just days
before, I was sitting in the dorm watching the silent short film “The
Butcher Boy,” starring Buster Keaton and Fatty Arbuckle. When my roommate
Pete entered and sat down, out of curiosity I asked him what year he thought
the film was made.
“I don’t know,” he said. “The sixties?”
I had to laugh because, by 1960, talkies had been around for over thirty
years. So, to Pete, this film, which was made in 1917, came out at the same
time “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” and “Dr. Strangelove” were made. I guess, in
actuality, I was the strange one. Adults were always amazed that, at my age,
I had such an extensive knowledge of the Beatles, the films of Cary Grant
and the Marx Brothers, and even Sid Caesar’s “Your Show of Shows.”
This was why films like “Father of the Bride” and “Bedazzled” can just be
remade, I argued to a carload of college kids who seemed to be falling
asleep, because no one knows from the Spencer Tracy and Dudley Moore
versions. The worst example, of course, was Gus Van Zant’s “Psycho” remake,
which I told them should replace Ed Wood’s “Plan 9 From Outer Space” as the
worst film of all time. How does a director who made such great films as
“Drugstore Cowboy,” “To Die For,” and “Good Will Hunting,” head such a
pointless project as a scene-by-scene retelling of one of the best films
ever made? Why not just remake “Citizen Kane” or Casablanca?” Or, to put it
in my contemporaries’ terms, “E.T.” or “Star Wars?” My friend John and I
watched one of my favorite “Simpsons” episodes, the “Rear Window” parody, in
which Bart breaks his leg and can’t enjoy the swimming pool all summer. Of
course, John, never having seen another one of the best films ever made,
didn’t get the reference.
Anyway, we ended up colliding with a busload of senior citizens. We all
died, which probably served us right, because now we’d have to spend an
eternity hearing about Clark Gable, Bing Crosby and “Fibber McGee and
Molly.”

THE COUNTY FAIR (Chickenhead's uppercasing)

July 3, 2001

Boogers and Bombs stood at the broccoli stand at the entrance of the
county fair. It was the first day of summer vacation, an occasion which
called for celebration, as the boys were now high school seniors. Boogers
obtained his nickname from all the money he’d won eating his own nasal
mucus; Bombs had a flatulence problem.
“Hello, my good man,” Boogers said to the stand owner. “Do you sell any
manner of sweet snack, as in ice cream, cotton candy, or perhaps a big-ass
cookie?”
“No sweets,” the man said. “Just broccoli.”
“Hmm, I see,” Boogers replied.
“Interesting,” Bombs said. “Would you have anything such as cheese or
some type of dip for this broccoli?”
“No cheese. No dip,” the man said. “Broccoli.”
“Yes,” Boogers said. “What about cold beverages? Do you have Coke or
Pepsi? Perhaps Fanta?”
“No drinks. Broccoli,” the man said again.
“Well,” Bombs said. “You run a fine establishment here, Sir. Two
broccolis, please.”
“One-stop shopping for all our broccoli needs,” Boogers added as the boys
paid and went on their merry way.
Being students of the arts, our heroes stopped by the art exhibit, where
a man sat, also eating broccoli, and petting a mink scarf.
“Well,” Boogers began. “I’m in the mood to see some art.”
“Me too,” Bombs said. “Do you have any Gacys?”
“Gacys?” the exhibiter replied. “I’m not familiar with that artist.”
“No, huh?” Boogers said. “That’s probably a good thing. What about Red
Skelton?”
“Yeah, or Buddy Ebsen,” Bombs added.
“This is a Carl Lundgren exhibit,” the exhibiter said, clearly annoyed.
“Carl Lundgren?” Bombs replied. “The Swedish actor from ‘Agent Red’ and
‘Universal Soldier?’”
“No,” Boogers said. “I think that’s Dolph Lundgren.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Bombs admitted. “You know who’s funny is the
Swedish chef from the Muppets. I like him.”
“Yeah, me too,” Boogers said. “I think this guy is the guitar player who
became a producer…”
“That’s Todd Rundgren, you fools!” the exhibitor was quite upset. “This
is Carl Lundgren, a brilliant artist.”
“Nope, sorry,” Boogers said. “Don’t know him.”
“You don’t know him?” the beet-red exhibitor said, looking around for a
passer-by. “Excuse me, Sir.”
“Yes?” the man said.
“You know who Carl Lundgren is, right?”
“Oh, yes,” the man replied.
“See?”
“Pitcher, Chicago Cubs, early 1900’s,” he said. “I’m a big Cubs fan.”
“Get out!” the exhibitor shouted. “Away from my booth! This man is a
genius!”
“Yes,” Bombs said. “There’s certainly a lot of angels and things with
wings, aren’t there? Do you have any of those painting of dogs playing
poker?”
“Get out! Go!” the exhibitor demanded.
The two young men then went to the next exhibit, the Art of Dreaming,
perplexed by its consisting of only a burly Italian man holding a baseball
bat.
“Pardon me, Sir,” Bombs said. “This ‘Art of Dreaming,’ where is it?”
“You wanna see it?” the Italian said.
“Yes, that would be nice.”
“Look,” the Italian shouted, “up in the sky.” Bombs looked up and the
Italian man whacked him on the head with the bat. “Sweet friggin’ dreams.”
“What the hell was that?” Boogers demanded, crying. “He was only a
teenager.”
“You wanna see another piece?”
“Not particularly, no,” Boogers replied.
“We call this one ‘Givers of the Dough,” the big man said. “Hey, Carmine,
you’re on.”
Carmine, a much smaller, but no less Italian, organ grinder and a monkey
with a cup full of coins came towards Boogers and proceeded to tie him up
and stuff pizza dough into his mouth until he lay bloated and unconscious in
the dirt.
When the two awoke, they were each tied up over an alligator pit. The
burly Italian walked in, and, before speaking, paced back and forth in front
of them in intimidation.
“Gentlemen,” he said. “My name is Johnny French Fries. I’ll be your
executioner this evening unless you can answer one question. First you,” he
said to Boogers. “Who wrote the poem ‘Noon Walk on the Asylum Lawn?’”
“Oh, come on,” Boogers said. “You’re a mob guy and you ask a poetry
question?”
“Is poetry too fufu for ya, tough guy?” Johnny asked. “Answer, please.”
“I don’t know,” Boogers said. “The roller skating cat from the Heathcliff
cartoons?”
“Nope,” Johnny said, “Sorry, sweet cheeks. You ARE a sausage link.
Goodbye.”
Johnny cut Boogers’ rope, sending him into the alligator pit.
“Holy crap!” Bombs yelled. “Uh, Maya Angelou! Uh, I don’t know any other
poets! Mother Goose! Nipsey Russell!
“Sorry, professor. You lose. You are a plate of veal marsala. Adios.”
And so ended the lives of two great men, men of honor, men of courage,
warriors who have fought against the forces of darkness. This was their
tragic final tale.

