by Jim Parnell

Jason, Phone Home!
or, "You make your yuck"

As the only month in 2000 with a Friday the 13th rolls around, it's good to know even Bubba has a hard time getting both sides of his head talking to each other.  Left brain, right brain.  It was all just meat until a few decades ago.  Who knew it would make such a difference?
LB: Arise, Right Brain!  It is time to write something witty for the erudite and sophisticated Aphelion readers.
RB:  Wha'?  Piss off, Adolph, I'm sleeping.
LB: But my watch says it's Friday, and that means you need to wake up!  Everything that is scheduled, must be completed!
RB: Who died and made you King?  You never wake me up unless you've got some down-time.  You think I can just turn creativity on and off like a spigot?
LB: Of course.  That's the way I work.  Time and motion studies!  Efficiency analyses!  Optimize, prioritize and categorize!
RB: What about philosophize, prosetylize, mesmerize?  Maybe romanticize, hypnotize, and super-size?
LB: I am sorry, I do not understand.
RB: Of course not.  You never will.  Alright, I'll get up on one condition.
LB: What is that?
RB: Make more money.  I'm tired of that drinking Coors Lite crap you keep buying.
Picky, picky, picky.  What a prima donna.

Off we go, Into the Solar Wind -- Once again, in a valiant (but vain) last-ditch effort to overcome a slump in the screenwriter's creativity (a fact not surprising considering Gene Roddenberry's been dead lo, these many years), we find, ONCE AGAIN, good ol' NCC-1701, the Starship Enterprise, in a real pickle, by gum...
Chekov: Kip-tin, I'm picking up life signs from that nebula, and they're SO strange!
Bridge crew (yawning): How strange ARE they??!
Chekov: They're so strange, I had to smack myself with my hammer and sickle. They're so weird, I had to pull my brain out through my nose, wring it out, and eat it for lunch before I'd believe it. They're so bizaare, when I coughed, my brains flew back into my skull! They're so fonky, I just ...  what? What?!!

- SMACK! -

Bridge crew: Aw geez! Shut up! That's gross! Space him, space him now!
Kirk: Well, let's just throw caution to the solar wind and rush the hell on over there without any regard for our own personal safety, not to mention that of our multi-gazillion dollar starship! Who knows, those life signs might be love-starved maidens, begging to reproduce with Earthmen! He-y-y-y!!
Bones: Spock, you been a-mind-meltin' with that ol' boy agin? Last time I heard him use them $4 dollar words, he was puttin' the moves on your fee-antsy.
Spock: Immaterial, Dr. McCoy; after I "killed" the Captain on Vulcan I beamed back down to spawn like a grunion - hoo-ahhh! As for the Captain, he is a mere cartoon, a pawn I control with mental telepathy, my vastly superior intellect, and a 50,000 volt remote controlled taser permanently attached to his family jewels.
Kirk: I've got a switch for that thingy-taser, too! Comes in handy, if you know what I mean!
Ghost of Gene: I can't take any more of this! The Light, where's the damn Light??!!
That little woman from Poltergeist suddenly beams onto the bridge wearing a wizard's robe and hat emblazoned with stars and moons. She waves her wand.
Woman from Poltergeist (intoning): Move toward the Light, Children! All are welcome! Move toward the light!
A blindingly bright vortex appears in a swirling blat of cheesy special effects. Gene and most of the Star Trek cast extend their arms and stagger blindly, like Franklinstein monsters into the maelstrom.
Woman from Poltergeist (smugly): This set is clean!
Spock (who's way too smart for that shit): This ain't Kansas anymore, Dorothy Babe-ski!
With that, Spock chucks her down the hole.  She screeches and disappears into the vortex, which belches out a curdled blast of beer foam and cottage cheese. The disembodied head of The Ghost of Gene pokes back out of the vortex.
The Ghost of Gene (dripping): Damn! There goes the special effects budget for a freakin' YEAR!!! 

A Day in the Life (Friday the 13th, reprise) -- And now, a man who needs no introduction...
  >>> WARNING:  The Sturgeon General has labeled the <<<
  >>> following material NPCGV* and also takes this  <<<
  >>> opportunity to tell you to eat more fish!      <<<
*       NPCGV - Not Politically Correct, with Gratuitous Violins.

This morning I had a dream, a dream of dire portent, a dream that SOMETHING BAD was gonna happen:

In my mind, Grandpa McCoy hopped and cursed, favoring that bad leg of his, "Gad-dagged, fraggin haindle, fayul awf the Gad-dagged crappy hawg-tittied drasser drawer!  Nad-grabbin', rad-frabbit!  Dat's the LAST rag-crabbid drad-craggid piece a termite-ridden sawdust-packin worm-eaten sorry EXcuse for furneeture I ever trash-pick from that nob-nibblin gob-gobblin sak-sukkin fudge-packin bone-smugglin weeny-wranglin faggo-matic antique dealer... AARRGHHHHH!!!! ! ! !
In my dream, a giant hairy foot descends Kong-like from on high and splatters the Real McCoy in mid-homophobic harangue.  The corn-laden foot is wearing a stylish Gucci with 4 foot heels and open toe through which ragged yellowed toenails jauntily protrude.  Uneasily, I follow the foot upward to the scabrous knees, to the bizaare split and tattered Gautier strapless, to the hockey mask, to the... to the HOCKEY MASK??!
Titanic Jason leans down in my face, his breath like an open-air slaughterhouse in mid-July.  He waves his machete for emphasis and gargles, "WHEN I ACCESSORIZE, EVERYBODY DIES!"  Turning, he adjusts his cleavage and stalks away, a little wobbly on those heels, but making good time.   On his butt is one of those bumper stickers, "When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Go Shopping..."
Thankfully, that's when the ceiling fell in and broke my nose.  After clobbering both thumbs with a hammer trying to tack the roof back up, I gave up and took a shower.   Bad move.   Good thing I was able to find all the teeth I broke out when I slipped on the soap.  It's also a good thing I keep a first aid kit with stitching gear handy.  I guess I really shouldn't have tried to shave.  Thought I was safe since I use a cordless electric razor!  What a chump!

So, anybody got a spare set of crutches?

"What never was, shall always be.
What cannot happen, shall be routine.
What is not possible, shall be the norm.
What can't be imagined, shall plagueth thee!"
  - From the Book of Random Predictions,

Double-Wide, Copyright © 2000 by Jim Parnell

Jim Parnell grinds bugs all day, making a fine living as well as a fine protein flour which is best served fermented as a condiment with malt liquor and roadkill sushi.

You can e-mail Jim Parnell at

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