This tale comes from a book I have been writing and in a constant struggle to amend and reinvent; it is about some young children of the Mississippi Delta (the river itself the children believe to be ‘Mrs. Sippy’s Delta’). Our scene is set on the river proper, as the group of travelers come into the unfavorable architecture of a pentomino raft, made totally from solidified bismuth, pfefferneusseum molecules and scrap cardboard. Invaders deck the raft and begin sending pirate flags up the makeshift flagpole, which was fashioned out of organic plutonium, an old broom and rubber chicken wire.  
“Give my regards to the alembic.”
“FUCK YOU ISHMAEL. Some tears ago--never mind how far back they might be—having zero to nil in my purse, and nothing far from vehicular to transport me once overboard, I thought I would set to pout a spittle and soak in the watery heart of the world.” Pchooey! This is what our captain, the esteemed Ducasse dictated to me as I attempted to take notation though most of my time was spent wiping the spittle of his impassioned speech from my face and arms. Ducasse stayed to the front of our small pentomino raft-meanwhile me and the stowaway, Huckleberry Faust, kept up the rear end, so as not to tip the boat—our esteemed Ducasse being a total and complete Thunder Lizard. (With Primatic tendencies, of an all-consuming frog-appetite behavior type—i.e. a totally ravenous glutton of a beached, on our raft, whale, he was a whale; pure and simple.) There are his love handles, there is his spout. Huckleberry (pronounced HUK-LAY-BREE) was poling in a Venetian style, as if our raft were a goddamned gondola—smiling and whistling all the while like a fucking mockingbird. But I never put stock in fucking mockingbirds anyway. Ducasse calls me by my Christian name, Mimidae, while our whistling inverted pole-vaulter calls me MIMI. I have no preferences on this matter. The nefarious Ishmael is Ducasse’s aside, his footnote. Ishmael was once a man, of that; I am sure, but next to our colleague, Mr. Ducasse, he is a bipedal lamprey. I don’t watch them interacting with one another for fear of vomiting in my young voyeuristic reposing disgust. The same goes for Huckleberry, though he doesn’t gag as audibly as I do. Ho hum. “KNOW, KNOW, KNOW YOUR BOAT GENTLY TOWARDS THE BRAIN, VERILY, VERILY, LIFE IS BUT A MEME.” We drift in and out of daytime and nighttime we don’t dream for fear of being killed in our sleep by Ducasse and his despicable clownfish, Ishmael. All we risk is a daydream here and there; which all turn into nightmares, quick as lightning; making it tenebristic gloomy, powerful tenebristic gloomy. And he just continues dictating, his memoirs (pronounced MEME WARS): “For a long time I used to sleep a lot, that is I would endeavor to retire for the evening early. Sleeping was my pastime, my narcoleptic business. And for a long time all I did was dream. Dream of early retirement—the American dream of waking up a billionaire, without being a fugitive from justice. At large in a world of small fishes—I retain the most water. To the vacuum, go the spills.” “Raise the flag of the MORTAL & PESTER,” quote the ravenous glutton-head, the beached whale. It was raised. Upon the raising of this most curious Piratic flag, a change, subtle like glissandoing impiety or grapefruit beer, in Huckleberry began to commence. He clutched at his stomach and lowered his head moaning ever so like a dying rabbit. At once he was running over the surface of the water and jumped into the arms of a man who was wade fishing with his two children nearer the bank. Huckleberry began cooing and purring, making as if to cuddle. “Is your boy alright?” inquired the neo-pseudo-suckling fisherman. “Indeed he is. Caught a bout of the Cucurbit Mosaic, though,” responded Ducasse as he cast anchor starboard side. “Culture to a beck, what?” “Cucurbit Mosaic, actually. He’s homunculizing as we speak, I’d step back sir,” Ducasse holed. As Ducasse spoke these very words, a noise, deafening in its volume and brain squeezing in subsonic force, exploded like a fart reaching critical mass in our midst. It was in the rhythm of a nursing child complete with delicate gulps for air coming from Huckleberry, as he was now open mouth and teeth to the violently bleeding neck of the curious and inquisitive fisherman. It sounded as if two low rider cars, with pounding woofers, were ‘bumping uglies’, pardon the expression, by the light of a recumbent moon. Two low riders, intertwined, muffler to muffler, fucking to the gentle breezes of the night trade winds and the ever genteel whispers of El Niño: (Foggy windows, fuzzy dice and hydraulic drop top dash board plastic Jesai). He with a tattoo of flames down his sides, orange, red and green; she with a bumper sticker reading, “IN CASE OF RAPTURE, THIS CAR WILL BE UNMANNED.” What a delicate drag race these automobilic fancies, be! Huckleberry however imbibed nearly all the blood this poor fisherman had coursing through his veins. He sprang out of his embrace. “Lower, the flag of the MORTAL & PESTER.” “Huckleberry, a vampire?” I gasped. “Far from it my young Mimidae, that-there is the early stages of homunculization. Vampires, feeding hours, are regulated by the ever waxing and waning moon, that semi-luminous orbital. Spagyric necronauts may feast by the lights of any hour.”  
After the flag was lowered and appropriately folded, it was taken with quite the pomp and circumstance to the two surviving children of our most recently dearly departed by Ishmael while Ducasse hummed the National Anthem: “Insane in the meme-brain, that Swann’s birdly rights. That our legs were nair hair.” In that vein it went and then Huckleberry returned to poling as if nothing had occurred, and in fact he had no recollection of those events when I asked him later over lime tea and cookies. Ducasse continued his lurid and tumultuous dictation well into the night and the next morning. I sat shivering, not daring to sleep and scribbling as fast as I could to keep in pace with our fearless and ubiquitous orator. “You don’t know me without you have read a book by the name of Mimus and Polyglottos, but that ain’t no matter. That book was writ by Mr. Knecht Ruprecht, and he told the truth, mainly. There was things which he stretched, but mainly he told the truth.” -- Huckleberry Faust, Mrs. Sippy’s Delta, 2003  
Cancel your subscriptions to any magazines that may make the monthly, weekly, bimonthly or annual cycles to your house(s) right now! This is the best, goddamned recipe for Mud Pie you will ever find! Take all. Enter the sandbox and wait for a terrific excuse to blow up the spot. Add dirt. Eat with an apple. Surely Sally sells seagulls down bye-bye birdie to, then before. And then again, it really could be happening. Alien abduction is a pain in the dairy airy, airy, airy air. To the sky, so easily and where the clouds can’t even hide. I see you floating. Enter the spacecraft.
So this is what aliens look like, I was skeptically expecting non-anthropomorphic sentient creatures of peace and knowledge. But now I know that the others were right. Fuck Venus, dude.
Mars, the bringer of meme-wars says, “I love you.” Words of such great import that cupid shits itself when drunk on the winish distillation of penultimate Angel hole Eros: H 2 (the Mother-fucking) O.

