DOUBLE WIDE by Jim Parnell

Yea, be we Blessed, for he of the Irregardable has spake, and he spake very loud and long in a voice of sushi and Budweiser.  Sayeth he, "Goldurn it!  Who hid my pack of Azathoth filters!  Daggummit, may all you non-smokers live long, dull and paranoid lives!  Soon's I get back to R'lyeh, I'm tellin' the Big Guy to come squish some ass!   Gol.. Durn it... skk-k-zzz-zz-z"

So, overcome by his Revelation, he falls into a trance and opens a channel (and him without his Batrach -- a miracle!).  Delirious, we hang on every morsel of insight that fall like icy javelins from the interstellar fastnesses wherein They Who Lie Waiting have sent their massive intellects a-questing.

Right.

Drunk, snoring, manufacturing ketones and esterous methane, the C'Bubba speaks of the days of his youth:

"Yes, Virginia, it was a time for anything, a time to live, a time to cry, a time for being tied to a whipping post and having to eat humble pie, when the Kinsey report blew libidinously over the scene in an LSD-tinged purple haze, like a fat man in the bathtub playing Aeolius for a boat in the river, with tangerine trees under marmalade skies.  It was a time before Sgt. Pepper sold the copyright to Coca-Cola and nightmarish clowns hawked hacked and cleared rainforest burgers to the pristine, quivering coronary arteries of America.

"A scent filled the air -- Chanel?  Or was it Revolution Number Nine!  Under tents of billowing cellophane and dancing kites of litigation-inspired warning labels, we dance in super slow-motion to the Macarena at 33 1/3 beats per minute pounded out by a very different drummer.

"Rust never sleeps, but we few, drinking in splendiferous mall-factory outlet sports bars spurned by the lofty, go home and wonder if we'll ever, ever get a full eight hours of sleep again. The answer, my friend, is blowing in the withering backblast known as the Florida recount, which will soon say goodbye to its own yellow-brick road, with bookies and hucksters giving no better than 25 or 6 to 4 odds that the right guy will win.  And us just letting the days go by, this terrible signal, too weak to even recognize.  Boom time for the talking heads if ever there was one."

He slumps, spent.  Then rises again as inspiration clubs him over the head with brickbats and dead cats.  Nothing vital up there, as we shall soon see...

---

Bubba Does the Kids' Classics -- Bubba tries his hand at filking.  Maybe he should have tried his foot, instead.

Guacamole in My Ears
(sung to the tune of)
("John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt")

I've got guacamole in my ears
Guacamole in my ears
Guacamole in my ears
I've got guacamole in my ears
Taco salad anyone?

I've got bean dip up my nose
Bean dip up my nose
Bean dip up my nose
I've got bean dip up my nose
Get some chips before she blows.

I've got yogurt in my pants.
Yogurt in my pants.
Yogurt in my pants.
I've got yogurt in my pants,
At least I think it is...

Mmmm, mmm-m-m, mmm-mm-mmm-mm mmm ...

etc. ad nauseam ...

------- Later that night --------

Attn: Bubba Dupree
      42 Yumpah Lane
      Poke Squeal Trailer Park
      E. Bohumphus, AL  00100

Dear Mr. Dupree,

      It has come to my attention that you, suh, have recently
      written some disgusting lyrics to the tune of a popular
      children's song.  I hereby order you to cease and desist
      before I personally give you an old-fashioned Southern-style
      ass-whuppin'

Yours most respectfully,

Justin P. Hogworthy

Atty at Law.
Judge Emeritus Derelictus
West Bohumphus, AL, 11011

------- Meanwhile, back at the ranch --------

I've got lawyers on my butt
Lawyers on my butt
Lawyers on my butt
I've got lawyers on my butt
Open up that whup-ass can!

Mmmm, mmm-m-m, mmm-mm-mmm-mm mmm ...

Triple-bind puns never work on 8-year-olds.  Should have stopped while he was ahead.

