Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy

Gneeecey's "Gratest" Hits, Vol. 1

November 15, 2022 Season 9 Episode 1
Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy
Gneeecey's "Gratest" Hits, Vol. 1
Show Notes Transcript

“Gneeecey’s ‘Gratest’ Hits, Vol. 1” – Episode 67

Stranded earthling broadcaster Nicki Rodriguez and her colleague GAS producer Autumn Raines reminisce about Gneeecey’s, uh, talents as a driver, employer, and restaurant owner. Nicki also recalls a Brain Surgery Club meeting at Florence Ferguson Memorial Hospital, where Gneeecey provides, uh, refreshments.

We thank Marysol Rodriguez, Sandi Solá, Sal Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera, Diane L., Brunie Cariño, Toni Aponte, and Aileen Bean and Sammie for being generous supporting members via! We appreciate their sponsorship and support more than words can say! (Please support us with a one-time gift or monthly sponsorship amount—various levels available—to help keep us coming to you via! We’ll shout you out during our podcast episodes and in our show notes here, plus supply you with more fun perks!) (Amazon Author Page, check out our Gneeecey/Nicki e-books and paperbacks!) (Interview with Vicki Solá) (right here, our Buzzsprout website w/episodes & transcripts!)   

And much thanks to disproportionately cool artist Jay Hudson for our podcast logo!

This Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy podcast is made possible in part by a generous grant from The Ardelle Institute, providing Executive Coaching for aspiring and established professionals who want to develop their careers, including upwardly-mobile executives, professionals who may be in between jobs, and college graduates transitioning to the workforce. The Ardelle Institute helps with resumes, cover letters, LinkedIn profiles, interview skills, and effective job search strategies.  For more information, please call (201) 394-6939, that's (201) 394-6939, or visit them on the web at, that's A-R-D-E-L-L-E dash institute dot com. Take it from me, Gneeecey!

Support the show

Vicki's related comedy/fantasy/sci-fi books, You Can't Unscramble the Omlet and The Getaway That Got Away are available at Amazon! (Amazon Author Page, check out our Gneeecey/Nicki e-books and paperbacks!)

It's a one-woman show! Vicki does all the writing, character voices, and audio production!

Transcript / “Gneeecey’s ‘Gratest’ Hits, Vol. 1” – Episode 67, written by Vicki Solá. 

All content © 2022 Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy. 

Music/Intro: Hi there, I’m author and radio host Vicki Solá, welcoming you to Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy. I invite you to escape with me into the bizarre dimension of Perswayssick County, where wackiness rules! The laughs begin when I morph into my alter ego, radio DJ Nicki Rodriguez and clash with the zany, alien canine-humanoid Gneeecey! And now, I turn it over to my other self, Nicki, and the gang….

SFX: [Magic Spell] [SciFi Bell Heavenly Crystals]

NARRATOR VICKI SOLÁ:  Hi, Vicki Solá here. Before I present this week’s episode, I’d like to thank you for listening to my podcast. 

I’m having a blast bringing these stories to you. It’s a one-woman show. I do all of the writing, audio production, and character voices—even the voices of those evil, alien Markmen. 

This week and next, I’ll be featuring a couple “Best Of” episodes—compilations of some of Gneeecey’s funniest moments. Don’t worry. Nicki, Gneeecey, Sooperflea, Altitude, Grandma, Doctor Idnas, and all the evil clowns and bad guys aren’t going anywhere. After these two weeks, we’ll be presenting more new stories.

My episodes are based on my experiences as a radio broadcaster, producer, and pet owner. Gneeecey, Sooperflea, and Flubbubb were actual family dogs. And Altitude was my high-jumping pet mouse with an attitude. 

My work comes to you from my heart, and each episode is produced with the greatest respect for you. I’d love for you to let me know what you like and what you don’t like (don’t worry, you can’t hurt my feelings—I’m used to dealing with Gneeecey!) 

I’d like this to be like the two-way communication that I love so much when I interact with my radio listeners. 

“Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy” is a mixture of comedy, fantasy, and sci-fi. In some episodes, I lean more heavily into one of those. I’d love for you to let me know what you enjoy most. This is for you. I want you to be happy. I’d love to hear from you, even if it’s just to say hello! You can reach me at Gneeecey’s email b-i-z-z-i-g-3 at That’s b-i-z-z-i-g-3 at Now, without any further ado, here are my alter ego GAS Broadcast Network producer Nicki Rodriguez and her colleague Autumn Raines. 

