I do most assure one and all that my intentions, each and every, were to be at this debate. For a variety of budgetary reasons, travel by air to the Corralled Gables of Florid Land was not feasible and, despite my vociferous and well argued complaints, the Commission on Presidential Debates refused to shift this firstmost debate to a more agreeable— preferable sub-marine— venue, or even to respond to the many and several mails eléctronique I did send. At Rob's insistante, I do suggest at this time that, perhaps, the Commission on Presidential Debates should shift the orthography of their organization to "KKKommission on Presidential Debates."
But I digress.
As we were still in fair MotorTown Detroit as of the morning of Wednesday, alternate plans were put into the working, and a 24 foot You-Shall-Haul van was rented, as well as a great amount of caulk and several and many caulk-applying guns secured. Devo, the Ramirez Brothers, and the troupe of francophonic chimps set themselves a-caulking, and in little time (but with little time to spare) a spacious and much comfortable— though sufficiently incognito, seeming no more than the average, water-leaky and low-riding You-Shall-Haul truck— rolling water tank was ready to high me hence to the certain victory of Debate the First! Rob, having the most bellicose attitude toward the arbitrary "speed limits" of our great nation's highways and byways was nominated driver, inoculate with the appropriate central nervous stimulants, and we did roar into the early afternoon's bright and terrible shine.
It was much pleasurable to again be out and upon the roads of this great land— a diversion I have spent far too little time in these past several years— and the view I was afforded through the tiny peeky window that communicated between the modified storage compartment in which I rode and Rob's piloting cabin gave a vine perspective on the road and all of the adventure and americana which lay before us, the long road to certain victory and hurricano torn orange groves smoothly unrolling afore us with little delay and nary a bump.
I hung in my silent darkness, and Rob lounged in his glaring, song-choked piloting seat, and it was much the relaxing time, speaking intermittently of many things, most pleasant and pleasing.
"Lord A.," Rob called over his shoulder somewhere in the Kentucky, depressing the intercommunicator-device's 'speak now' button with his elbone, "I've been meaning to ask: isn't this citizenship thing gonna be a problem with you getting elected? Like, you sure as hell weren't born in the U.S."
I then depressed my own intercomunicator's button, and explained to Rob of my Big American adventure to gain Citizenship Americain in 2001— the circumcontinental ramblings in my modified Cadillac Escalade with my previous lab assistant, Tom Olafsdottir, and his bette amour Lisa Montgomery, and did detail complete the Georgic river romance, the swashbuckling subterranean bayou zombie adventure, the mystery spots, and the culmination of the execution of my previous lab assistant— this last detail I chose to omit from my brief telling to Rob— and closed with my night of glorytime in Washington Deca during which "As most would-to-be citizens must, I was obliged to battle the giant, stony avatar of the 'liberator' himself, the awe-filling MelungeonSpider-God Abraham Pagan Lincoln, who I bested in single combat on the banks of the Potomac River and thus gained of the American Citizenship fair and true, with all rights and responsibilities, and full faith and credit. This was some three years past."
"Wow," Rob said, the awe-struck-&-filled himself, "That's fucked up. Suveer's Uncle Gajendra had to do the whole citizenship thing, like, last year, and it was just a bunch of classes and tests and taking, like, a loyalty oath."
"Hunh. That is indeed of interest. I took no loyalty oath that I recall."
"Maybe shit's different for freaky alien beings."[*]
"Yeah. Whatever. Anyway, Lord A., I've been thinking that, like, maybe you're Tremulonian ways are just a little too, like, harsh for your average Joe Sixpack American voter, right? So, what I figure is you out to start out by warming the crowd up with, like, a joke."
"Yeah, you know, like a funny little made up story."
