“Wait a second, there is someone who is actually walking!” exclaimed the female, TV news reporter in an excited voice. “Quick, get the camera on him!”
“Ha, just look at that guy!” shouted one of the crew.
Jolly laughter broke out among the news crew at the sight of the old guy wearing a girl’s tennis outfit ten sizes too small.
The camera crew stood watching and laughing as the professor approached.
Fifty-yards...thirty...twenty...
Ho...ho...ha...ha...ho...ho
“I say there, are you filming me?” asked the academic as he came within hearing distance.
The sound of a little girl’s voice coming from a tall, elderly, street urchin, dressed like some kind of demented child molester was too much to take. Now, the news reporter burst out with her heckling, cackling, chipmunk-like laughter adding to the ensemble of the news crew.
Cac...cac...cac...cac
Ho...ho...ha...ha...ho...ho
Cac...cac...cac...cac
That dingbat snowflake was a real beauty herself, dressed like some troglodyte from the 1960s, what with her paisley-patterned bell bottoms and her ‘tie-dyed in every color of the rainbow’ Polo shirt. This smartly dressed, bug-eyed, dweebie-looking, moonbat woman was even topped off by one of those magnificent ‘Beehive’ hairdos, reminiscent of those worn during the same period, moreover by the gals in the B-52s group.
“I said, are you filming me you degenerate vagabonds?” the professor asked insistently, once again.
The term “degenerate” rang a bell, at least for a few of the news crew, possibly the reporter.
“I can’t believe this guy. What kind of dialect is he using?” asked the camera man peering through the viewfinder and capturing the professor on tape.
“Why in the hell are we interested in this used-up tampon?” asked another in the crew.
“Well, for one, he’s the only person who is standing, and walking around,” replied another in the film crew.
The fellow crew member was right, as the news reporter surveyed the surroundings. Everybody but this pathetic dork were all lying about, most too smashed to make anything but the sounds of incoherent grunts, moaning and tooting. She had a mission, and this crazy-looking dude was the only one around who might give her the story she needed, the one she had to have before she and her crew could leave this hell hole.
The disturbing-looking male specimen that was the academic scholar was now standing just several yards away.
“What are you saying?” asked another of the film crew in her native dialect, ‘San Francisco-Bohemian.’
The academic picked up on the San Franciscan’s question, but only by the inflection of her tone.
“My dear, I can tell by the inflection of your statement that you are asking me a question; however, since I can’t decipher, nor do I want to comprehend ‘Pig Latin,’ I suggest one of you who speaks English ask your question, instead.”
The dignitary in the girl’s tennis outfit continued without concern for his appearance. Apparently, the professor had inhaled enough reefer smoke to lose some, if not all of his inhibitions.
“I have no idea what sort of buffoonery-like gibberish you’re using through those vocal cords of yours, but I must assume because you sound like an uneducated ignoramus, you must be an uneducated ignoramus woman. I suggest you would do best to go back home, get back to your chores, and breast-feed any kids you might have.”
Some of the academician’s words were getting through, but to give you an idea how his statements were being interpreted, here is what the ‘San Franciscan-Bohemian’-speaking film crew were hearing. Oh yes, we will be using the genius’ first comment, but with what was considered incoherent dribble stripped out, to give you an idea of how things were going.
“My dear, I can tell by the inflection of your statement that you are asking me a question. However, since I can’t decipher, nor do I want to comprehend ‘Pig Latin,’ I suggest one of you who speaks English to ask your question, instead.”
So, here is what most in the news crew were hearing from the academic.
My something can (ass) something, something ... infected ...axing...diaper... want...”
In other words, the old cross-dresser was talking utter nonsense.
The thing is, one of the news crew was making some sense of what the genius guru was saying. She was an average-looking Asian who had been educated abroad...overseas where English was still being taught in most universities. Why? We have the Ausmericans to thank for the continued use of English on the international stage. For almost two centuries English, beginning of course with the English, was the ‘de facto’ universal language of the world. Not so, of course, in the United States, now.
The Asian news crew person interrupted her peers to add what she knew of the man’s gobbledegook. “Excuse me Dwolleene (reporter’s name), I think I know what this hobo is saying. The hobo is using the English dialect.”
The academic’s ears perked up upon hearing his favorite word in the world being used!
“English?” asked the reporter.
His expression became even more radiant upon hearing his favorite term in the whole wide world used a second time!
“Yes, English.”
The professor had to know. Speaking to the Asian girl, he asked, “Pardon me my dear, but did I just here you use the colloquialism, ‘English?’”
“Yes, I speaky English,” she replied.
‘Speaky?’ thought the professor. This little Asian would not use ‘speaky’ if she really knew anything at all about English. As far as I know, none of my fellow academians have come up with that word, ‘speaky,’ yet. I certainly have not used ‘speaky,’ before. Oh, Gaia, are you testing me with your effervescent wisdom?
Not hearing a response from the ‘more stoned than we thought’ academic, the Asian girl asked again, “Hey mister, you speaky English, right?”
-----
Tommie was sitting in his only rocking chair, goggling over that only cute-looking news anchor on the mob alert channel. The captioning that accompanied her dialog made little sense to the hillbilly. The only thing he was interested in seeing was her cleavage when she bent over occasionally. Picking up bits and pieces of what the anchoret was actually saying, all Tommie knew for sure was she was working from east to west the various regions of the country. A wall map of the United States filled the backdrop of the news-studio set. The cutie was using different colors of magic markers to markup the points of the country experiencing different degrees of anarchy and unrest.
Outside the occasional and probably ‘purposeful dropping’ of one of those magic markers, Tommie’s interest began to peak as the anchor slowly made her way toward the West Coast. The dirty taste of that Cuban cigar still corrupted his taste of food; the ghastly odor of the stench still hung heavy on his breath.
The yokel had finally had enough of the driver-side door of that three-wheel, electric marvel of his. Leaning up against one of the walls of his trailer sat that very same door he managed to remove that morning. It had been a little tricky; the blow torch he used to cut through those two damn hinges the car door would swing on, had almost caught the entire apparatus on fire. The symbol for non-fire retardant materials went unnoticed, hidden from view by the dashboard, only visible from an angle at floor level.
Tommie still had two more days off from work; there was plenty of time to come up with an answer to the now half burned-out hole that was the former home for the amputated car-door. The Mob Traffic Controller was feeling no pain, a half-lit doobie lay smoldering in an ashtray to his right on the floor.
So far, the hillbilly had seen the anchoret drop one of those magic markers of hers at least a dozen times since taking a seat. Leaning over, the yokel took the twezzer-clips he had been holding and nabbed the reefer after a time. Bringing the doobie to his lips, he took a long lasting drag of the marijuana cigarette, while closing his eyes. This was some really good stuff; the
numbskull had almost blacked out doing the same exact thing ten minutes earlier. Holding his breath for as long as possible to maximize the interaction of drug with air passageways, Tommie slowly opened his bloodshot eyes as he exhaled his smoke-ridden breath. The room seemed to darken around him. His vision began to narrow, almost like looking out of a tunnel...tunnel vision.
Wow! was all the hick could think to add as he came again, close to losing consciousness.
“Hey, there it is...there’s my hotspot...” slurred the hick.
Through his tunnel vision Tommie could just make out that someone was being interviewed...in his “hot spot!”
Hey, they’re interviewing someone in...in my...in my hot...hotspot! I’m...I’m famous!
Who...who is that crazy looking dude, and...and why...why is he wearing...wearing a dress?
Glossary