Deliriously Happy Page 5

  Bidding starts at one billion dollars.

  Recent Advances in Interpersonal Grooming, If I Had My Way

  Magic Wart Wand

  A personal laser that removes unsightly blemishes from people sitting across from you on the train or bus without them knowing it.

  The Sniffer

  An electronic device that can identify unpleasant smells as well as the person emitting them.

  Man Up!

  Sonic pulse generator that causes onlookers to see you as more handsome and better groomed than you really are by inducing a series of microstrokes in your date, job interviewer, etc.

  Personal Space Saver

  A handheld microwave gun that reduces the Body Mass Index of the obese person spilling over the armrest of your theater or airline seat by liquefying adipose tissue into a yellowish oil which is then excreted through the nearest available orifice.

  Germoshield

  A 360-degree irradiator that destroys all bacteria and viruses, along with the organisms carrying them, within an eighteen-foot circle of cleanliness.

  Adventures in Experimentation

  A scientist has set off an international furor by suggesting that it might soon be feasible to transplant ovaries from aborted fetuses into infertile women who do not make viable eggs of their own. Dr. Roger Gosden, a researcher at Edinburgh University, said … he already has accomplished this in mice.

  “If you take a more adventuresome and experimentalist approach … you have a chance to see if it does more harm than good,” said Dr. John Fletcher, an ethicist at the University of Virginia.

  —New York Times

  Much of what I know about human anatomy I owe to Brenda King, and, before her, to Leonardo da Vinci. It was Brenda who, in the eighth grade, allowed me to run my finger along the entire length of her appendectomy scar, and it was da Vinci whose sixteenthcentury dissections of corpses at the hospital of Santa Maria Nuova in Florence laid the groundwork for modern science’s triumphant experimental subject: the Visible Man.

  The Visible Man, with its transparent “skin,” durable handpainted organs, and raw-pink plastic guts, taught me more about physiology than four years at any stupid medical school would have. Many were the happy hours I hunkered down in my bedroom laboratory, rapturously disassembling my Visible Men and putting them back together again, remaking them into startling new bioconfigurations: the four-armed dual-cardiac Visible Man with double pumping action; the all-liver-and-kidneys Visible Man, theoretically capable of drinking his weight every forty minutes; the gutless Visible Man with secret storage compartment for steelies, clearies, and cat’s-eyes. Who knows what I might have accomplished if Pete Maguire’s brother hadn’t gotten a whole mess of M-80s on a trip to Indiana that summer?

  Just as my parents and teachers were shocked and frightened by my notebook sketches, so too were da Vinci’s contemporaries disturbed by his dismantling of dead Florentines. He was called a ghoul by citizens without the foresight to see the rewards that his anatomical studies would reap—not just Visible Man but the Operation and Twister board games, and let’s not forget Visible Woman. As a freelance experimentalist, I must persevere, then, despite rejection from the medical establishment and the lack of federal funding; I must publish my work, wherever I can, in hopes of generating badly needed funds for some fresh tools.

  EXPERIMENT 107: Grafting the hands of a capuchin monkey onto a Labrador retriever, I created a dog that can not only throw a tennis ball sixty yards while playing fetch with itself, but also scratch the back of its master, a task that many dogs long to do but, sadly, cannot. (Originally published in Puppy Master, April 2007.)

  EXPERIMENT 113B: Using a gene-splicing technique found online somewhere, I incorporated genetic material from a Dow Scrubbing Bubble into a purr-free feline zygote, producing a Siamese cat with a less neurotic disposition and claws that extrude rug-and-furniture shampoo. (Industrial Pet, Winter 2008.)

  EXPERIMENT 235F: By sewing live white mice directly onto the heads of male American bald eagles, I hoped to cosmetically augment their thinning pates and thus increase the breeding success of this species. Unfortunately, the subjects were brutally attacked by their mates—out of jealousy, I hypothesize. (Annals of Mice, March 2010.)

