Part LXXIII - IS THAT a GRAY ELEPHANT FROM DENMARK?

"Hmmm... Amino Acids... Poly Peptides... DNA... A smidgeon of guacamole... And... Now where did that damn alligator go?"

Dr. Albert L. was hunched over his checker board and had almost made a stunning discovery, except for the fact that L. wasn't really a doctor. He'd received his degree from a mail order contest and had no background in any academic pursuit. Just the same, L. was an inventor. He had created such great gadgets as the Cordless Extension Cord, the Newspaper Hash Pipe, the Beeper for Lonely People (it beeps periodically for no reason), the Expanded Disc, Door Bell for the Dead, the Magnetic Floppy Disk Holder, the Wine Heater, the Exploding Safe, the Solar Powered Flood Lamp, the Solar Powered Flood, and the Aquatic Sodium Dispenser (a great kick at pool parties).

Just now, he was trying to recreate Life's Sidekick. This had bothered him for a long time. Every great hero had a sidekick, right? Well, since life itself was the hero of the modern existentialist novel (according to the back of a pizza box he'd read in the fifties), then life had to have a sidekick. Simple, really. So where was this guy? Albert had thought for a long time about this, and eventually concluded that the poor schmoe had been run over by a cement mixer. It was terribly sad, kind of like a Sartre novel. [Really, folks, this is sad. You'd better start crying. Authors] But it didn't have to be, as long as scientists were willing to rescue great literature.

He looked about. The tracks seemed to indicate the alligator was travelling in a westerly direction. That would put it on a vector for Victor's pool.

That could get messy if Victor's kids were there.

A loud knock was heard at the door. Albert turned to face the direction of his front door. He waited, and while he waited, he thought. Then the knock came again and shattered his thoughts completely. He may never think again.

Albert went to the front door and opened it. The knock at the side door came again. L. closed the front door and shot the half dozen bolts and latches with a pea shooter. Going to the side door, L. opened it to reveal a soaking wet Victor missing one arm and dragging one of his legs.

"Can I help you?"

"Are you really a doctor?"

"No, weren't you reading along?"

"No, I was too busy being eaten alive. Is that your alligator?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." Victor collapsed. A real doctor would have called it shock and blood loss, but Albert just thought he was being polite.

"Well, I guess I know where the alligator is." And with that, L. set out to retrieve his life long pet. On the way to Victor's yard, L. regained his thought. [This is terribly sad folks. You'd better be crying. Auts]

`Are scientists to save literature - would they be the ones to defend the will of free speech - o the devastation that would occur as the rift between the different scientists would mount to a galactic war over Steinbeck and his little wizards...'

As L. entered Victor's yard, the devastation was immense. Entire trees were uprooted, body parts from Victor's children were strewn all over the back lawn and floating in the pool, and vultures flew in triangular patterns overhead. Victor's wife lay half eaten with no clothing on; obviously raped by the alligator. But no sign of his life long pet. L. searched for some clues. After several hours, he noticed a large hole in the fence that led into the set for Dallas.

This might have caused a stir, except that Dallas had been cancelled long before, so the city had no where to be. Such being the case, the set was empty, save the twenty foot reptile dozing and burping along the south wall, where the sun was. Albert ran forward to embrace his pet.

Fortunately for him, alligators digest slowly, so the beast wouldn't be hungry again for about a month. Getting it back home was going to be a problem, though; usually, he tempted it with a girl scout.

"Herman? Can we go home now?"

The alligator opened one eye. "You can, if you think you can."

Albert thought about this for a while, and eventually said, "Huh?"

"Do you have the physical ability to go home?" Asked the alligator.

"I think so."

"Is there anything keeping you here?"

"You."

"Why?"

"I want you home."

"Why?"

"Because you're my pet."

"Define `pet'."

"Uh... what is this an exam?"

The alligator rolled its eye. "I think, therefore, you're not."

Albert disappeared, at least from that vicinity.

Don't tap dance.

Turning on the TV, Stevie flipped through the channels. After a while, his back was sore, so he stopped performing acrobatics and used the remote instead. On CBC was an evening at the Vancouver pops, where the Flatulent Fellows were preparing to perform the Hallelujah Chorus. The commentators, Jimmy and Reg, were veterans to this type of music and opened the show.

"So, Jimmy, what does it take to be an alto tenor in this field?"

"Well Reg, the secret is rectal shaping. You need a precise form that will produce the correct resonance. Stance is important too; you have to stand with a perfect thirty three degree angle between your thighs and your abdomen. Sopranos, like Suzy there, can stand nearly vertical, although some conductors do like a bit of curve to the buttocks..."

Stevie sat in rapt attention to the artistry of Suzy's stance.

"... and baritones like Big Ed generally have to go with a forty to fifty degree angle. But the alto tenor needs the contortion to the sounding chamber. I'll tell ya, some of the things my conductor had to do, well, they don't bear repeating in polite company."

"Speaking of repeating, it looks like we're about to begin."

The camera panned out over the crowd, showing hundreds of people dressed in tuxedos and evening gowns waiting with anticipation for this unique musical event. As the camera focused on the stage, the curtain rose to show a line of men and women standing with their backs to the audience. The curtain disappeared above, and the chorus dropped their drawers to the gasps of the audience. Little did they know how much gasping they might be doing that night, especially in the first few rows. The musicians assumed their positions for the best pitch and resonance. The conductor, who was the only person on stage facing the audience, rapped his rectal thermometer on the podium, and you could see the cheeks tense.

"This is it Reg," whispered Jimmy.

Stevie wasn't sure whether to hold his breath or giggle. When the camera panned over the soprano section, though, he wished he was taping this.