Four More Entries From Chickenhead

And now, more delightful entries from the notebooks of Chickenhead Antonucci, found in a pile of rubble in the burned up basement of a whore house.

Bitter Herbs

March 23, 2001

“Look at them,” Herb I said. “Celebrating Juliana’s promotion. I should
have gotten that promotion. I deserve it.”
“At least you were in the running,” Herb II said. “They didn’t even
consider me, and I’ve been here longer.”
“They think they’re so much better than us. All of them.”
“Especially that Adam. God, I hate him. Arrogant bastard.”
“Hey, I went to high school with the jerk. He used to pluck my leg hairs
in gym class.”
“Sounds blatantly homosexual to me.”
“And he dated the only girl I ever loved. I used to go to bed at night
crying and praying that he’d get cancer.”
“Well, he’s a smoker. So there’s hope. God bless the tobacco companies.”
“Excuse me, Herb,” the boss, Mr. Helmsley interrupted. “I need you to
stay late tonight to finish up those reports.”
“Which Herb, Sir?” Herb asked.
“It hardly matters. Like dogs, you can fight over it,” he said as he
walked away.
“That fat bastard,” Herb II said, as Adam and co-worker Matt sat beside
them, not noticing that the Herbs sitting there.
“Hey, did you hear Crazy Cabbie come out on Howard this morning?” Adam
said.
“Yeah, that was great. Can’t wait ‘til next week,” Matt replied. “Hey,
where were you last night, dude? I tried calling you, but the line was
busy.”
“We turned the ringer off. We watched a Shirley Temple movie with Nina.
She loves Shirley Temple.”
“What movie?”
“Stowaway.”
“What the hell is that?”
“You know what? I don’t know. Marcus Welby is in it. She plays a girl
named Ching-Ching, or something.”
“I Dream of Jeannie’s dog?”
“No, that was Gin-Gin.”
“I’ve never seen a Shirley Temple movie.”
“You know which one is great? The Bachelor and the Bobby-Soxer, with Cary
Grant, Myrna Loy, and a nineteen-year-old Shirley. She was hot.”
“Dude, you’re calling Shirley Temple hot?”
“Nineteen! Whoops, too loud.”
“I heard that the STP for Stone Temple Pilots originally stood for
Shirley Temple’s P-…”
“Woah, I heard that too. Don’t say that word out loud at work, dude.”
“Oh, hey, Herb. What’s up?” Adam said, finally noticing. “Who are you
again?” he then said, turning to the other Herb.
“I’m also Herb,” Herb II said.
“Huh,” Adam answered. “I guess I always thought you two were the same
guy. Hey Pete! Did you know we have two Herbs in the office?”
“You’re shittin’ me,” Pete hollered back.
“No, seriously.”
“Do you remember,” Matt said, “the Night Court episode in which Dan
drinks what he thinks is herbal tea, but is really the ashes of some guy
named Herb?”
“That’s messed up,” Adam said, getting up. “Anyway, back to work. See ya,
Herbs.”
“As they walked away, Herb I stared at them. “Those vulgar
sons-of-bitches. We don’t even look alike, and they confuse us. Jerks."
“Let’s kill them,” Herb II said.
“In due time, Herb II. In due time.”