Reasons why Venus is better than Mars (as compiled by the sub-sub-librarian to the great Martian corporation: Anal Probe, Inc.):
1. Women are ecclesiastically more thoughtful in speech and appearance of character than are men.
2. Red is the color of some kidney beans and all Christmas stockings. True love’s hair.
3. Men don’t look that great in the sheep’s clothing of ironic discourse. No, really?
4. Peanut Butter and Jelly Sandwiches are not the same thing, in much the same way that alpha-male is an oxymoron.

martians are from venus at hotmail dot com

Listen, as one of your kind, I would just like to say, “What the fuck?” Ennui, go, over the rainbow, somehow. “Boo boo boo boob oooboooboobooboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboboooboo.” The ghosts that haunt the stairways and biways of the attic of your mind, they lyin’, sleeps tonight. The man behind the couch says keep it real and all you can do is express yourself like a lemon peel like shrimp. Do it your self. GIVE UP THE GHOST, WILL ‘YA? >> Martian Fubar: CANDY ASS ANAL PROBES ALL.
Somewhere under the Brooklyn bridge./// not trolls, Lilliputians, nor Extra-terrestrials.))))////((((( A different shade of breakfast: let them squeak brakes. It came one night from the bathroom mirror. I mean window. It came into the bedroom and took him right up and out off the bed leaving her in a state of disbelief. She would talk, never again, forever. He returns from a brisk trip to Alpha-Centauri. No X-Mass presents though, all the way to the other side of the galaxy and not even a lousy Tea Party. From demons, to goblins, to angels, to Martians, you know little green men. Not environmentalists, their skins be green. Why do we never speak of little green women, for surely races of more than at least one gender patrol the far reaches of outer space. What if there was a race, of extra-terrestrials, with no less than 203 genders among themselves? What if it did not seem unreasonable to spin a space yarn of ‘little green women.)))))))) =THE SUMPTUOUS AND EXAGERATTED TALE OF LITTLE GREEN WOMEN.== X marks the spot.
(1.Meg, 2.Jo, 3.Beth 4.and 5.Amy)
(Get Abducted By Aliens & Live, To Tell Their Tale)
1: “GREMLINS WON’T BE GREMLINS WITHOUT ANY PRESENCE,” grumbled Jo, playing with the pug. Wing dwellers, the proverbial aerodynamonauts nightmares and Christmases are made of. “Divine intervention is a sometime thing from outer space.” She said, and not too suddenly. It is inconceivable to believe too far into Outer Space. “Tufk, tufky, toorah.” Outer, O, Out there, “forgive the interruption, pardon the intrusion, may I borrow a cup of sugar, some flour and an anise probe (bulb) for the flying saucer (of milk maybe), I said, me and the old man are going to Outer Space for a little experimental vacation. We ain’t gonna be sleeping in those muddy cages this time though, we’re going as ambassadors for this spaceship Earth. This wayward vessel.” 2: Too sweet for this world. Spending the late nights and early morning hours of life writing horror novels about sinister monsters of who travel with the wind and drink the blood from farm animals and little children who don’t obey their parents. She obsessed a mountain of despair into the pudding-like Neanderthal mind(s) of the other captives, cuddling in the spoon position. And in that corner of the mind say eye and/or cage, that is the frames of the ship, sleeping, now at least forever and a day. Amen. 3: Our MAIDEN VOYAGE, to an interplanetary system caddy-corner to the Mandrake event horizon, over yonder, went according to schedule. 4: DAY ONE: Turbulence. By night I sit and look out of my window. The air is thick with heat and the crew is beginning to get restless. I fear mutiny. My suspicions were confirmed earlier this evening, and I say evening on a guess, time is meaningless here. Three more days of this rather opalescent journey then, there, will be no more fears of an on board uprising. Our navigator, Dr. Huckleberry Faust says, “Non-butt, our shelves, can see our behinds.” He may be on that plank to the 4th dimension very soon. Mornings aboard this ship bring toast and eggs, mostly desirable, mostly edible. We steady and await further instructions. 