Santa was FEMA and FEMA was Santa when it came to dropping presents on the riffraffs, brawling noodles. The academic’s jaw dropped as he caught sight of the crop duster, flying several dozen feet above the horde of primordial bedlam, fumigating that the very same swarm of human locusts with what from his vantage point looked like billowing clouds of pesticide. Unknowingly, the academic had, for all practical purposes, got it right; the human aberrations were like pests and the smoke being emitted from the tail end of the biplane, something akin to pesticides, only it wasn’t.
Riots, mobs, looting, destruction of property…those things had been around for quite some time, so the clever intellectuals running Washington had to come up with a solution, a remedy to the ever-occurring human hurricanes. What the academician was witnessing was ‘Phase One’ of a two-part solution those benevolent, munificent sovereigns had concocted…so far, other than military, or police action…both of which required union approval, this solution of the geniuses was the only thing that appeared to work.
Never once had the thought occurred to those brilliant, marvelous men, women and children running America that the possibility might exist that if the populace had real purpose to their lives, not some fabrication dreamed up in the break rooms of those damn so-called institutions of higher learning…conceivably, they would start behaving differently, kind of like other normal nationalities around the world. Americans might even devote their time and energies to productive endeavors. Instead of laying around all day, screwing anything that walked on two legs and was breathing, while waiting for the next riot, or episode of Execution, perhaps they would invent, build, or dream up something useful. Alas, the ideas of capitalism and entrepreneurship were lost on the silver-tongued wonder; no, the communal hive, not individualism, was what mattered and was the solution to all man’s woes.
So, given that the blockheads could not get it through their heads that there might be a better way, through means other than authoritative measures, they came up with a further sort of ingenious hair-brain solution…one that did not upset the ideological apple cart.
Bongs, also known as water pipes, billy-bings, or moofs, were basically hookahs that had been downsized and made portable during the 60s. ‘Moofs’ sounds unusual, so we will use it in our references to marijuana bongs. Moofs came into vogue during the Hippie-60s and were a fashionable means of getting stoned without all the harshness that accompanied paper-rolled doobies, hash pipes, or just plain pot pipes.
The genius part of the two-part solution came to the attention of the “Forever President’s” administration when an anthropology egghead built a self-contained, industrial-strength moof into the trunk of his electric transport. The Denver native even added what looked like an exhaust pipe coming out the back, just like anyone would see in one of those fancy graphic-ridden lowriders. I imagine by now you know where we’re going with this, right?
“No, unquestionably not.”
The anthropologist was conducting a social experiment. What was thought by pedestrians, other drivers and passengers to be smoke coming from a badly tuned engine was in reality a pot burning moof! The kook would throw a switch to start the bong to working, usually when the Denver professor was somewhere where he could observe stoned animal behavior on a more grand scale.
The Denver professor would drive around say, a block of downtown Denver with pot burning in his trunk in his ‘moofwad,’ the name the anthropologist gave the device, and the blower turned on high. While making his first spin, the college professor would make a video recording of the sampling for the experiment which was anything or anyone on the sidewalks, including pets, passing pedestrians, street urchins, taco stand vendors, to the riffraff in parked cars, pan handlers, et cetera, et cetera.
This was a social experiment of the highest order; this egghead hoped to get his work published in the Anthropologist Journal of Zoo Life in North America with the analysis of his findings. This professor had already come up with a title for his work, The Effect of Cannabis on Unsuspecting Two and Four-legged Animals of North America.
The Denver professor knew he could only take the risk of making a few spins around the block with that moofwad of his in action. Any more and the anthropologist might well find himself in a traffic jam, or being run into by one of the test subjects as they attempted to drive off in their autos.
The anthropologist’s moofwad was not foolproof; it was a prototype and there were risks. For one, the Denver professor, could himself be overcome by the burning reefer, which no matter how hard the nerd tried, always seemed to seep into the automobile cabin when the damn thing was turned on. The anthropologist had to be careful, take precautions and responded much as expected, with a scientist-like and completely logical answer…he wore a gas mask.