SFX: [Magic Spell] [Vivaldi Logo] 

AUTUMN RAINES: Oh, hello there. I’m GAS producer Autumn Raines, and today my colleague Nicki Rodriguez and I are going to do some reminiscing about our wonderful employer, the renowned Grate Gizzygalumpaggis of Perswayssick County, Diroctor Bizzig “Zig” Gneeecey. 

NICKI RODRIGUEZ: Not an easy guy to work for or live with. 

AR: It is my understanding, not a very safe driver, either.

NR: That’s an understatement…. I remember the time he took me out to lunch for my birthday at the Tricycle Club. It was during Blirg, the pre-Grimace holiday season, when time runs backward. Gneeecey, uh, insisted on driving….

SFX: [Magic Spell]

Finally, crouching low, I backed into the Porsche’s Gneeecey-sized bucket seat. With great difficulty, I swiveled around to face the bird-bombed windshield. The stale-smelling vehicle’s ceiling scrunched my head so far down that my chin touched my collarbone. To see straight ahead, I had to roll my eyeballs upward. My knees, pinned by the blood-red dashboard, jutted up around my ears. I was a living pretzel. 

“Ya look like a pretzel,” observed Gneeecey, plopping onto the county phone book he had duct-taped to his seat. 

I grunted. 

“You’re plannin’ somethin’, Ig,” he added, turning on the wipers, the bird droppings creating a gaggy mess. “I can tell you’re plannin’ somethin’. But’cha ain’t foolin’ nobody.” 

Little did he know whose turn it was to be fooled. I just smiled.

“Another thing, Ig—why d’ya keep smilin’?” 

“Uh, I dunno.” I bit my lip. Hard. 

“Somethin’s gonna come wipe that grin right offa that Ig face of yours. Now, lemme concentrate—gotta back all the way down this here driveway. Forgot how stinkin’ big this car is!” 

Even sitting atop the thick phone book, he could barely see over the dash. 

“Diroctor, isn’t it dangerous to back all the way down such a long, curvy driveway?” 

“It ain’t dangerousical—everyone knows, ’cept yooou, that drivin’ backwards, ya burn less gas.” He accidentally slugged me in the ribs as he slammed the gearshift into reverse. 

“That tree!” I screamed as he zoomed out onto the roadway. “You’re gonna hit it!” 

“Don’t worry, Ig—it’s a one-way tree.” The Porsche grazed the fracas tree’s lumpy bronze trunk, then bounced back onto the pavement. 

“By the time I was old enough to drive,” said Gneeecey, flying down Femur Avenue, “I was rich enough to hire folks to do it for me. But don’t worry—I’ve watched Flea drive.” 

“Oh.” I shuddered. Gneeecey’s red-caped, black-furred canine-humanoid superhero pal was a nice guy but one of the worst drivers I’d ever encountered. On any planet.

“Oh, looky!” exclaimed Gneeecey. “A little ol’ lady. Lemme get outta the car an’ help her cross the street!”

“How do you know she even wants to cross?” I asked. “You really shouldn’t—”

SFX: [Tire screech]

The Porsche screeched to a stop, and Gneeecey sprang out. He tore over to the other side of the road, where an elderly human woman ambled very slowly down the sidewalk.

He jumped in front of her. “Hey, lady, lemme help ya cross the street!” 

“Get out of my way, young man! I don’t want to cross the street!”

“I jus’ saw ya an’ wanted to help ya cross the lousy street! I figure it’s nice to help ol’ ladies cross streets.”

“I said I don’t want to cross the street!” 

“Well, ya stinkin’ looked like ya did!”

With that, the woman began pummeling him with her rather humongous beige purse.

“Stinkin’ ow!” yelped Gneeecey, high-tailing it back to the car. “Youse lousy huuuumans are so ungratitudinous!”

“Well, like I said, I really don’t think you should’ve—”

“Don’t tell me what I should’na done! I was jus’ tryin’ to, y’know, be a good snitizen.” He climbed back in, slammed his door shut, and turned the ignition.

