SOS Gab & Eti 1.00

 Gab and Eti advertise their historic portable toilet, their deceased dad is stuck to a rocker in the basement, and Judge Uckerknobb calls it all a socialist hoax. 

Transcript

SOS Gab & Eti 1.00

Wherein we get to meet our heroes and hear about people that are not relevant to the story and who in general carry no weight in the cosmic plop.

My cousins from the two-room school out on Bird Cemetery Road not far from the artesian well with the high water-magic and the giant solar panel farm near to the medicinal mushroom dispensary, brother and sister Gabriel and Etidorpha Orgrease, a few months back, at my gentle but persistent encouragement, placed a note on the bulletin board at the community center before the chicken pot-luck and before Pastor Rufus Jicklo gave that famous speech about his nocturnal visitor, and then again last Wednesday morning where they placed a notice in the lobby at the architectural school library in regard to conservation techniques appropriate to use on a portable fiberglass toilet, a standard issue blue one, that their father, Pappy Buck Orgrease, had stored out behind the red goat barn, the one you know as now painted orange, since he had brought it the many many backload miles home, tied with baling twine he bought at an Ace hardware out past Arlington Cemetary to the top of his sky-blue VW bug, which is a sure way to reduce gas mileage and not generally encouraged, after a 1970 war moratorium at the capital mall with the erogenous belief that the object was, as a representative sample of American vernacular architecture, somewhat symbolic of our Nation's hollowed seat.

Gab and Eti regret that their monochrome Kaypro was summarily fried during a recent re-enactment of a Nicolai Tesla power transmission experiment (and,  yes, they expect their doggie Altuna will recover consciousness and thank all their well-wishers for the wealth of letters of sympathy in this time of their oppressed anxiety and insist I convey that all the cash donations is not useful to cover the bar bills they incurred in respect of the damage to the fundraiser that the Pyle brothers held for them in the last month at the Bucket of Blood), and being now fried of the technical obligation to send or receive e-mail, they think they want to thank everyone, also, who took the time from their professional careers in histo presto to offer them such wonderful advice on what to do with their inherited John. They also, They, too, because we’re about preservatives, you must know what to do with fossil pappy Buck Orgrease. They do not seem to be able to get him separated from the rocker heirloom in the basement despite the use of a blow torch and cotton balls soaked in alum. Someone suggested a steam box would do the trick, others suggested a salve made from Danish bog moss, organic certified curry and lanolin. But this is a different set of problems, we need not go into this, maybe later, or not.

Regrettably, with so much public attention brought to their ass-et (sort of like a dysfunctional deconstructionist dinette?) the Commonwealth has made a legal move to confiscate the historic portable building, the tiny house, as Buck expired interstate to follow closely on a hi-elevation midnight hooch run. Though why anyone would think to run booze in the rolling mountains with a VW bug is inexplicable and I profusely apologize now for any misunderstanding that may arise for those who are more noticeable of the tricks of the smuggler’s trade. Though Buck in his incessant capitalist enterprise did own forty dump trucks and was hired not only to remove the discard from the tunnel excavation for the Bullamanka-Danville Railroad, but paid as well to fill the Wetwater Wetlands.

In this way included in the national proliferation of conspiracy theories, Gab and Eti believe that the actual acquisitive interest of the Commonwealth resides with the honorable Judge Yuro Peese Uckerknobb, a highly decorated WW2 veteran, who, in several grammatically incorrect ALL-CAPS editorials in the Bullamanka Bugle-Clarion Rosewater Pennysaver, has made a vociferous objection to the patrimony of the Orgrease crapper, to lay claim that the whole shebang is a perpetrated fraud, a hoax of obese proportions and that the copious frenzy of goings-on claimed against the carnal house are a figment of the lunatic fringe of unfettered leftwing socialist liberalism that so rampantly degrades and intermixes the rainbow hues of Western civilization into a postulant fudge of mono-hued function that everywhere stained like a product of Monsanto organic style and diversity of our innermost life surges.

Nobody really understood what the Judge attempted to say. There may have been something else, like an Owsley knock-off, mixed in his drink. They had all grown weary to decipher the import of his rants. He was published, by the way, an expert on little boy’s that play under-the-table Ping-Pong and he had several shadowy and oddly inverted photo collections to his study, and had issued several pamphlets on the esoteric game, inclusive of a rules book, through a local small press, a tidy little local corporation that specialized in libertarian-scientific themes but mostly got by with printing of uplifting message postcards, right-wing bumper stickers with guns and wild ducks on them, and fortune cookie messages. Though to the more discerning and alert of the community it was apparent that Judge Uckerknobb prefers the touch-feebly warmth of his weathered-oak seat than a fiberglass recreation. Despite this, Gab and Eti have been forced to counter press that the fiberglass box is not all that large and would accommodate reasonable expected human encounters with the natural, as well as the unnatural, as complicit with the histrionic era of free love, New Age, and all that here now bullshit. 

To be continued... Al & Pete on the spiritual plane.