Canto Thirty-Nine – The Bio-Dome’s Crew Quarters
Since Brekka had nearly gotten killed by a maniac sentient flower with hidden teeth, Brekka, Menolly, and George Jetson had not been apart by more than a few feet. In fact, George and Menolly had spent an uncomfortably long time attached at the lips.
George finally pulled away from Menolly’s mouth to breathe.
“Oh, Brekka,” gasped Menolly, “we are so glad you didn’t die. Life would never be the same again if I didn’t have you to dance with.”
Brekka crossed her arms and frowned at Menolly. “What exactly are you and George doing exchanging spit like that? I thought the two of you were never going to talk to me again.”
“You remember the kissing thing from Earther television?” asked George.
“Yes…” said Brekka cautiously, “like when Gilligan kissed Mary Ann that time to convince the surfer guy that they were boyfriend and girlfriend so he would surf back to Hawaii? And she said he had skinny lips?”
“Um… yeah… that works,” said George. “We discovered it makes you feel really, really good to kiss somebody like that. Want to try it?”
Brekka pursed her lips for a moment and mulled it over. “Okay.”
Without warning, she leaned over and kissed Menolly right on the mouth. She tried to make it last like she had seen Menolly do with George… but… it was kinda yucky.
“I don’t really see what’s so great about it.”
“I dunno,” said Menolly. “I thought it was kinda good. Brekka is almost as good a kisser as George.”
“But,” said George, “maybe you would consider making some Telleron tadpole eggs with me… huh, Menolly?”
“Oh, you stupid-head…” said Brekka. “We three are nest-mates. That means we have the same mother and father… probably. You know what in-breeding is?”
“We were programmed with that information in the egg, Brekka,” said Menolly.
“Well, you know… it might be the thing that makes Tellerons so stupid and incompetent… in spite of all the knowledge and skills programmed into us while we are in the egg.”
“Yeah,” said George, “you’re probably right. But when I kissed Menolly that first time, it made me feel so strange in my stomach. Isn’t it possible the feelings of the stomach are more powerful than the thoughts in the head?”
“I think in that episode of Gilligan’s Island it was the heart that love came from, not the stomach,” said Menolly.
“Well, my heart seems to be in my stomach,” said George, “really low down, too. And it’s telling me to make tadpoles with the two of you. We almost lost Brekka to that plant thing. I don’t want to waste any more time.”
“You know that we are still too young for egg-laying, George,” said Brekka. “Our ovipositors are not fully formed yet.”
“Yeah… but we could practice…”
Brekka was furious. Why were male tadpoles so… so…? Yeah, that.
*****
The Be-Bop Beat of Mickey’s Brain
Truthfully, when I look back at the string of posts in the picket fence of this daily blog, I fail to see the overall map of it in any semblance of pattern or order. Honestly, I did not set out to be purposefully wacky.
I did, however, set out to be purposefully surreal. I mean it, I consciously put bizarrely dissimilar things together in an attempt to find parallels and connections in unlike things because, not only is it funny and surprising, but is a comic act that serves to keep the mind nimble and never numb. I do think quite a lot. And I try to see connections between things where others wouldn’t. For instance, the Coppertone girl with her bare butt and Bullwinkle with his unicycle are both being threatened in a way that is both comic, and taking advantage of their inherent image of innocence. Neither will lose anything by it. The girl stands to brown her pale white behind in the sun, while Bullwinkle will probably land on his head and it will make a decent cushion to preserve him because of it’s empty and rubbery qualities.
I must also admit to a bit of the old telling of stretchers, the misrepresentation of the truth, the loquacious layer-onner of lies. Not Trumpian lies that land on you like elephants dropped like bombs out of B-52’s. Instead, fictions that entertain and elucidate. It is the most likely reason I keep saying connecting words and phrases like “truthfully” and “honestly” and “I mean it”. Those are words that liars love.
Yes fiction writers like me tell little white lies.
I have now published my novel Recipes for Gingerbread Children. It is a novel based on real people I have known and loved and listened to. It is about an old German woman, a survivor of WWII concentration camps, who loves to tell stories to children and bake gingerbread cookies, especially gingerbread men. It features a pair of teenage nudist girls who believe in going completely naked whenever you are indoors, even if you are in someone else’s house. It features Nazis, both in flashback and ghostly forms. It also features fairies from the Hidden Kingdom of Tellosia, a fairy kingdom filled with little three-inch tall magical people living under our very noses. And it has a werewolf in it, though admittedly a very young one. It is a comedy with its requisite sad parts, and it is definitely an example of surrealism. It is also full of lies… err, I mean fiction.
But the real purpose of this supposedly be-bop brain fart in blog-post form is not so much to explain my blog (because how do you explain a blog that goes from Flashbacks and Foobah to telling about Madman Trump to Another novel part… #37 to Centaurs to a book and movie review, to this eccentric and eclectic thing, which probably exists more to make alliteration jokes than anything else in the most musical beat I can bang out?) but to prove that I do often think about thinking and how things fit together and what it all means… and how to write a run-on sentence that adds to the effect rather than simply annoys. And, yeah, I’m doing that. And it feels like a good thing to do.
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