After a couple minutes, Gneeecey broke the silence. “Y’know,” he said, screeching onto Triple Bypass Lane, “I read that if ya were born durin’ Blirg, you’re actually two months younger.” 

“Younger than what?” 

“Normal people.” 


“An’ y’know what else?” 

“No. What else?” 

“Well, Ig, when we get back home before lunch—” 


“As I was sayin’, before ya rudely interrupticated me—” 

“I—I what?” 

“There ya go, doin’ it again!” 

“Doing what?” 

“Don’t make me change my mind, Ig. As I was trynna say, I’m givin’ ya a surprise birthday party—earlier, when we get home.” 

He almost wiped out, turning onto tree-lined, paperclip-shaped Diaper Pin Drive. 

“Well, the party’s not a surprise anymore, is it?” 

“I’m surprised.” Gneeecey floored the gas, forcing a group of senior citizens hobbling on walkers and canes to clatter to safety. “I’m surprised I’m even givin’ ya a stinkin’ party.” 

“Second thought, I am surprised,” I said, straining to look his way. “You’re actually cracking your wallet open for me, aren’t you?” 

“Don’t worry—the bathroom guest fees alone’ll cover my igpenses—I’ll turn a nice profit.”

Surprise, surprise. . .Gneeecey had an agenda. Well, won’t he be surprised when I’m history? Could be any day now. . .maybe even yesterday. I peeked down at my bulgy pockets. 

Gneeecey cleared his throat. “Ahem. You’re smilin’ again.” 

“Uh, must be because you’re giving me that party, and it’s not even gonna, y’know, dent your wallet.” 

“Speakin’ of wallets, I igspect folks’ll bring me over lotsa purple rubber billfolds—” 


 “Y’know, as host gifts, this bein’ so close to Grimace. That’ll put me ahead.” 

Yep, the Grimace holiday season was in full swing. In Perswayssick County, violet-tinseled dead rubber chickens ruled. Frenzied shoppers—primarily a mix of canine humanoids and humans—agonized over which purple rubber wallet to buy for whom. I couldn’t understand what was so thrilling about giving or getting a purple rubber wallet. Whenever I dared question the custom, Gneeecey would always answer that whoever has the most at the end wins. 

“Whoever has the most at the end wins,” said Gneeecey, as if he were reading my mind.


“Yaaaaaa—you hit that blinking purple reindeer—on that lawn, by the house you just sideswiped—”

We’d just entered Curdlecrumm Township, decked out to the max with lit, inflatable purple wallets and miles of matching lights and glitter-sprayed dead rubber chickens. 

“Ya see that reindeer over there?” asked Gneeecey as he knocked over a mailbox.

“The one you just hit?” 

“Yeah. See its horns?” 

“You mean, its antlers?” 

“Yeah. Reindeers were made that way on purpoopose, wit’ antelopes, so ya could hang tinsel an’ junk on ’em.” 

That moment, a cluster of disembodied, vividly colored eyeballs drifted by. The evil alien Markmen, their bodies temporarily invisible, must’ve been following us. They were all named Mark—except for their leader Bob. “Diroctor! Look!” SFX: [Scary Ambience]

“What now, ya Ig?” 

SFX: [Scary Ambience]

“By that telephone pole you just scraped—more floating eyeballs! The bad guys are following us!” 

“I don’t see nuthin’.” Gneeecey flung a little brown bottle of Repulsid at me. He had been prescribed that med because he was constantly imagining that trees, furniture, and other inanimate objects were moving around and even stalking him. “Here, take one, Ig—it’ll make all your little eyeballs go away—” 


“Now whaaat, ya Ig?!” 

“That man—you just ran over his foot!” 

“That guy in my rearview mirror?” 

“Yes! Aren’t you gonna stop and see if he’s alright?” 

“He’s okay—he’s usin’ the foot,” snapped Gneeecey. 


“I see in my rearview mirror, he’s hoppin’ behind us on his left foot—the one I thought I ran over.” 

“In your mirror, left and right would be reversed.” 

“Aaaaaah—the guy’s proboobably some actress my insurance company hired, y’know, to trick me.” Snarling, Gneeecey clicked a switch, and a TV screen embedded in the center of his steering wheel came to life. 