5: DAY TWO: Rain. Us girls stayed to the main hull today discussing our favorite passages from the Sci-Fi Sub-Sub-Book of the Dead. This as we drank quite remarkable and memorable lime tea and ate cucumber sandwiches; as has been our custom every Sundae since my birth; I being the youngest of the four children. My name is, either: Meg, Jo, Beth or Amy, I never remember; this week I am calling myself Meg. Beth called me Jo this morning and Jo had to remind her that I was Meg; which confused her because Amy was calling herself Meg this morning while they were brushing their teeth. She thinks she owns everything. As it happens we do speak Farcey rather well, for it not being our native tongue. Our Farcey instructor says we have Ergospheric accents, when speaking Farcey; which coincidentally will be to our benefit since the natives of the Mandrake E.H., speak Farcey with a bit of a lisp and pinch of salt. Inconsistent Trans-chaotic Metaphors of Indeterminate, Specificity, libel the pug. Specifically, the Itch, the Rash and Toe Jam. 6: DAY THREE: X-Mass. X-Morning. We made our way down the stairs for Christmas breakfast. What a wonder it was to see all those sausages splayed about amongst the breads and butters, jams and royal jellies. It was bliss, I tell you, impermanent and most wondrous bliss. The galley was filled with the screams of darker skinned types of whom we are selling to the Father-ship in the Mandrake event horizon. Actually, we aren’t selling them; we are a liberal and pious family, who do not believe in slavery, we sell fruits and vegetables, things of splendid green, not damned pink. The slaves are sold by weight by the life insurance agents who represent the remaining Americans from the old planet: Earthy worth. Jo said, “Maybe the slaves down in the galley want our bread.” And they did, too. 7: DAY FOUR: 4:20 AM. Huckleberry has freed the slaves, damn his soul-less eyes. Set them loose in Outer Space. We arrive, unscathed, passing thru the great gates of ‘ourladyofthepulsarversusourladyoftheneutrinostar’…we arrive safe and soundlessly; as sound does not, truly travel in the blackness of space, proper. 8: DAY FIVE: On the long ride over Lakshmi Planum we arrive at the final resting-place of the ‘VENUS of PHOBOS’, in Ishtar Terra. Near Walden Pond, where we keep winter quarters. Mother goes out and does Henry’s wash every week in hopes of keeping his (distilled) spirits up. On a planet where none but women are revered? Not a fucking chance, you testicle garnished asshole. On Walden Pond the little green women still do the clothes. By the way, why Ishtar that there be green inhabitants on Mars? Why the complimentary color of the inhabitants to the planet? By this logic, Earthlings need be orange and some are, trust me on this one Cisco, you little, green jug. Orange U glad, hole? On a yellow planet, purple people eaters? Not a fucking chance, boy. 9: DAY SIX: Wholesome family goodness, frock! One of us was to die today, Jo Beth, I presume. The doctor, being a man and full of wisdom that excludes knowing how to wash clothes, began bleeding her at the elbows. She was nearer to dying than the Barom Samdi’s bride on their honeymoons over Miami, Florida, 4:29 A.M. 10: DAY SEVEN: Aboard the Mother Ship. We were abducted last night in our dreams. “God bless us, everyone!” she is screaming it, haiku style, eternal night, a thousand and one anal probe knights. They have us in our paces, we are fed through slots and under doors; we sleep huddled together, drinking wine from the same jug, swapping germs, a regular German swap meet (swamp meat). (Laying in our own filth and grumbling lyrically in the cold dark air.) “God bless us, everyone, goddamn it!” God bless U.S.; every war. Darker then that and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Grow corn in the cold to catch it and keep it in ajar. Stomach grown candy corn of the mighty delta. Animals in cages go crazy. Dogs on leashes are not friendly, are they not? Shit, everywhere and tomorrow is shit, retched, fetid shit. God bless, that: Like this and like that and uh…ugh, ugh. Yea-ah boy-ee! “This shit isn’t scaring me you dumb ass little red mother-ship-fuckers!” One brave young woman announced, most desperately. “Sure it does.” Over the loud speaker, with almost a Farcey accent, “it scares the shit out of you.”