---

In Space, No One Can ... Still trying, after all these years, to interest Roddenberry, Inc. in low-budget alternative reality cross-over shike.  Guess they only like big-budget alternative reality cross-over shike.
 

We find the Starship Enterprise derelict, floating aimlessly in a cheesily-matted cardboard backdrop of spray-painted cotton bespeckled with winking Christmas tree lights.   As the camera boldy pans where no one wants to go, utterly heedless of its effect on our suspension of disbelief, we see the lights are on inside, and a party in progress.  Strains of "The Macarena" can be heard wafting eerily through the vacuum of space.

Scene shifts, we are on the bridge.  Kirk is dirty-dancing with Nurse Chappel, resplendent in Gucci boots, a barely-there smock from Gautier, lingerie from Victoria's Secret, and accessories by Dolce Y Gabana.  Chappel's slumming in DKNY.

We shudder with excitement...
 

Kirk:	Hey Spock!  Pass the Cheez-Wiz.
Spock:	You are referring to this ghastly concoction of slimy pasteurized pseudo-food in the ozone- destroying canister?  A concoction that you plan to use in unmentionable ways with the woman who loves me, but for whom I could give a rat's ass?!!
Kirk:	That's right!
Spock:	But of course sir.  Here you are.  Waiter!  Another mind-enhancing prune juice please!  Heavy on the saltpeter.
McCoy:	Spock ol' boy, you just don't give a rat's ass do ya?
Spock:	My good doctor (and if you couldn't tell by my ascerbic over-intellectualized tone, I meant that in the most insulting possible way) you have a talent for redundancy that is rivaled only by your lack of surgical skill.
McCoy:	Why bless your pointy-eared soul, but if you're trying to pick me up, you're gonna have to do better'n that.  Why dontcha tell me some lies about you bein' in the movie business or somethin'
Kirk:	Spock!  Pass the handcuffs and shrink tubing!
Spock  (doggedly):	I am in the movie business.
McCoy (drily):	Oh sure you are!  Love your delivery.
Spock  (spluttering):	I am!  I directed the last three Star Trek movies, numbers 87, 88, and 89 as well as 37 others.  I received critical acclaim for my narratives on the Holocaust, and my recording career is about to take off any day now.
Kirk:	Woops!  HEY-Y-Y-Y BAY-BEE!  Who's yo' daddy!
McCoy (distracted):	Yeah, whatever.  Speakin' of directors, I'm not so sure about that new boy Shatner brought onboard.  Seems like there's a lot of new cast I've never seen before too.  Like that guy, Sir Richard Pumpaloaf, and whatsisname, Boff M. All. Can't complain, though -- never saw so much silicone in all the right places...
	At this point a sleazy character with a beret and a megaphone yells "CUT!  Christ, Shatner, you're blocking the camera with that big butt of yours!  Can't you comprehend my artistic vision?  Again!"
	Megaphone then turns on Chappel and shouts, "In case you hadn't noticed, you ain't playin' the computer today.  Read my lips:  E-MO-TION!".    She begins to whimper.  Suddenly a warp in the space-time continuum appears behind the director.  A size 17 quintuple-E boot wings out and punts the pompous punk across the room.
The Voice of Gene (gruffly):	I don't care how small the budget is, bucko, nobody messes with my Majel-kins!
Gene (kindly, to Chappel):	You're doing just fine, honey.
Gene (to Kirk):	Keep it up, Bill!
	(Gene disappears in a puff of smoke)
Kirk (winks broadly):	It's never let me down before.

Yes, in space, no one can hear you cream.  Except maybe intelligent broccoli, floating luxuriantly in spacesuits full of exquisitely seasoned creamy Bearnaisse sauce.  Yum!

Jim Parnell writes bugs all day, generating multiple catastrophic failures in real-time systems all over the world.  All in a day's work.

You can e-mail Jim Parnell at uberbubba@yahoo.com

Read more by Jim Parnell.

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