“My favoovorite epoopisode of ‘Angry Little Airplanes’—y’know, where Daddy Airplane’s ridin’ his half-donkey-half-cow through a blizzard in the tropics, to buy his son the last two tickets in town to see Spit Wit’out Color’s farewell concert. But, the boy awready bought ’em, to surprise the half-donkey-half-cow.” 


“But nobody knew, he was half-goat too—ate the tickets when the mailman’s uncle-in-law stopped by to borrow some recycled toilet paper—” 

“You’re freakin’ watching TV while you drive?!” 

Head rotating with each turn of the wheel, Gneeecey didn’t answer. 

“You trying to kill us?!” 

“Y’know, Ig, I’m starvin’!” He extracted a box from his lumpy, endless pit of a T-shirt pocket, ripped it open, and submerged his snout. “Mmmmmm—I love aminal crackers! But I ain’t gettin’ at ’em faaast enough!” 

He turned the large cardboard container upside-down over his head. Its flaps covered his sloping shoulders. 

“Are you nuts—driving with a box over your head?!” 

SFX: [Horns blasting]

“Don’t worry.” SFX: [Horns blasting] “I can still see—a little. In fact, I got a phoootographical memory, I can kinda remember where stuff is on this road.” 

“Take that box off your head or we’ll end up—”

“End up what, Ig?” 

“Freakin’ dead! You’re weaving all over the place—we’re gonna be roadkill!”

“Stuff like that only happens on the news. Besides, I always snack on the road.” 

“Yeah, while Culvert’s driving!” 

“But he can’t drive. He’s in the hospoopital.” 

“That’s where we’re gonna end up—” 

“Yeah—if I drive wit’ low blood sugar!”

My overworked heart flew up into my throat. “Oooh my God,” I croaked, “we’re headed straight for that big—”

SFX: [Crash]

 “—Milk tanker!” shouted the officer as he bent down to get a better look at Gneeecey. “I said, you hit that big milk tanker!” 

“So that’s what that nerve-racketin’ noise was.” Prying the box off his noggin, Gneeecey leaped through his open window and shoved past the policeman. 

“Excuse me, sir—where exactly do you think you’re going?” 

The deep-voiced six-foot human bore an uncanny resemblance to Justin Imbroglio, a reporter who always got under Gneeecey’s fur-covered skin. 

Gneeecey skipped over to the silver rig as it lay on its side in an ocean of white, smack in the middle of Plunger Road. “Lemme get to that moo juice, before it freezes!” He began to dunk his animal crackers in the milk and shove them, two-fisted, into his salivating trap. 

The officer turned to me and shook his head. “What’s with your, uh, friend?” 

“Oh, he’s not my friend—he’s my boss.”

SFX: [Magic Spell] 

And, about a half-hour later…we arrived at the Tricycle Cub…with a bang….

SFX: [Shattering Glass] [Fail Horn] [Magic Spell]

AR: And, as a boss….

NR: You know, Autumn, if he ever finds out we’re doing this program, we’re doomed….

AR: No worries, Nicki. I don’t believe that he ever listens….

N: Well…okay then….

SFX: [Magic Spell]

N: While in Gneeeceyland, I had the misfortune of needing to work part-time at Gneeecey’s greasy spoon restaurant, Gneeezle’s, to supplement my full-time gig at his GAS Broadcast Network. Earthlings would consider Gneeezle’s food to be, well, pretty much inedible—you know, menu items featuring boiled tire gauges, sauteed bolts and screws, stewed athletic socks, and the like. Now, Earth culture fascinated Gneeecey. His eatery featured black lights, fluorescent purple tie-dyed items, and lava lamps, along with plastic replicas of ancient Greek columns. His attempt to combine hippie culture with quasi-classical Greek and Roman décor didn’t really work. 

Speaking of not really working, almost working there was Gneeecey’s protégé, a young, smart-ass mouse-humanoid named Altitude. He stood elbow-high to Gneeecey and was one of the few individuals who got under Gneeecey’s fur-covered skin—regularly. Here’s what happened one afternoon. 

SFX: [Magic Spell] 

“Mouse, don’t scratch yer bimbus when yer workin’ wit’ food,” admonished Gneeecey, scratching his own butt as he disappeared into the kitchen.  