The courtesans sit round the elongated tableaux: Essex and Langenberry side, in ad side; fucking, sequentially. The outrager spat, Huckleberry-Esque of the mid-milky way stew. In an elevator booth, perfect for appropriating and appropriate for perfecting an over-piracy; these high-space outlaw(s), schemes of courting “love”…in a fallen sense: the deity reigns. At supper: “Arse those sausages?!!1, Real live sausages?!!!” “Indeed they are madam (e); ouiselle…they are indeed sausages>…” “Isn’t Butter on fresh bread the most divine of all! And on an X-Mass, 2!” Divination through buttering bread; i.e. reading butter on bread to predict the future: butyrumancy
{The Butyrumancer speaks: “You have buttered your bed, now divinate with it.””””””””””””} The religion, or spiritual practice, corresponding to Butyrumancy, involves a churning ceremony incorporating up to 385 persons (alive and dead), the prayer and dance of ‘Virgin Emulsification’ and a sacrament of, you guessed it: bread and butter. The reason humans say, “bread and butter” when keeping together, though taking alternate routes has its roots in butyrumancy. Like this, say: a young married couple is walking downtown and they are walking on 5th street together, holding hands, and all…they happen upon a telephone pole. Now, they do not want to break hand-lock, nor do they wish to reduce the speed of their stroll, so they temporarily release hands as they pass around the telephone pole, saying “bread and butter”, so as not to lose contact spiritually. Thus preventing an almost certain fate of hell and eternal torture for not holding hands correctly on the goddamn Sabbath. Butyrumancer parlance: “{better, butter, batter, hey batter, swing butter.}” There were several practices by butyrumancers that the rest of society, for some god-forsaken reason, found unsuitable and unlawful. The first of these was the making of dairy products, not from cow or goat milk but from ‘the milk of man’; that is the milk of WOMAN (butyrumancy was begun in the eras of the over-masculinization of anything and everything not considered woman’s work.)