I know what you must be thinking; surely the individual would be noticed wearing a gas mask and driving around downtown Denver and you would be right; nevertheless, keep in mind, by the time the second lap came around, most were already in another place, mindlessly stoned out of their wits and uncaring. I mean, this moofwad of his would put out some real smoke, and the result can only be described as something paralleling what someone would experience after a major forest fire went through an area. Yes, the anthropologist did get jeering and cat calls on that first lap around the block…there were always less protestations on the second lap….by the time the third lap came up, well, let’s return to Schwartz, who by this time had closed the gap by walking on that rutted blacktop road. From his perch on top of one final hill, the university scholar could make out more clearly what was taking place below.
The English professor watched without realizing he was witnessing ‘Phase One’ of FEMA’s plan: blow the protestors’ grey matter into a stupor with billowing clouds of reefer smoke using the crop duster as the delivery mechanism.
The academic sat patiently for more than an hour before the fog-like cloud of smoke that blanketed the eastern edge of the trailer city began to disperse carried by a gentle breeze in an easterly direction…in the academic’s direction! The academic was scared, afraid of descending his hill into that growing blanket of smoke that hung close to the ground.
One thing the academic noticed while sitting on top of that hill spectating was that the din of those obnoxious air-raid sirens had gradually gone noiseless. So too, had the near-constant distant racket which sounded like the uproar one would hear from the 100,000 attendees at a Super Bowl game.
The crop dusters, there had been more than one, were also now gone…he could now hear the chirping of crickets it was so soundless, so very quiet. It was still too hazy to make out anything clearly in the trailer city below.
Those proletariats appear to be incapacitated. No, it can not be that the political authorities have precipitated this anomalous, but ‘de rigueur’ phenomenon. The government is nothing but rectitude and luminosity.
The professor gazed on hoping to see something through the hazy, fog-like carpet of smoke then noticed the chirping of the crickets had also started to disappear. Twenty minutes later, everything was ‘hush hush’ save for the rumbling of his stomach. Damn, those cramps were back again, too...that cerebrum was back demanding more drugs, or was it irritable bowel syndrome?
Schwartz knew he was in deep kimchee if he had a further blowout like the day before. The genius was wearing his last pair of girls undees and that one last cute little tennis skirt. What if they too became schiessen’ified like the others? Before those crop dusters had shown up, the dignitary thought he saw clothes flapping in a breeze on clotheslines and looked as though they were everywhere. If true, the possibility existed that with everyone departed, he would have his pick of attire, but if he went down in that fog-like blanket of smoke...he would die too!
The cloud of haze that hung to the ground was drawing closer to the academic’s hill. The academic had already concluded the cloud of mist might be cyanide, so it did not take much for him to jump to the conclusion he was in mortal danger. Jus
t about the time the “Blue Blood” do-gooder was about to scamper back the way he had come…to supposed safety, the tranquility was broken by the noise of more approaching airplanes. These airplanes, when they came into view, did not appear to be those same crop dusters coming back to drop another payload of death on the trailer park trash below…these planes also looked like antiques, single-wing, dual propeller driven…
Are those DC-9s? the academician asked himself.
Stage two of FEMA’s plan was now coming into view. Flying low above the dissipating smoke, the air turbulence created by their first pass over the trailer city further dispersed the now fading blanket of smoke. There was movement down below!
They’re still alive, some of them are still alive!
Making several passes above the crowd of humanity, the academician surveyed the scene as if watching an air show with the DC-9s making passing runs above the spectators’ noggins. If he weren’t mistaken, those same cargo planes appeared to be dropping something, something that glinted in the sunlight, creating a kind of rainbow effect.
What the schiessen can that be? he asked himself while scratching his dust-bunny beard.
Too distant to see anything except the reflection being cast by the sun on thousands of reflective somethings, the academic was, without knowing it, witnessing ‘Phase Two’ of the FEMA plan...and it had created an artificial rainbow!
-----
At ground zero, Gertrude woke as if from a dream, lying face up on someone’s lawn, her first thought was...Where’s the television? Next the white trash honey asked herself, Did I pass out, again? Next, the ripping screech of one of those ghastly farts of hers broke the tranquility.
Screeeech!
Nonplused by the common event, the white trash honey heard disgruntled voices reacting to the furor she had unthinkingly ripped off.
“Got all mighty! What the ficken is that stench?” came an unknown boy’s response.
“Got almighty! What in infernal tarnation did someone eat?” came another person’s voice, a woman’s response.
“I’d say whoever it was has been eating chili, or tacos by the rankness,” came the chiding of a younger fellow who must have had some experience with smelling chili farts.
