Man with a Mission (A Mellifluous Mission)
I climbed the ladder for what seemed an eternity, and soon enough I climbed into the familiar porcelain tube of what I clearly recognized as a Christmas Island toilet [fortunately for me at this juncture in time and spacetime, King Antonius Steak had many years ago decreed that all toilets in Jinjaba be replaced with wide-diameter porcelain tubes after he had unwittingly (and mysteriously) managed to get his own face stuck in the tapered hole of his own commode-machine] (By the way, for a glorious and fun afternoon of wholesome, world-weary fun, try this fantastic game at the World Toilet Organization official website. Be forwarned!: the game (being at least 9 megabipes in length) may require extended patience and time to fully load, being a realistic simulation of the noble duties of a professional commodial engineer and self-confirmed cultural aesthete. And when you're done bouncing with joy from the bountiful gameplaytimefun, check out the rest of the site! There's much to learn...
Back to my recounting of the day's events: I saw light above me, so I extended my arms, my fingers firmly grasping the soft vinyl padded seat, and with all of my philisopher strength I pulled myself into what was clearly the interior of the necessary room of a Christmas Island native, the walls papered with BRATZ wallpaper, an official Hello Kitty™ bidet situated to my right.
And directly to my left was the bathtub, and sitting within in a cloudy mass of pink and purple bubbles was none other than Christmas Island Fantastic Trees Center Shortstop And Phantastical Phriend Franklin Goy (!!), his moustache newly waxed and his head encased in a bubbly helmet. "Hello!" I salutated, with a friendly wave, happy to see a smiling familiar face.
"No!" Goy screamed, his vocal chords stretching into an excrutiating crazed falsetto that sounded not unlike scraping a rake down a potash chalkboard. "NO!!!," he squealed. "You're supposed to be dead! This can't be! You're dead!" The young man kicked and thrashed in horror, getting the bathroom floor all wet and soapy.
"I seem plenty alive (live?) and well to me," I said bemusedly, climbing out of the toilet into the bathing room proper.
"I don't believe you!" Goy said, flinging a soapy washrag in my direction. It landed in the bidet. "You're a horrible fruit devil come from the sewer to steal my eyes when I sleep! Stay away! Stay far away or I'll call my sister, and then you'll be sorry!"
"No need to do that," I said consolingly. "I'm not here to hurt you, though I must admit that your words do hurt and sting me, not recognizing your timely friend and mentor, your teacher and jai alai coach, when he stands before you in the rubbery flesh, in the canvas bag of skin, hair, and nails in which his wanderer-soul exists, this exoskeleton in which I, Alvin Stomack, eater and shaker, am ever in control of, with the exception of my periodic (and sporadic) trips to Planet Awesome, the mind projection I can perform any time at will but prefer to do in the comfort of my own bedroom with a classic episode of Patrick Duffy's flagship sitcom series Step by Step flashing augustly across the boobtube."
"Well, they said you were dead," Goy said defensively, as though trying to make himself belief it in spite of the staunch avouch of his own photoreceptive visual organs. "They said that you had foolishly forgotten to breathe one day, and that you had tripped over your own shoelaces into a pit inhabited by vicious blind molebears... where the impact cracked your skull and spilled your brains all over the dun-colored rocks and garbage, after which the angry molebears ripped you surely to shreds for disturbing their holy ground. Your last words were 'Good Barnaby, I suck and are a lamer.'"
"Hmmm..." I said, contemplating this news. "Now, young Franklin," I asked, "does that sound like something your shining friend and mellow mentor would say?"
"Not really," Goy conceded, his stalwart defenses beginning to enervate, but then with renewed vigor and suspicion he continued: "But they also said that if it turned out you weren't dead then you were the police in disguise come to incarcerate me for writing love poetry on my desk in fifth period Cosmetology to my secret girlpal Eolitriol Meddissin, who has Genocide Studies right after me and sits in the same desk! Well, I'm not letting you take me without a fight!" Franklin Goy threw a loofah at me. It landed in the sink, bounced out, arced into the toilet. "They warned me about you."
ME: "Who, pray tell, is 'they'?
"Why, Miles Burger and his gang of loyal toughs!"
I shook my head pityingly. "Now, young Goy, you know better than to listen to that ne'er-do-well. He's always been up to no good and has ever been a misanthrope and a troublemaker. Pay him no mind."