The Star Stuff Chalk Circle


“THOU SHALT NEVER, HENCEFORTH AND FOREVER, CREATE, OR FASHION, IN ANY WAY, PRODUCTS OF DAIRY FROM ANY BEAST LESS NOBLE THAN MAN. THE MILK OF MAN BE ALL THY DRINK OR ELSE THEIR BE FAMINE AND DAMNED BEASTIALITY IN THE LAND OF MILK AND HONEY. AS SUCH THE MILK OF THE VIRGIN (ULTRA-LACTATA) IS THE MOST DIVINE OF ALL.” Just between you and me they milk them like cows, twenty virgins (their version of a nunnery) all lined up in troughs with antibiotic drips and suction machines on their breasts, fucking wrong. Cheese made from the breast of man (although men, for the most part, do not lactate) is called: tyroshomo, which roughly translates as: ‘human cheese’. There were several different ways of preparing and curing the tyroshomo; the most popular of which were a type of feta-style cheese (eagle’s ember) and a sub-sub-type of blue cheese (our rubber).


The Tyroshomo Drive-Thru on a Drunk Dial

In the religion, proper; there are many bizarre stories involving milk, such as the tales of ‘LACTATA’, or spontaneous lactation of the super-devout, mostly from their ears, eyes, nipples, noses, and mouths; almost always accompanied by sexual orgasm. The story of Venus of Phobos, the mystical progenitor of SWEET CREAM, or their messiah, a kindly child who, “drank not of the milk, from the mammary glands of man’s breast; but partook of the milk, of God’s mind. A milk more fortified with vitamins and minerals than any mammal of the ground may concoct within the cavities and glands of the their animate temples.” He was born to a virgin named Mary, who actually didn’t birth him, since Mary was a man; but that is how the story went. I suppose part of the miracle of his birth was focused around how a man can give a ‘virgin birth’. Mary also sprouted “the blessed tits of wonder and joy that wrung forth the holy milk of God’s holy mind-tit; which was good like sunlight and thick as emulsified cream.” He died a most horrible death at the hands of his oppressors, the ‘Cattlemen’…they “churned this mother out”, that is they churned him to death in a public venue, and after he died they covered him with whipped cream “from the cursed udder of bovine subterfuge” and a cherry. (Representing blood of the golden calf and color it should be served at). He lay there for three days until people got sick of the smell (The lactose intolerant.) Our Mean Mister Magus did not rise again; he rotted like everything else. One can easily understand the taboo, it is sort of strange that we only drink the milk from other mammals. Other mammals whose bodies only make the milk for their young. Butyrumancers saw milk from the human breast as prayer, as communication with their god. They saw taking milk from other mammals as an act of beastiality. “Human milk be beatific liquid.” Or so they say. On the other hand early cults of this religion also practiced a form of cannibalism that mimed Hassidic Kosher standards: “the eating and partaking of the flesh and fat of Man is proper in the context of the sacred feast of the Lunar Eclipse. But the preparations of such things shall never involve the combination of the flesh of Man and the milk of Man. Let not the child be cooked in the milk of the mother.” So, they could eat human flesh and drink human milk and/or eat tyroshomo, but never together: no tyroshomo cheeseburgers, in a manner of speaking. {All quotes from THE FIRST EPISTLE OF TOM THUMBELLINA.}