Still scratching, Altitude climbed onto a stool and leaned against the greasy wall. Just as the overgrown mouse began to snooze, Gneeecey thundered back through Gneeezle’s new stainless-steel doors. He reached into his apron pocket and slammed a dozen greenish-brown patties onto the sizzling grill. SFX: [Sizzling Burgers] “Watch these here jackass burgers while I go clean the terlit.”  

“Okay,” replied the rodent.  

Minutes later, the fire alarm went off as smoke filled the dining room. SFX: [Fire Alarm] 

“Sploggle-brain!” yelled Gneeecey, dashing in and fanning the fumes with a shovel-sized spatula. (Sploggles, by the way, are the devices that attach to the backs of toilet seats to, well, keep tails high and, uh, dry.) “I stinkin’ tol’ ya to watch them lousy burgers!” 

“I did, boss,” spluttered Altitude. “I watched ’em burn.”  

I ran outside, coughing. [Coughing] 

“Back in here, Ig!” ordered Gneeecey as he sprinted after me. I’d long given up on his ever calling me by my actual name. 

“Maybe,” I suggested, gulping in some fresh air, “I could take an early lunch and—”  

“Ya got too much to do, Ig. You’ll be havin’ breakfas’ soon, anyways.” Gneeecey was referring to the fact that it was Blirg, a short season where time itself ran backward. Y’know, lunch before breakfast. Dessert before veggies…. 

“But—” I protested. 

He yanked me back inside. “Smoke’s clearin’!” 

Wheezing, I lumbered back to the booth where I’d been updating menus—hiking prices and pasting in various warnings. “Doctor Gneeecey—” 

“That’s stinkin’ Diroctor Gneeecey—you know I’m a doctor an’ director of this lousy county!” 

“Uh, stinkin’ Diroctor—uh, I mean Diroctor, I’m supposed to add seven bucks to your fried scloggs? What are scloggs?”  

“Any dope knows they’re three-legged, sneaker-wearin’ mollusks.” 

I hated my part-time gig at Gneeezle’s even worse than my weekdays and weekends at WGAS. And this hideous TooStank (the day after Mondistink), I was being punished for mocking Gneeecey. I had to work at the restaurant all day while donkey-humanoid intern, brown-nosing Stuart Pitt assumed my regular duties—and received my pay. In my mind, I could imagine Stu, braying with joy.  SFX: [Mule Braying] 

But my heart suddenly flip-flopped with joy when I remembered that the following Someday and Snatturday, Gneeecey would be away. He was the scheduled keynote speaker at some business conference in Booolabeeezia, out in the county’s far reaches.  

Miraculously, my dear fur boss had neglected to pre-structure my time during his absence. When my good buddy and co-worker Cleve asked me what I planned to do with those two blank days on my work “schedoodle,” as Gneeecey called it, I’d mentioned something about rearranging my sock drawer.  

“Stop dreamin’, Ig! An’ when ya set up them tables, remember our new polooolicy.” 

“What new polooolicy—I mean, policy?” Sometimes, Gneeecey’s speech impediment—or “impedipoodiment,” as he pronounced it—seemed to be contagious. “From now on, we only use plaaastic cutootlery—too many customers are eatin’ the silverware.

I’m sicka doin’ the hemlock maneuver every five minutes.” 

So, it wasn’t just the food that made people choke. I bit my lip, almost till it bled. 

“It’s okay if they eat these plaaastic utensicles,” he growled, irritated, no doubt, by my Mona Lisa smile. “They dissolve.” 

I looked at him in disbelief. “What?”  

“Mark says,” he replied, referring to one of the evil Markman aliens infiltrating our county, “if anyone chokes, this special mierkolated plaaastic’s impossibooble for medical examiners to trace, y’know, in them forensical autopoopsies they do when someone croaks for no reason.”  

My jaw dropped.  

“An’ here—paste these in every single menu.”  

I glanced down at the pile of printed, adhesive-backed labels he’d just dumped in my lap. I read them aloud. “This food is full of undeclared nuts.” “Gneeezle’s recycles all unconsumerated garnishings onto future consumerators’ plates.” “You may be ingesting small pieces of black plastic.” Shaking my head, I began to separate the tiny tags by color.  

“See, Ig—we really do care ’bout our lousy customers.”  

“Oh, and uh, Diroctor, I meant to ask you, what’s wrong with all our lava lamps?” 

“Whaddaya mean?”  