  EXPERIMENT 482: Just last Friday, I xenotransplanted 150 hummingbird hearts into a sixty-eight-year-old man suffering from congestive heart failure. I theorized that if the man’s body rejected one or even several of the hearts there would still be dozens left to do the job. However, the operation proved more complicated than anticipated, taking nearly an hour and necessitating a drugstore mobilization for more thread. As the last stitch was put in place, the man jumped off the kitchen table, ran one hundred meters in 8.64 seconds, and expired. Based on these results, I have decided to use artichoke hearts next time. (Bird Fancy, under review.)

  I am currently seeking volunteers for two experiments: 486—“Transgrafting Eyebrows to Outer Ear in Human Subject”; and 487—“Box Turtles Surgically Installed in Human Large Intestine.” In the former case, the goal is to create natural, renewable earmuffs; in the latter, the hope is it will make a nice home for the turtles.

  I Killed Them in New Haven

  How you all doing tonight? It’s great to be here at the Loco Lobo, assuming this is Tuesday. You know, it just so happens, I’m a little loco. Kinda crazy, zany guy. You’re looking at one kooky dude. Wacky, nutty, unbalanced, disturbed, incompetent to stand trial: I’ve been called all those things.

  Anyone here from Chicago? I’m from Chicago. You, sir: you’re from Chicago? You’re not me, are you?

  Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

  I have a lot of weird thoughts. You ever wonder why, for example, seven times eight is fifty-six? What genius decided that one? I don’t remember voting. Or where socks go when they disappear from dryers? Is it the Pentagon? I think you know it is.

  Anybody else here watch TV? Me, I watch a lot of TV. A lot of TV. Because, you know, when you’re not watching it, it can watch you. So I watch TV pretty much all the time. Have you seen this Gilligan’s Island? Seven stranded castaways on a desert-island paradise? What is up with that? All I know is if I was Gilligan and it was my island, I’d sure as shit be fucking that Ginger. Am I right? And Mary Ann. And the rest. I’d be lying naked in my hammock with those two gals and Mrs. Howell and the Professor, and drinking sweet, sweet coconut juice out of the Skipper’s skull. Am I right?

  Hey, remember that lady who’d fallen and couldn’t get up? I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. You know why she can’t get up, don’t you? Because they control the gravity and she found out.

  You can bet I’d be having sex with her, too.

  Travel a lot in this job. Gotta keep moving, or you get pulled into the earth by the trolls. What is their problem?

  So I fly a lot, on planes mostly. Airline food: now, what demented individual came up with this item? I mean, who eats chicken? What if the chickens found out? They would not be happy.

  Can’t get a decent knife on an airplane anymore. It’s all plastic now. Like, what? I’m going to stab and stab and stab the passenger sitting next to me? And how do they know what you’re thinking? Here’s a hint: don’t eat the peanuts.

  They’ve got a lot of crazy laws in this country. Screwy laws. Like in Tennessee, it’s illegal to stand in the middle of the street, even if you’ve been instructed by the highest authority to do so. And in Maine it’s against the law to spit on babies. Pretty babies, ugly babies, it doesn’t matter. Crazy. They’ll arrest you for anything.

  Am I the only one here planning on shooting the president? Show of hands: Who’s with me?

  That’s right, best keep it to yourself. They can trace your emails now, using DNA that the keys on the keyboard extract from your fingertips. I can’t believe I invented that technology and then they go and use it against me. Totally nuts.

  Hey, you know what I hate? Don’t you hate it when people laugh at you?
Like you’re all laughing at me right now.

  I’m going to cry for a little bit. Could we turn off the mike and take the lights down?

  Great. I’m done!

  How are those margaritas treating you? Strange name, margarita. Means “little Margaret.” The funny thing is, she tastes nothing like that. It’s just insane. Can I have a sip of yours? Thanks. Delicious. I hope you don’t mind; I have every kind of cancer. Including a couple of new ones the NIH just disseminated.

  I’m a little neurotic when it comes to food. I won’t eat anything orange. The color doesn’t actually exist, which should be a tip-off. I also won’t eat possum, because you can never tell if it’s really dead. And when I kill and eat my enemies, who are legion, I forgo the eyeballs, because I don’t want them checking out my insides and reporting back to you know who.