1) She went back to school and became an astronaut. 2) She faked her own death to avoid obscurity as an unrecognized genius. 3) She is now a proprietor of a coffee shop named Latte Freakin’ Da. 4) She makes pornographic films under assumed names like Hannah Faster. 5) She went home and no-body noticed because she does not answer the phone or her door and subsides off of rainwater and the mites that live on her eyelashes. 6) She was surfing and found Laputa or Lilliput and has not returned yet from her travels. 7) She lost track of time and died of old age before her time. #) She is the reincarnation of Pythagoras, she realized this and formed a cult based on ‘free love and the . semi-non-organic shapes that clouds make’. 8) She found a black hole in the Sea of Norway, went through it and came out of the other side reassembled into a leather bound edition of the complete works of Marcel Proust; just like Stephen Hawking predicted would happen. 9) You are Epoh Gnirb. 10) She became a figment of somebody else’s imagination besides the image you hold of what you believe her to look like in your mind at this very moment. 11) She works at a wax museum as an ‘Events Coordinator’ named Cassandra.




Baalerina & Sal Ammonia, Abducted:



The Ballad of Baalerina and Sal Ammonia begins in a waiting room. There is a gray carpet and some army green wallpaper that has been in the process of peeling off the wall for probably two years. Sal Ammonia stands next to coffeepot, which he calls the ‘cucurbit’. Noticing Baalerina standing near the donuts he offers her a cup, “May I get you a cup of this delicious black hole juice? It’s freshly squeezed!” She just nods and grabs herself a crueler. “You see, I call coffee, black hole juice, because when it percolates, it is dripping from a funnel in the shape of a singularity into a reversed image of that same funnel. (…) Well, it would seem to be a good example of what it may taste like to fall through a black hole; do you believe in black holes?” “I thought scientists have already proven their existence,” Baalerina, knowing more than him. “Well, I simply meant that there may be religious or spiritual implications from black holes.” “Like what a new version of the Vedic Scriptures are going to fall through one?” “I guess I was speaking more philosophically, what IMPLICATIONS may be made from a universe where gravity can suck things away forever and all, makes one wonder if it may be a literal HELL HOLE.” “I don’t think so.” AUTHOR’S MAXIMIZING EXPLANATION OF PLATE ELEVEN: The contents of the cucurbit have now reached a point of the deepest depths of a bottomless photon bucket. There is no more energy to borrow to make the light. There is only black hole radiation, the universe is crumbling at the speed of a cockroach in heat, when it reaches the other side, all will be for not. Sal Ammonia and Baalerina are two wanderers that did happen to become abducted and while aboard the ship, fall through a black hole. Metaphorically, of course, for they are stories told by butyrumancers…they are characters in their holy tales; they are the PSYCHO-POMPS OF A NEW GENERATION. The rest of the parable is about Baalerina’s brilliant idea on how to survive falling through the black hole: OUR RUBBER. She jimmied a ‘condom-a-ton device’ out of virgin’s milk, she wove this together with Sal Ammonia’s rather obscene armpit hair into super strings and knitted these into a wet blanket par excellence. Hence the legendary ‘WET BLANKET OF BAALERINA’ or ‘OUR RUBBER’. Their seed was spared from death in the white hole and they lived to butter another day.



HENRY AVERY, LORD OF THE KEYS TO ZERO-HOOD, (ESQ.); swabs the deck of the awe-inspiring ‘Sub-Homino Raft’ made exclusively from an arcanum of human portions; literal flotsam. This raft, a floating hyper-bower of pedantic gore, sails westward like a delinquent sun from the universe’s kung-fu grip of saltwater and nitrogen. Dogs are not stowing away; neither are the seagulls that avoid the raft as a nun would a bad habit. Smoking a cigarette, rolled from the skin of a rattlesnake, Henry Avery looked out over the flat ocean world surrounding--it would seem--the whole cosmos, and remembers quite synchronically, before the Fludd; before the rivers of boiling blood and piss and shit pockmarked the world like wafers in a lily pond. Before the end was the middle, and before that, something a bit more profound and reveling about our rocking chair Earth. Something that not even uttered under one’s breath meant much of nothing at all: it was the last thought Henry Avery thought before life in the coke-bottle recesses of his personal savior’s mindless soul cogitated the equilibrium of our watery planet goodbye. He thought, “Why come I can’t remember what I can’t think of a forehand?” It was more true than beautiful, and less interesting than specifically radical, as a simple and pure thought: the putridity of the raft floating up and through his nostrils, up into the deepest secrets of his brain. Henry wept for several hours after, held aloof by visions of an arbitrary spissatus, the cirrus of his dreams.