"Um . . . OK, yeah, like, check this out: so there's this guy, right, this travelling salesman and . . . um, shit . . . how the fuck does this go?" pause, "OK, I got it now: there's this travelling salesman, right? And he's out, making the rounds, and his car croaks, totally dead, way out the fuck in the middle of nowhere, and it's raining and shit, and so he walks up to this, like, farm house, where there's a light on and shit, and knock son the door, and the old farmer answers and the guy is all 'my car totally fucking croaked; can I crash in your barn and shit?' and the old dude is like 'yeah, OK, you young son-of-a-gun, but don't be stickin' your cock in the fuckin' holes in my barn wall,' and the salesman is like, "um, yeah, OK," and the farmer leads him out to the barn, and the guy is crashing out on a sack of hay, and he looks over and, lo' and behold, there are three fucking holes in the wall, right? Like, just at dick height. The guy, he hasn't had any pussy in, like, months or whatever, so this whole thing is sorta working on his brain, and he keeps thinking about it and thinking about it and wondering why the fucking farmer would be all 'keep your dick outta my barn holes' and finally he says 'fuck it,' gets up, whips it out and crams it in the first hole and fuck!, that shit feels pretty goddamn good! The guy looks over at that second hole, says 'what the fuck?', slides on over and rams it in and holy jesus cornfucker!, that shit feels even goddamn better than the first fuckin hole. So the guy's rammin' away, hell bent for leather and shit, just drillin' the shit outta that goddam whole when he glances over at the third hole and says to himself 'oh, fuck yeah bitch!', slides on over, RAM! and HOLY FUCKING SHIT! somethin' in the hole has got him and feels like it's trying to suck his shitshake out through his cockstraw! The fucking salesman starts screamin' and banging on the walls and shit and finally the farmer comes runnin' into the barn and the salesman is all 'What the fuck is back there?!?' and the farmer is all, 'well, behind that first hole is my beautiful nubile and buxom daughter Chesty Lou, behind that second hole is my prize winning milker Bessie Lou, and behind that third hole is my brand new milkin' machine, that grabs hold and don't let go 'til she's got fifty gallons!"
Rod did laugh of the manically, slapping of the thigh and tearing off the eyes, yet, I must admit true, I remained unmoved.
"But Rob," I queried, "Why did the farmer oblige his daughter to sleep in a compartment within the animal barn, her nether sex organs pressed against the holed wood of the wall?"
"No, dude, the point is that—"
And then there was the explosion, great and bumpacious. My dark and serene tank was thrown into cavitation and turmoil, and I saw through my tiny window how the road sickly swam and bucked, and rub did wrestle with the turnywheel of his great raodship. There were terrible rumble thumbs, as I believe the truck did first heel up upon one set of wheels, and then upon the other, much like the bronco who bucks, and battering me terribly against the inner walls of my inner sanctum mobile.
Finally control was regained, and the vehicle piloted to the roads margin. As we stood still, other cars continued to shoot past us. Rob carefully debarked from the right side of the cab of the truck, was gone for an interval, then returned. He leaned to the glass of my little window, pressed upon his intercommunicator's button, and apprized me of the situation most grave:
"OK, we totally lost the rear passenger-side tire, Lord A. Total, whatchacall?— explosive decompression, know what I'm sayin'? Metal in the road or some shit. Anyway, we're right fucked. This is just like when some fuckers got a horse trailer and looses a tire from it: ya gotta get the horses and shit out before you can jack it up and make the swap. Now, we've got maybe an hour of sunlight left, and it ain't rush hour, but there are still way too many fuckers blasting past for me to be lowering your alien ass outta there. You're gonna have to sit tight for a bit, then slither into your spidey suit and we're gonna drain this bitch. That cool?"
"But Rob," I moaned, "The debate! Shall we arrive in a timely manner."
Rob was clearly much as crestfallen as I myself, "No dice, dude," he said unhappily.