Young bathing Goy surprised me when he responded, dread solemnity dripping from his molars and felines: "You mean, pay no mind to the KING OF CHRISTMAS ISLAND!!!?"
"WHAT?!"
"It's true!" Goy insisted.
"What about his Majesty King Antonius Steak?"
"Through cunning and guile, using his admirable skills at duplicity and all-out brute streetfighting force, Miles Burger usurped the throne, deposed the true and rightful king, and had him jailed for the purported crimes of sedition and self-burglery."
"But Christmas Island has no jail!" I contended.
"Oh, they're using the Bad Daze Preschool Play-Doh Studies room as a surrogate booby hatch," Goy said, scratching an itch deep within his left ear. "Mr. Burger is currently headquartered at your house, which is guarded closely by his gang, and he's doing his utmost to win the heart of that lovely metal-fingered Miss Creep you fancy."
"I know this, Franklin," I said, "and I don't intend to let them get away with it. Not on my watch! Not on myisland!" I stepped into the bathtub and lowered myself into the warm, foamy water so that I was facing my star jai alai player. He jerked back in fright. "Listen," I said, playing absently with a rubber ducky. "We need to act, and we need to act fast. You and I are going to put an end to this tomfoolery once and for all. I've been away for a long time, and I'm not going to let that friend and clown Miles Burger throw this island out to the bees just because I went on an extended and blissful Dave Matthews Band Cruise vacation outing."
"But... but..." Goy stuttered. "H-How do I know you're really you, and not some horrific sewer demon from my icky dreams come to haunt me and play Connect Four with my brain neurons?"
"Look into my eyes, Franklin Goy," I said matching his fear with an equal intensity of determination to reach his gentle philosopher wellspring soul and caress the tiny traveler within his heart, the one that moves the gears of his lungs and causes the nails of the fingers and toes to grow at a rate where clipping is only needed biweekly. "I am me, your faithful tutelary and amicable friendcompanion. Search your feelings; you know it to be true. For in these eyes you can see a plethora of episodes of Full House, Family Matters, Perfect Strangers, The Hogan Family, and a multitude of other quality Miller-Boyett productions that we have viewed together, basking in the wholesome and poignant, spleenstring-plucking life lessons they impart and imprint."
"Yes!" Franklin said in a suspirated whisper. "Yes, it is you! I can see it so clearly now. Oh, can you ever forgive me for doubting you?" Then he screamed again.
From the bowl of the toilet from whence I came protruded the smiling and alacritous faces of Meribeth and Alain. "Franklin Goy," I said, "I would like you to meet my new friends."
"Does this belong to you?" Maribeth asked with a giggle, tossing Franklin his loofah. We all enjoyed a hearty laugh together.
Back to my recounting of the day's events: I saw light above me, so I extended my arms, my fingers firmly grasping the soft vinyl padded seat, and with all of my philisopher strength I pulled myself into what was clearly the interior of the necessary room of a Christmas Island native, the walls papered with BRATZ wallpaper, an official Hello Kitty™ bidet situated to my right.
And directly to my left was the bathtub, and sitting within in a cloudy mass of pink and purple bubbles was none other than Christmas Island Fantastic Trees Center Shortstop And Phantastical Phriend Franklin Goy (!!), his moustache newly waxed and his head encased in a bubbly helmet. "Hello!" I salutated, with a friendly wave, happy to see a smiling familiar face.
"No!" Goy screamed, his vocal chords stretching into an excrutiating crazed falsetto that sounded not unlike scraping a rake down a potash chalkboard. "NO!!!," he squealed. "You're supposed to be dead! This can't be! You're dead!" The young man kicked and thrashed in horror, getting the bathroom floor all wet and soapy.
"I seem plenty alive (live?) and well to me," I said bemusedly, climbing out of the toilet into the bathing room proper.
"I don't believe you!" Goy said, flinging a soapy washrag in my direction. It landed in the bidet. "You're a horrible fruit devil come from the sewer to steal my eyes when I sleep! Stay away! Stay far away or I'll call my sister, and then you'll be sorry!"
"No need to do that," I said consolingly. "I'm not here to hurt you, though I must admit that your words do hurt and sting me, not recognizing your timely friend and mentor, your teacher and jai alai coach, when he stands before you in the rubbery flesh, in the canvas bag of skin, hair, and nails in which his wanderer-soul exists, this exoskeleton in which I, Alvin Stomack, eater and shaker, am ever in control of, with the exception of my periodic (and sporadic) trips to Planet Awesome, the mind projection I can perform any time at will but prefer to do in the comfort of my own bedroom with a classic episode of Patrick Duffy's flagship sitcom series Step by Step flashing augustly across the boobtube."