March 30

Empowerment

I made the mistake of telling the class to come up with three symbols of
empowerment. Actually, in a time when schools around the country have
installed metal detectors, the mistake was telling them to bring in a symbol
of empowerment. I was annoyed when Sean brought in a pair of symbols and
marched around the classroom banging them together like a five-year old.
When Rudolph, our foreign exchange student, showed up in his grandfather’s
Nazi regalia, I wanted to take a permanent sabbatical. Still, Rudolph’s
contribution was marvelous compared to when I asked Brian what his symbol of
empowerment was and he punched me in the face. My happiness that the rest of
the class didn’t bring in firearms was only surpassed by my dismay over what
some of them did bring: a bottle of viagra, a fake I.D., a dead squirrel, a
blanket with teddy bears on it, and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
Finally, I asked Jeff what his symbol was.
“Oh, you’ll find out,” he said. Suddenly, the principal and two police
officers entered to inform me that I was fired and to place me under arrest
for possession of cocaine. I told them that I was innocent as Jeff looked on
and laughed maniacally. The bastard planted drugs on me. As they
strip-searched me at the station, I thought again about how teaching may not
be for me.

April 4

Bell Bottoms, Beetles and Smiley faces

I rested nervously on the couch in Dr. Zbysko’s office. He was already
scribbling like a madman in that notepad of his, and I hadn’t yet said
anything. This was only my third visit, and I was convinced he though I was
insane. I thought this even though he said there was nothing wrong with me
except for the General Anxiety Disorder and the strange dreams I had been
having.
“Okay," the doctor said. “Why don’t you tell me about the last dream you
had?”
“Well,” I started. “I’m driving around Liverpool, England in Herbie the
Love Bug with John Lennon and Paul McCartney. They’re each eating from a bag
of crisps and wearing only bellbottoms. John hands me a bag, and I open it.
Instead of crisps, it’s filled with beetles.”
“Wait a minute,” Dr. Zbysko said. “You were driving in a beetle with the
Beatles while eating beetles?”
“Apparently,” I replied. “Anyway, suddenly it starts raining, pouring
really hard. I notice that it’s not water, but something much bigger. I pull
over and we all get out of the car. Then I see that it’s raining Smiley
faces.”
“You mean like the ones on T-shirts?”
“No, I mean it was raining severed heads of Guy Smiley, the game show
host Muppet from Sesame Street.”
“I see.”
“What does it mean?”
“You know what?” he said. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“Did you do yesterday’s prompt? The Great Remodel one?”
“Yes, but it got delayed, damnit,” I answered. “What do you mean you
don’t know?”
“I was kind of fading in and out. Do you want to go see ‘Josie and the
Pussycats’ this weekend?”
“With you? Not really.”
“Come on. You told me you were having sexual fantasies about Oliver Reed.
Was it Oliver Reed?”
“It’s Tara Reid,” I said. “I can’t believe you’re not listening to me.”
“I’m listening. How can you say that? What about ‘Blow?’ You want to go
see that?”
“No.”
“You want to do some blow?”
“Jesus."
“Please be my friend.”
“This is supposed to be a doctor-patient relationship,” I said as I got
up and turned to face him. He was sitting in his chair completely naked. I
didn’t know what to do. I didn’t think to ask why or yell at him. I just
wanted out.
“You know what?” I said. “I’m cured. No more weird dreams. No more
anxiety. I think my car is on fire.”
I ran right through the closed door like a cartoon character. Over time,
and through shock therapy and the Ludovico Technique used in Anthony
Burgess’s “A Clockwork Orange,” I overcame my anxiety disorder, and stopped
having the bizarre dreams. I would also become violently ill whenever I
heard a Beatles song or watched a movie with Tara Reid in it. One day I
entered my apartment, where one of my roommates, Nick, was watching the film
“American Pie,” while my other roommate, Pete, was listening to “Rubber
Soul.”
“Oh, shit” I said. And I exploded right there in the doorway, spontaneous
human combustion. As I floated up to Heaven to be with my grandfather, my
cat Snuffles, and actress Jean Harlow, I laughed, thinking that Nick and
Pete were each way too lazy to ever clean my guts out of the doorway.