It was a sad hour, no doubt, Rob sitting in his cab, I in my tank, and each of us looking down that long, lonely, stationary road, each to his own thoughts as the sun goldened and westered and finally slipped free from the surly bonds of this earth. I took to my chromed steel and glass velocitator, Rob pulled the trucks scuttles, and the water gurgled away. The truck door rumbled up, and I stepped down to the tarmac. Rob sent me off to crouch among the trees, and struggled, to no avail, at operating the truck's jack so that a tire might be replaced. It was for naught, and we abandoned the truck and strode out, cross-country, Rob clinging to my chromed carapace, and me making the most of the new velocitators powerful strides.
It was a beautiful night as we crunched and rended out way through the Tennessean flora and fauna, tearing oak and maple, warbler and deer asunder. the moon rise, near full and gleaming, and limned the landscape in a cold silver, like the slick gleam of moisture condensing on a long forgotten cadaver in the abandoned subcatacombs of a Miskatonic University Gross Anatomy Lab.
It was a beautiful eve— we again spoke of many a diverse matter; Rob might query "Hey, Lord A., do you figure them stars was made or just happened?" and I might reply just happened while he might insist made, and this we'd argue as we see fit, the miles crunching and crumbling beneath my razored legs scuttling progress— and would have been a night well passed, had not a sudden and fiercesome thunderain storm come upon us drenchingly. We were just upon a small farm house, and so did approach in the interest of procuring sleeping arrangements within the confines of the animal warehousing facility directly adjacent. The agriculturist holding deed to the land and outbuildings was agreeable to our suggestion that we might sleep there-in, but was quite specific in insisting that we leave off from introducing our genitalia into any of the trifecta of holes perforating his barn wall.
Owing to my suits design limitations, I found little difficulty in complying with this wish, but Rob— an ardent monkeyman, to be sure— upon finding comfort in a dry and protective place did tumesce and grow lustfully enraged. He stood, and in bold defiance of the agriculturist's wishes, did introduce his swollen cockerel into this first hole.
"Much is this pleasure!" he did explain, "The Shit! The Fuck! You know what I say?"
"Rob," I warned, "Do desist, afore the farman does hear your lustful moans."
But Rob could not be dissuaded, and did move over, slamming his babymaker into the next available perforation. "This too is greatly pleasurable," he did shout in glee, "Even more so than the last! My understanding of arithmetic progressions does lead to the conclusion that the ultimate perforation is likely to be the most pleasurable of all!" And with neither pause for thought nor lubrication, he did retract his member from that second hole, and lasciviously slide it into the third. "Good Lords Below!" he did exclaim, "this is wonder-making in its intensity, and— Oh my! My initial pleasure has turned to discomfort and fear, for I am caught by my penile member by this third hole, or whatever devilishness lies beyond it! Do help me, noble Lord A.! Do help me, One and All!"
At this prompting, and likely owing to the excessive noise emanating from his outbuilding, the agronomist did burst upon the scene.
"What matter of man or beast has got hold of me!" Rob wept, the life blood now freely running from his crotch.
The farman, a firearm held thusly, did thence explain sternly, "Behind this first perforation is my most prizéd milk-harvesting automoton, behind this second my much lovéd lactateur Bessie, and behind this third my ravenous daughter, who shall nought to release before she has obtained the 50 gallons!"
The farman then did laugh most diabolically, as did Rob cry out in agonized despair, and a moaning, like the guttural ululations of some dimly understood cyclopean beast's feculent birthpangs, emanated from the barns perforated wall.
It was only later, when a drained and less-sanguinated Rob was released, that we were able to honor the common notion that flight is the better part of valor, and thus did slip into the night.
Vote Early, Vote Often, Vote Squid!
and miss not my fair Molly Reynolds, VeeP to my Pee, in her up-to-coming debate of OctoBear the Five in the Cleaved Land of Ohio.
I Yet Shall Defeat Them One By One,
Your Giant Squid
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Copyright (c) 2000, 2004, David Erik Nelson, Fritz Swanson, Morgan Johnson