"Well, they said you were dead," Goy said defensively, as though trying to make himself belief it in spite of the staunch avouch of his own photoreceptive visual organs. "They said that you had foolishly forgotten to breathe one day, and that you had tripped over your own shoelaces into a pit inhabited by vicious blind molebears... where the impact cracked your skull and spilled your brains all over the dun-colored rocks and garbage, after which the angry molebears ripped you surely to shreds for disturbing their holy ground. Your last words were 'Good Barnaby, I suck and are a lamer.'"
"Hmmm..." I said, contemplating this news. "Now, young Franklin," I asked, "does that sound like something your shining friend and mellow mentor would say?"
"Not really," Goy conceded, his stalwart defenses beginning to enervate, but then with renewed vigor and suspicion he continued: "But they also said that if it turned out you weren't dead then you were the police in disguise come to incarcerate me for writing love poetry on my desk in fifth period Cosmetology to my secret girlpal Eolitriol Meddissin, who has Genocide Studies right after me and sits in the same desk! Well, I'm not letting you take me without a fight!" Franklin Goy threw a loofah at me. It landed in the sink, bounced out, arced into the toilet. "They warned me about you."
ME: "Who, pray tell, is 'they'?
"Why, Miles Burger and his gang of loyal toughs!"
I shook my head pityingly. "Now, young Goy, you know better than to listen to that ne'er-do-well. He's always been up to no good and has ever been a misanthrope and a troublemaker. Pay him no mind."
Young bathing Goy surprised me when he responded, dread solemnity dripping from his molars and felines: "You mean, pay no mind to the KING OF CHRISTMAS ISLAND!!!?"
"WHAT?!"
"It's true!" Goy insisted.
"What about his Majesty King Antonius Steak?"
"Through cunning and guile, using his admirable skills at duplicity and all-out brute streetfighting force, Miles Burger usurped the throne, deposed the true and rightful king, and had him jailed for the purported crimes of sedition and self-burglery."
"But Christmas Island has no jail!" I contended.
"Oh, they're using the Bad Daze Preschool Play-Doh Studies room as a surrogate booby hatch," Goy said, scratching an itch deep within his left ear. "Mr. Burger is currently headquartered at your house, which is guarded closely by his gang, and he's doing his utmost to win the heart of that lovely metal-fingered Miss Creep you fancy."
"I know this, Franklin," I said, "and I don't intend to let them get away with it. Not on my watch! Not on myisland!" I stepped into the bathtub and lowered myself into the warm, foamy water so that I was facing my star jai alai player. He jerked back in fright. "Listen," I said, playing absently with a rubber ducky. "We need to act, and we need to act fast. You and I are going to put an end to this tomfoolery once and for all. I've been away for a long time, and I'm not going to let that friend and clown Miles Burger throw this island out to the bees just because I went on an extended and blissful Dave Matthews Band Cruise vacation outing."
"But... but..." Goy stuttered. "H-How do I know you're really you, and not some horrific sewer demon from my icky dreams come to haunt me and play Connect Four with my brain neurons?"
"Look into my eyes, Franklin Goy," I said matching his fear with an equal intensity of determination to reach his gentle philosopher wellspring soul and caress the tiny traveler within his heart, the one that moves the gears of his lungs and causes the nails of the fingers and toes to grow at a rate where clipping is only needed biweekly. "I am me, your faithful tutelary and amicable friendcompanion. Search your feelings; you know it to be true. For in these eyes you can see a plethora of episodes of Full House, Family Matters, Perfect Strangers, The Hogan Family, and a multitude of other quality Miller-Boyett productions that we have viewed together, basking in the wholesome and poignant, spleenstring-plucking life lessons they impart and imprint."
"Yes!" Franklin said in a suspirated whisper. "Yes, it is you! I can see it so clearly now. Oh, can you ever forgive me for doubting you?" Then he screamed again.
From the bowl of the toilet from whence I came protruded the smiling and alacritous faces of Meribeth and Alain. "Franklin Goy," I said, "I would like you to meet my new friends."
"Does this belong to you?" Maribeth asked with a giggle, tossing Franklin his loofah. We all enjoyed a hearty laugh together.