4-5-01 Baseball, Junk Food and Grandpa

It was a breezy summer evening. Grandpa and I sat on the porch watching
the Red Sox game while my parents were out for the night. I always valued
the time I had alone with my grandfather. He sat quietly, walking cane in
hand, cheering the Sox on.
“Come on, Yaz!” he yelled. “Knock one out of the park!”
“Grandpa,” I said. “Yaz isn’t playing.”
“Of course he’s playing. He’s two for two tonight.”
“Grandpa, Carl Yastrzemski retired eighteen years ago.”
“What?” he said irately. “You mean to tell me that’s not Yaz up there?”
“Yaz was a lefty. That’s John Valentin, who’s a righty.”
“You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you, with your CDs, and your MTV,
and your lemon-scented air freshener? Now where’s the hot dog guy?”
“Grandpa, we’re not at Fenway Park.”
“Don’t tell me where we are. Don’t you think I know the difference
between Fenway and one of those new-fangled, fancy-shmancy ballparks of the
future?”
“Of course, but…”
“I can’t sit here eating cracker jacks and cotton candy all night.”
“Grandpa, those are potato chips.”
“Oh, now you think I don’t know cracker jacks and cotton candy when I’m
eating them. When do the trapeze artists come on?”
“Grandpa…”
“You think I’m some doddering old man. Crotchety, old Grandpa crapping
himself and flushing the toilet, going ‘There’s nothing on tonight.’ Well,
I’ll have you know that when I was your age, I was always out partying with
the likes of Katharine Hepburn and Cary Grant.”
“What?” I said. “Look, I don’t think Katharine Hepburn was partying with
sixteen-year-olds.”
“I was in World War II. I was the last person to shake Carole Lombard’s
hand before she crashed to her death. And why does this cotton candy taste
so funny?”
“Grandpa, Grandpa,” I said, trying to shut him up. “It just occurred to
me that this story isn’t really going anywhere.”
“What do you mean? Baseball! Let’s do ‘Field of Dreams.’ You be that
Costner guy; I’ll be Shoeless Joe.”
“No, Grandpa.”
“All right, ‘The Natural.’ I’ll be Roy Hobbs; you be Glen Close.”
“Grandpa.”
“Okay, then, ‘Bull Durham.’ You’re Kevin Costner again, and I’m Susan
Sarandon.”
“Ew, Grandpa. That’s disgusting.”
“Well, what do you want to do? You wanna do a musical number? Get this.”
Grandpa proceeded to perform “Lydia, The Tattooed Lady.” It was quite
impressive, but it didn’t help our situation. And when he turned “Lydia”
into “Clamydia,” I had to stop him.
“Grandpa,” I said. “We have a serious problem here.”
“You can smell that, huh?”
“No, I mean this story.”
“This looks like a job for Root Beer Float Man!”
“Oh, no,” I said. “No. No, Grandpa, not Root Beer Float Man.”
Suddenly, here he came, crashing through the window of the porch, and
landing flat on his rear end.
“You called?” our hero said.
“Oh, Mr. Float Man,” Grandpa said. “We need your help.”
“Well, let’s get drunk and sing!”
An hour later, we were all hammered and singing “Everyone Says I Love
You.” That’s when the police came. They kicked the door down and handcuffed
all three of us. We were taken to the courthouse and charged with public
drunkenness, a charge that made absolutely no sense, and practicing idiocy
in a short story. We asked for an appeal, but were immediately sentenced to
be burned at the stake. This is why baseball, cotton candy, and music from
Marx Brothers films should never be mixed.
“See, boy,” Grandpa said. “This was a good story. It even has a moral.”
“Could you burn him first?” I pleaded.
“Why do you use the passive voice so much?”
“Shut up.”