  Well, that flashing light means that either Jesus has come for me as promised or my time is up. So I’d just like to leave you with this thought:

  Good night! And don’t forget to tip your waitresses, especially that one over there: she’s in love with me.

  Are You Insane?

  Take this simple quiz to find out if you are insane.

  1.If someone bumped into me on the street, I would:

  a. Say “Excuse me” and continue walking.

  b. Say “Excuse me” but sarcastically, and continue walking.

  c. Not say “Excuse me” and stand there giving the person a dirty look as he or she continued walking.

  d. Other: _________________________________________

  How You Did: If you answered a, b, or c, you are probably not insane, although the sensitivity of this test is limited and you should periodically ask your friends if they think you’ve been acting crazy lately. If you answered “Other,” show your written response to a person picked at random on the street. If s/he runs away from you, you may be insane. Please consult a therapist.

  High Spirits

  Media Culpa

  Apology to Our Readers from Vigilante-Statesman editor and publisher Bud Hamsterman

  Yesterday, some editions of the Vigilante-Statesman contained an editorial criticizing Mayor Bob McNaught for his recent handling of the Crick Creek bond issue. For the record, the Honorable Mayor McNaught, despite his miniature, squatty appearance and frequently affected demeanor, cannot be accurately described as a “mincing dwarf.”

  True dwarfs, while of somewhat smaller stature than the average person, are otherwise normal, functioning human beings who make valuable contributions to our society. The same certainly cannot be said of Mayor McNaught. In any case, the correct appellation for such size-challenged individuals is “little person.” This has been official Vigilante-Statesman style since 2008. Furthermore, it is not this paper’s policy to insinuate that dwarfs mince, nor that mincing individuals are dwarfs.

  Also, as Vigilante-Statesman readers are well aware, this state is considering riverboat gambling as a way to raise muchneeded revenue for its education and drug-rehabilitation programs. Thus, depicting Mayor McNaught as “One-Eyed Bob,” a nineteenth-century dandy slick replete with a pencil-thin mustache and silk pinstripes, is not simply a bad cliché; it comes at the worst possible time. Moreover, this characterization of the mayor as a dishonest riverboat rogue only perpetuates an ancient stereotype that professional gamblers have worked hard to dispel. To our knowledge, at no time has any professional gambler in this community been linked to the mayor or his activities.

  As the newspaper of record in this community, accuracy is our watchword. Nevertheless, a reading of yesterday’s editorial suggests that some members of our editorial board were passing notes and not paying attention during Mrs. Anclade’s history classes. Specifically, the statement “Like a tiny Napoleon, the mayor stands before those who would improve our school-lunch program and declares, ‘Let them eat snack cakes!’” completely disregards the fact that the original quote upon which this misguided attempt at humor is based has never been attributed to Napoleon at all, but rather to some other French person, who most scholars now agree never said it in the first place. Also, while most will acknowledge that Mussolini’s foreign policy and human-rights records were poor, to call the mayor a “municipal Mussolini” only reveals our editorial writers’ ignorance of the Fascist dictator’s successful public-works programs.

  And matters of accuracy aside, our editorial board displayed the height of insensitivity by evoking Genghis Khan in this context at a time when his own people are reevaluating the historical importance of this great warrior and, yes, statesman. To our Mongol readers, we apologize.

  Our editorial writers had no evidence upon which to claim, even facetiously, that the mayor is the Antichrist. For the record, Bob McNaught is not the Antichrist. The Antichrist is Bryan Reed, Paul Bodeen, and The Ax, three talented musicians who play Thursdays and Fridays at the Goat’s Head Soup Kitchen out on Old Schwermer Road. The Vigilante-Statesman did not mean to inadvertently imply that these earnest young men were in any way responsible for the slow, inexorable degradation of our fair city into filth and decay.

  And finally, we would like to state most emphatically that pigs are actually intelligent and clean animals, and likely would not lie down with the mayor, or any other corrupt official. They are also safe to eat. In an attempt to draw a comparison with the mayor, the editorial failed to make this distinction clear.