So far, Gertrude had escaped any ridicule; the white trash honey looked blameless in her prone laid-out position. Then the avalanche from her stirpes descended upon her, again!
“Mama...”
“Mommie...”
“Mom…!”
“Mama…!”
You know something, I’m not sure if all those chirping brats...all the time, would be worth the price, no matter how big the welfare check.
“Memaw…!”
“Mommy…!”
“Mom…Ma…!”
“What the ficken does you kids want?” Gertrude shouted after all she could endure.
“Hey lady, would you fickening mind keeping it up (down). I’m trying to get some nap time over here,” came the groggy voice of some feller lying a dozen bodies over.
Gertrude was NOT perfectly within her rights when she politely responded, “Go ficken yourself! Find someplace else to sleep you man-whore!”
“Gee whiz fatso,” came the husky response, as a young-appearing, male specimen pushed himself up slowly from his face-down, dozing position.
Gertrude, who was still laying prone on her back, took a quick gander at the guy as he pushed himself into a kneeling position.
Hey, dat hunk looks pretty fine! Gertrude slowly determined. A lots better looking than that live-in bum I’s gots right now.
Half a dozen of Gertrude’s brood are standing around in the general vicinity, like a clutch of chicks. They have seen this look of their mom’s before, “Lust at first sight.” That same love-smitten look of Gertrude’s also came up a lot when the pizza boy showed up at the doorstep usually carrying a half dozen of those super-kingsize, loaded with everything pizzas; only in that case, the white trash honey could be seen drooling.
The thought all of a sudden sprung into Gertrude’s mind, I believe I’m in love!
“Help me sit up youse fickening brats,” Gertrude demands hoping to get a better look. She’s got to act quick, before the good-looking dude gets away. She’s already got a sales pitch worked out.
This was not going to be an easy assignment for the chillans; for one, there were snoozing bodies lying around everywhere. That white trash needed to be moved out of the way first.
“But, mama. They’s too many fickening dudes and dudettes around you,” came the response from either sibling number six, or eight.
“Yea, mommy, we’s can’t get over to you,” added sibling number two with the Nazi tattoo on his or her arm.
“Well’s, don’t just stand their like a bunch of idiots...mov’ems outs of the way!” exclaimed the matriarch with some trepidation in her voice as the now great-looking man-whore was standing and about to get away. “Quick, hurries up!”
Rolling the folks over like so many logs, the Gertrude kids eventually worked their way to their mother’s side. Now, with the help of two, no make that three of her brood, Gertrude managed to get pushed up into a semi-reclining position.
“Goddamn mommy, youse sure do weigh a lot,” said Moon Beam who was still sibling number five, a boy and a teenager.
“Remind me to beat you later,” Gertrude scolded him at the unintended insult. “Which one is you?” The choice piece of tail had long ago given up on remembering her kids’ names finally giving up around number ten, or eleven.
“I’m Wooky,” replied the offending teenager (Moon Beam) using and blaming one of his older brothers to get even for some previous affront.
“How in the world did someone come up with these muttonheaded names?”
“Wooky,” or is it “Wookie”...ah, who cares. Anyway, however “Wookee” was spelled, the name does seem to ring a bell. Isn’t that what they called one of the lead characters in the motion picture Star Wars?
“Which one?”
Who cares which one? Wookey was the big, hairy two-legged, dog-like creature who could not speak, but sort of barked and howled.
“I’m drawing a blank.”
The character that played Hans Solo’s sidekick.
“Han’s Solo?”
Never mind.
“Oh yea, now I remember! By Jove, I expect you’re right. Can you imagine the kind of piles that man-dog would leave? How do you explain the name of the brat called ‘Moon Beam?’”
God only knows...hold on, I faintly recall a California governor whose name was “Moon Beam.”
“Yes, now that you mention it, I seem to recollect the same thing. I am under the impression his first name was Jerry, but his last name escapes me.”
Does it matter. The chap was obviously a moonbat flake, what with a name like ‘Moon Beam.’
Anyway, let’s get back to Gertrude and her clutch of chirping chicks. The kids, as you might imagine, were having to work hard to keep Gertrude somewhat upright what with her not-so-slim, short, stout physical dimensions working against them. Gertrude looked, sounded and smelled kind of like a human variation of a fart bellows, something akin to a device constructed to furnish strong blasts of winds, breaking wind that were forced out of her when the white trash honey was being compressed into a semi-sitting state.