SFX: [Horror Scary Moment] “All the blobs inside ’em seem hyperactive. Look—that red one over there—it’s grinning—it’s creepy!” 

Blirg’s unnatural glow, along with the blacklight-lit clumps of purple tinsel and sparkly rubber chickens Altitude had hung helter-skelter, reflected off scores of wildly percolating lava lamps. Gneeezle’s looked like the set of a one-and-a-half-star psychedelic horror movie. I shuddered.  

“Ain’t nuthin’, Ig. Jus’ the electronical gravoovitational disruptications caused by Blirg’s magnetical polaric reversal.”  

“But—it’s gotta be more than that—”  

“Makes all the laaamps think they’re hungry.”  

“But, what if—” 

“Don’t look at ’em, Ig. Then, like Flea says, they won’t exist.”  

I took a sip of coffee. 

“But,” warned Gneeecey, “if any of them meat-eatin’ lava lamps do start chasin’ ya, run for your stinkin’ life!”  

I scalded my tongue.  

“I’m takin’ the afternoon off—gotta prepooperate for our Quality of Life meetin’. You’re takin’ minutes for me. I’ll be back to pick ya up. An’ get ready—we’re gonna be up close to the end of night.”  

I groaned. “I hate Blirg.”  

“You’ll jus’ hafta get used to sleepin’ backwards.”  


“Y’know, Ig—” 

“And will you stop calling me ‘Ig’? Name’s Nicki!” 

“Okay, Ig. Anyways, as I was sayin’, time used’ta go backwards on your planet. I read that one of your ancient Greek guys lived from 620 to 560. He managed okay.”  

“Yeah. Right.” 

SFX: [Bang] “Mouse!” barked Gneeecey, smashing a gigantic steel soup ladle against the grill. 

Altitude flew three feet up into the air. “Whazzup, boss?”  

“Make sure ya cook everythin’ in one pot, so ya have less to clean.”  

“’Kay,” replied the groggy, yawning mouse. 

Gneeecey smacked his head. “I’m trynna teach ya ’bout the two k’s—cookin’ an’ cleanin’.”  


SFX: [Magic Spell]

AR: Oh dear….

N: And speaking of, uh, food, I remember the night that it was Gneeecey’s turn to supply, uh, refreshments for his brain surgery club meeting….

SFX: [Magic Spell]

Doctor Yuppernope’s sausage fingers ran through his head of curly red hair. Chomping on a shriveled, no-doubt several-week-old Gneeezle’s tea sandwich, Gneeecey’s human colleague clicked the computer mouse to display another photo. A larger-than-life partially resected brain filled the entire wall-sized screen.  

My wooden chair creaked as I squirmed. Gazing up at the antiseptic chalky conference room’s drop ceiling, I did my best to unsee the graphic image. Gneeecey’s brain surgery club meeting had run overtime and showed no sign of ending anytime soon. 

“Now, this is the point where we apply sutures after performing the inclopitation,” stated Dr. Yuppernope.  

Gneeecey tapped me on the shoulder, causing me to lose count of the pinholes in the tiles above. “Think I mentioned, Ig, inclopitations are kinda like, y’know, your Earth lobotomies.” 

My grunt morphed into distracted humming as I raised my head to resume counting holes. 

“And so,” concluded Dr. Yuppernope, “we have once more maintained the integrity of the corpus callosum.”

“Yupperooney,” shrilled Gneeecey. “It’s always kinda dangerousical, y’know, workin’ on that good ol’ crappus collopsum, ’specially wit’ all them sharp an’ pointy instruments! An’ we forgot to mention, before the opooperation, we should always hang up lotsa garlic to keep zombies away. An’ dead rubber chickens too, y’know, to fool ’em all.”            

My tired eyes settled on the white-and-black canine-humanoid. 

Another attendee, the graying, skeletal human Dr. Matt Hazz, wiped his greasy hands on his oversized white lab coat. “Got any more of those tasty Gneeezle’s finger sandwiches?” he asked. 

“Yeah, plenny.” Gneeecey held up a soggy paper plate piled high with inch-long rectangular doubled-up slices of bread that leaked some green vegetative matter. “They’re kinda stale, but that’s Altitude’s fault. He made ’em a coupla weeks ago.” Like I mentioned before, Altitude was Gneeezle’s sulky young mouse-humanoid helper/delivery boy, and also Gneeecey’s protégé.          
 Dr. Hazz licked his pale, thin lips. “Diroctor, is that fermented, salted kale that I taste?” 