  We understand the County Farmers’ Association is considering canceling “Pork Barrel Days” as a result of this ill-considered metaphor. We hope this will not be the case, and that we can all put this whole unfortunate affair behind us.

  Toward that end, I have taken steps as publisher to ensure that the Vigilante-Statesman remains free of such offenses in the future. Reluctantly, I have accepted the resignation of Jim Hamsterman, our editorial-page editor, and have suspended without pay our two editorial writers, Ted Nuggles and Lissa McNaught. Lucy Hamsterman, the editorial-page copy editor who should have caught these mistakes, has been reassigned and will not be eligible for this year’s World Series tickets pool.

  And yet, even this is not enough. In a very real sense, all of us here at the Vigilante-Statesman are responsible for fostering the ignorance, prejudice, and unprofessionalism that led to these truly regrettable errors. Therefore, I am announcing that, with this afternoon’s sports final, the Vigilante-Statesman will cease publication for the next three weeks, during which time I want the remaining staff of this paper to think about what we’ve done.

  CLARIFICATION

  In an editorial in yesterday’s paper, Mayor Bob McNaught was referred to as Mayor Boob, Mayor McNutt, Boob McNothing, Boo McMuffin, and in a number of other ways that cannot be printed in a family newspaper. According to Vigilante-Statesman style, these are all nicknames and should have been identified as such with the use of quotation marks. The Vigilante-Statesman regrets the error.

  Local Wag

  Reprinted with permission from the Manhattan Blue Streak, the alternative weekly newspaper of Manhattan, Illinois, located just thirteen miles west of Monee. The Wag is written by Laurence Doyle, also the paper’s editor, publisher, and circulation manager.

  Men are but children of a larger growth.

  —Dryden

  Pinch Me: That’s what our own bachelor mayor squealed repeatedly during his oh-so-surprising né day soirée out at the Red Heifer Beefbarn last Friday eve. A consuming politician, Mayor Ed moved and shaked from table to table, requesting his Big 55 B-day spankings from Manhattan’s more-than-happy-to-oblige business and civic leaders, including longtime Ednemesis P. Greg Roberts, who lost count and had to start over—three times.

  Mayor Ed was beat red by the time he paddled over to the cheap seats, where the Times-Caveat’s Ron Peterson, citing his journalistic credentials as a real reporter from Manhattan’s real weekly, refused to “become part of the story.” Wag didn’t mind one bit, though, and when our top public servant further requested “a pinch to grow an inch,” we promptly complied—and W
ag’ll be damned if His Honor didn’t grow an inch, at least…

  In town just for the B-bash: the mayor’s former college bunkmate and longtime companion, John Travolta. The up-again-down-again-up-again-down-again-up-again actor made a point of letting everyone know how much he loved banging his female wife, who couldn’t make it. His Honor the B-day Boy appeared a tiny tad put out by this hetero-than-thou display, but hey, it’s his party, he can poop if he wants to…

  Later, in a private gathering closed to the media, His Poutiness bachelorpartied until nearly 1:00 a.m., male celebonding with Travolta, former Indiana sen. Larry Craig, and the Scissor Sisters.

  Still Dying: Perky Siobhan Mitchell rallied out of her coma once again last week to make yet another bizarre last wish: to kiss the hand of billionaire songbird Justin Bieber. Don’t get Wag wrong—we’d love to lick the lad’s delicate digits ourselves—but what made frisky little Siobhan’s wish curious was that she last emerged from consciousness back in December 2006, before Bieber’s very first YouTube assault. It’s a miracle, or something.

  Well, no sooner than you could say “Front-page banner in the Manhattan Times-Caveat,” Master Bieber’s private jetcopter was touching down in Scott Johnson’s soybeans about 150 yards from Manhattan’s own Ronald McDonald House. Master Bieber and his enfantourage sprinted to the feisty tyke’s side only to find they were too late—former childcrooner Justin Timberlake had beaten them to the photo op, and the weekly T-C had long gone to bed itself, not to mention plucky Siobhan, who had slipped back into her accustomed twilight…