Screeeech!
“‘Screech,’ I’ve never heard someone describe the noise of someone’s flatulence...to a ‘screeching’ sound.”
Then you haven’t lived...in a trailer park.
That ‘screeching’ racket had a lot to do with pressure, often referred to as PSI, or pounds per square inch, and the size of the escape valve.
“Okay...okay, you need say no more.”
You’re sure?
“Oh, I’m completely sure.”
Well, okay.
Turns out the job of getting their mommy into a semi-reclining position took too long, and Gertrude missed her chance as the great-
looking individual had managed to get up and was now wobbling through the bodies searching for a quieter, less unpleasant smelling place to go back and crash.
“Schiessen, he’s gone,” responded Gertrude once elevated and able to look around her whereabouts. “Wook’ki, you did this, you made me miss my chance.”
Moon Beam, posing as Woockie, or Wookie, or was it Whoocky...tarnation, again, who cares how it’s spelled. You know what I’m trying to convey in written form, right?
“Of course, I am long over worrying about things like spelling, or grammatical correctness. Hell, it won’t matter in the future, so what’s the point?”
The potential love interest now heading off into the sunset, Miss Gertrude looked about her whereabouts still feeling kind of good, but a little more horny than before. Just the same, the white trash bimbo genuinely did not have a care in the world save for the growing, burning desire to push something edible into her mouth.
About her were what looked to be hundreds, possibly thousands of her fellow trailer trashers. Some were sitting upright; others wobbling on their feet then falling, others unsuccessful in their attempts to stand erect, while others wobbled about in quasi-stationary positions. Dozens were making it to their feet and were stumbling along, walking aimlessly and in no apparent rush to get anywhere quickly.
Almost everyone had that same stupefied look on their faces, more stupefied than normal. It was readily apparent that most were still out of it, what with their vampire-like, bloodshot eyes. Some, like Gertrude, looked to be feeling the early rumblings of “the munchies” coming on; otherwise, everyone was in perfect bliss.
About an hour later, Gertrude along with her twelve, thirteen, or sixteen stirpes; her neighbors and the five, six, ten thousand, or so fellow, trailer-park trash and the hundreds of community activists with their bullhorns that had started the whole orgy of fun and mayhem, all appeared happier…more sedentary…more unsure why they were all standing around looking dumbfounded at one another as the fog-like haze began to clear.
That’s when Gertrude and everyone else heard more planes approaching...approaching from where the sun was beginning to descend...
Des a cum’n from de south, thought Gertrude.
The airplanes flew low overhead once, then made a second pass...that was when the miracle of miracles occurred. Twinkies fell from the sky! Twinkies fell from heaven! Twinkies fell from the planes!
It was just like Christmas, only there was no such thing as Christmas any more. Kwanzaa had replaced Christmas...Christmas was now called Kwanzaa.
Twinkies fell from the sky like manna...manna from heaven.
“Twinkies fell from the sky?”
Yep...and that’s the end of our story.
“What in tarnation happened to the rest of the story? It just stops right here?”
Nada...nothing but a hushed silence becomes of the question.
“Hello…is there anyone there?”
“HELLO!”
“Is that it? Is that supposed to be the end of the story?”
Sounds like you want this novel to continue.
“There you are, what’s the deal? Well, yes...sort of.”
I was just checking, now we should check in with the academic once more.
-----
It had been hours in the intervening time between when those ancient airplane transports had made an appearance over the trailer city and dropped something that created a kind of artificial rainbow. That smoke laid out by those crop dusters had also dispersed, blown to the four corners of the lands by brisk winds that picked up as midday became mid-afternoon.
The professor had finally cac’d in his last pair of women’s panties during his most recent bout with, still unknown to him, those nasty drug withdrawal pains. Discarded back up on that last hilltop, the scholar had been forced into making an uncomfortable decision and was now walking toward that trailer-park city, along that winding, potholed, blacktop road, wearing one of those cute little tennis tops, upside down, his legs jammed through where the arms would normally go, a near failed attempt to tie up the opening that the girl’s noodle would go through.
There was something familiar about aroma of the still hazy air, something in point of fact, very familiar. A distant memory.
“Wait a second,” the professor commented in his girlish voice, “that smells like a reefer!”
He inhaled deeply. The dignitary inhaled more deeply...once more...and again...and again.
The TV Interview