As the conductor began to wave and the Chorus entered its beginning chords, the lead baritone began to tremble, to shake with his own private earthquake. Reg said, "Wait a minute, Jimmy, what's going on with Big Ed?"

"Looks like constipation has struck the star of this group, Reg."

"If so... wait a minute, I don't think that's it. He's trying to clench, not push!"

"My God! The special diet of beans and onions must have backfired!"

"If not, then it certainly looks like it's about to!"

The first row of spectators was stirring, but their artistic appreciation impeded panic, to their eternal dismay, not to mention their dry cleaner's. With a mighty cry and a huge, flatulent boom, Big Ed exploded over the audience. Reliable witnesses said some of the chunks flew more than ten rows back.

Stevie thought the whole thing looked like a chocolate twelve gauge going off. Those closer insisted it was more fried onion than chocolate.

Amidst screaming, running, regurgitation, and the disgusted drawing of hundreds of handkerchiefs, the rest of the orchestra launched into the Halleluja Chorus.

Don't polka.

"You farted didn't you?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You farted!"

"I did not!" exclaimed the Voice.

"Nobody else is here except me and I didn't fart," claimed the Dark One.

"Well, you're right about who's here. Just exactly how is nonexistence supposed to be flatulent?"

"I don't know, but somebody or something cut the cheese in here!"

"Then maybe you should look for an intruder rather than talk to the air."

"He'd have to be invisible not to see him in this room, damnit!"

"So?"

"Not great cover for an invisible guy if he farts upon entering the room."

"Not everyone has perfect bowel control, do they?"

Then the Dark One fell to the floor as he was hit with a right cross from the air.

"You see. There you were, arguing about flatulence when you could have been looking for the invisible cheese cutter."

"What the..." and Dark One doubled up in pain as he was given a sharp blow to the groin.

"Looks like your invisible farter fights dirty, too," said Voice.

Dark One pulled a pellet from his pocket and threw it into the air. The pellet struck a substance and exploded paint on the being that had entered the room.

"Hmm," said Voice, "he seems to be short and has a chicken on his head."

"No, it's a turkey..." The splotch in mid-air leapt at the Dark One and body checked him into his A.C. Gilbert chemistry set. That made him mad.

Dark One grabbed the turkey-head and put him into a full pike with a half-nelson. When they surfaced from the dive, Dark One said, "Who are you?!"

"How the hell are we swimming in the floor?" asked turkey head.

"I'm the Dark One, moron, I can manipulate reality."

"Oooh..."

Voice was conspicuously silent.

"Now, who the hell are you?"

"I'm Double Six Seven, ISO's top fifty agent."

"ISO's... You idiot! You work for me!"

"Uh, yes and no."

"What!?!"

Don't tango topless.

Wendle couldn't believe it. He was in New Jersey.

Don't Fox Trot Furless.

Wendle tensed. His hair stood on end. This couldn't be happening. Maybe it was the fact that he had left the oven on in Key West, or it could have been a sudden movement of a bag of cocaine that was hidden in his rectum, or maybe it was the potential confusion of the millions of people that would have been totally convinced that New Jersey was now Key West - not to mention the hundreds of people on the southern tip of Florida that would have no clue of where they were.

"Oh well."

Don't Disco. Ever.

"You've got to stop living your life in the past!" screamed CWBorysowich.

"True, but that doesn't change the fact that this is a past tense monstrosity."

Don't... oh, fuck it.

Notice to Orchestra Members: Keep Off The Brass.

Really. Fuck it, I don't want to hear anything more about dancing.

The road stretched on forever... or at least as far as the next convenience store, which was close enough. Wanderer looked both ways.

"This is fucking GREAT!"

He stopped. Ahead was a shape, a shape he dreaded more than the most prolonged cold water enema. It walked towards him, spreading its evil influence around like a cloud - a cirrus cloud, all wispy and innocent looking until it drops a ton of sleet on you. He beheld... the Meanest Hobo in the Cosmos.

I mean it, you mention dancing again and I'm outta here!

Notice to Politicians: Keep Off The Middle Class.

Okay, good so far, but I warn you, one word and I'm history.

Notice to Quarterbacks: Keep Off The Pass.

Ahh... It's great to be away from that dance crap.

Notice to Insulators: Keep Off The Fiberglass.

Alright, alright, you can headbang if you want. But no dancing!!

And they fell into a tight blue dress, spiraling into Dulles Tower we copy, you copy, and we sue you you slimy creature screaming at a Serbian in a hole, but that's okay, because even syckos need to breathe, unless they're in bed, so never leave the VCR on your mantle, because they hate it up there, anyway, when I was five the world was alive, now I'm not sure anymore, when I was six we played for tricks, but I'm not secure anymore, when the universe fell we all got bruises and went home early to eat chocolate milk and drink the blender, it tasted yummy, two, you know splat?

Notice to Sailors: Keep Off The Compass

Listen. I know you're out there. You guys are spying on me all the time and, frankly, I'm sick of it! Can't a guy peel his Kiwis with some kind of privacy, huh? I can't take it anymore! Eyes everywhere. Keyholes, knotholes, and every little crack they can find. It's driving me INSANE!!!

I'm still drawing my conclusions on our last subject - paranoia jumps to mind, but I think there is something more.

What, a kiwi conspiracy?

Moon Runner looked up. "Get this noose out of my face, Kimo Sabe."

"Sorry," said Beepo.

"Are you alright?" asked Bob.

"Considering I was just on the moon, I suppose so. I'm not dead, right?"

"No."

"Then why is there a Host of Angels over your shoulder?"

The New Messiah loved his new buddies. Not that there was anything wrong with that.

Notice to Fondlers: Keep Off The ***.