Just a thought, fruitcake…

They were sleeping in their bedroom and then he just vanished…disappeared. Like that. Mr. God: Look what I just abducted Mrs. God! Mrs. God: Oh, you don’t know were that thing has been, just wash it before you bring it in. Mr. God: I sanitized it before I took it out of its sleeping bag on earth. It’s fine. Just get those enclosures ready. This one is going to make it I think. Like Moses, then we’ll just send it back home like nothing happened. I want some water, caviar and the divine probing unit. Mrs. God: As you wish, lord up above. Mr. God: Just get my equipment ready, we have a long night of tedious experimenting to do. Mrs. God: I’ll put a pot of black hole juice on the boil. Mr. God: Here. (Putting the human in the enclosure.) Now administer the holy anal probe. Mrs. God: Where are the assholes on these creatures again? I swear I never can remember. That obsession you have for putting so many openings and orifices on things. Do you know any other gods that waste so much time on openings? Mr. God: There, on the backside towards the top of the legs. Go slow at first, then just glide along gently, we don’t want to break any more than absolutely necessary. Mrs. God: Administering the sacred anal probe of Jahweh! Mr. God: Amen to that my dear. Hold it, let me take readings, got to get these calculations spot on, if in you know what I mean! Mrs. God: You are such a rotten old meme-plex, god, how did I ever let you out of the bedroom long enough to create the earth, in what was it, seven days? Mr. God: Just kiss me while you calibrate that ass my dear. (The anal probe was administered.) Now, young human, look at me. Let me see those teeth. Yes, you should go see a dentist. How do you ever expect to mate with a mouth like that? Now, seriously, I want you, when I take you back to earth, to tell every one on the planet about me. Tell them how wonderful and loving and devoted I am. Tell them my love is infinite and that they are worthless compared to their benevolent creator. Tell them to prostrate themselves, everyday, as an offering of their dignity and pride and rationality. Every day! Tell them to do this, for my wrath is awesome. Tell them the apocalypse is coming and that I have a holy army of winged motherfuckers with anal probes and 666 stickers, yo-yos and flaming swords of truth. Ready to get a little mean. Put the Dr. Funk and Stein back up their rectal pies. Turn this little bitch into a backyard BBQ. Tell them that the message I bring is one of love, unless they don’t believe you, then my message is one of death, and total, absolute genocide. I am peace. I am charity. I am love, manifestering. Mrs. God: Hallelujah! The voice of the one true god! Praise Sal Ammonia! Mr. God: I told you never to say his name around me again. He does not exist to me anymore. Mrs. God: He is your son! Mr. God: No son of mine would go around the universe wearing his mother’s underwear and saying that he has come to rid the cosmos of unnecessary orifices. The human: A salmon did what now? Mr. God: Silence! (Mr. God pushes the anal probe a little deeper into the human. He falls asleep.) Mrs. God: Careful honey-balls, he is only a human! Mr. God: Why does he do it? Mrs. God: He’s probably a little scared and confused and wants to be back on earth…oh, right, well. The chosen one loves you and he is doing what he feels is right. Mr. God: I never should have slept with her. Mrs. God: It was an experiment. How were you to know that mating was possible? Now we know to use anal probes instead. I mean we got to get the data from them somehow. Mr. God: I didn’t love her. I was thinking of you the whole time. It was an experiment. I was harvesting data from her rectal pie. I was a true professional the whole time. I promise. Mrs. God: You know I performed an experiment or two on her myself, back in the day. Mr. God: You didn’t! You little fox! Well… Mrs. God: I was young and going through a really experimental time and wanted some answers to questions about certain feelings I had. I saw young Mary, when you had her in the enclosure, performing your first round of experiments on humans from earth. She saw me and told me she would do anything if I would help her escape. She was so beautiful, and vivacious, I just couldn’t resist. Mr. God: What do you say, if we drop this earthling back on it’s rock and go neck in the back of our spaceship; maybe I’ll show you my divining rod and matching anal probe? Mrs. God: Mr. God, you dog, you!