“Either withered kale or desiccated seaweed. We use ’em both in the restaurant. Cheaper.” 

“Tastes great, whatever it is. I’ll take a few more, then!”            

“Sure, come an’ get ’em. Forgot drinks, though—I’m under lotsa stress. But I brung in some of them tasteless Swillsville crackers an’ a nice cross-eyed cheese dip to go wit’ ’em.” 

Ebegneeezer Gesundheit Eeeceygnay, Gneeecey’s evil lookalike had come with us that evening. More sophisticated than Gneeecey, he had unwittingly traveled from his own planet HyenaZitania to the dimension of Perswayssick County. As luck would have it, he was staying, along with me, in Gneeecey’s mansion. And Gneeecey was not happy about that. 

SFX: [Flushing Toilet] [Door Slam] Ebegneeezer had left briefly to visit the nearby men’s room and now strode back through the doorway. “Oh, perchance, does that dip happen to be plont-based?” 

“Plaaant-based?” shrieked Gneeecey. 


“Ya trynna get smart wit’ meee? If ya don’t watch out, I’ll open up your thick skull wit’ one of them craniopathy saws that we use here—an’ then I’ll fill your dopey empty head wit’ your stinkin’ plonts! You think you’re so sophistiphoosticated, don’cha?!” 

“I am certainly no doctor, but I do know that the correct term for such a surgical instrument is craniotome, you daft fool. It is common knowledge, actually.”  

Gneeecey jumped up into his double’s scowling face. “Oh yeah, Ebegoogoo? Well, I’ll jus’ use this here rusty can opener I got to open up your lousy head an’ find no stinkin’ brains!” 

Weary, I hauled myself up out of my chair and stepped between the feuding canine-humanoids. “Will you two just freakin’ stop already?” 

Gneeecey punched his fists in the air, just missing his lookalike’s upturned nose. “I would if I could, but I caaan’t so I won’t.” 

“I will if he does,” volunteered Ebegneeezer, wet black nostrils flared. 

Gneeecey shot him an icy glare. “Then I stinkin’ guess I will if he stinkin’ will.” 

Exhaling, I glanced back over my shoulder. Yuppernope and Hazz were too busy stuffing their faces and talking about brains to notice the whole kerfuffle. Folding my arms, I addressed Gneeecey and Ebegneeezer. “Good, so it’s agreed, we’ll all just freakin’ stop, then.” 

Gneeecey gawked at me. “Even yooou, Ig?” 

I groaned. 

“An’, do ya want us to stop awready or then?” 

SFX: [Fail Horn] SFX: [Magic Spell]

AR: Oh my goodness, that is all beyond exasperating, is it not?

SFX: [Door Open] [Squeaking Sneakers]

NR: Uh-oh…

DIROCTOR BIZZIG “ZIG” GNEEECEY: It is not! It ain’t exaspooperatin’—youse two are!

SFX: [Cartoon Slip] [Slip and Fall] [Duck Horn]

G: Ow—youse two iggleheimers made me fall on my lousy bimbus!

AR: Toodles, everyone! I had better go and update my resumé!

NR: We’re in for it now

SFX: [Door Slam] [Fail Horn] [Orchestra Cliffhanger]

SOOPERFLEA, AKA FLEA, AKA FLEAGLOSSITTY FLOPPINSPLODGE: Sooperflea here! We hope ya enjoyed listenin’! An’ don’t forget, please email Vicki at email to give her some feedback on our episodes or just to say hi! That’s b-i-z-z-i-g-3 at Now lemme run in there an’ try to calm Zig down! 

SFX: [Squeaking Sneakers] [Magic Spell] 

We hope you enjoyed this week’s episode! We thank Marysol Rodriguez, Sal Solá, Sandi Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera, Diane L., Brunie Cariño, Toni Aponte, and Aileen Bean for being generous supporting members through

And thank you for tuning in to “Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy.” We hope you enjoyed traveling to this loopy dimension with us and that you’ll come along again! Our new episodes drop every Tuesday morning! Please make sure to tell a friend! And keep on laughing! 

Frank: It’s a Gneeecey thing! [SFX: Door Slam] ###