“Gneeecey’s ‘Gratest’ Hits, 2” – Episode 68
Enjoying a rare peaceful afternoon after surviving some harrowing experiences in several dimensions, including their Perswayssick County, canine-humanoid superhero Sooperflea and stranded earthling Nicki Rodriguez recall a couple of Jack Russell-type terrier-humanoid Gneeecey’s adventures—one embarrassing (for Gneeecey) and the other terrifying for all three of them.
We thank Sam Leviatin for co-producing the “Wampum Physics” portion of this episode, providing Sooperflea and Gneeecey with their lovely piano and violin music!
And 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 BuyMeACoffee.com! We appreciate their sponsorship and support more than words can say!
https://buymeacoffee.com/Perswayssick (Please support us with a one-time gift or monthly sponsorship amount—various levels available—to help keep us coming to you via BuyMeACoffee.com! We’ll shout you out during our podcast episodes and in our show notes here, plus supply you with more fun perks!)
https://www.amazon.com/Vicki-Sola/e/B07J29RVMQ (Amazon Author Page, check out our Gneeecey/Nicki e-books and paperbacks!)
https://www.nfreads.com/interview-with-author-vicki-sola/ (Interview with Vicki Solá)
https://perswayssickradio.buzzsprout.com (right here, our Buzzsprout website w/episodes & transcripts!)
And much thanks to disproportionately cool artist Jay Hudson for our podcast logo! https://yojayhudson.com/
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 ardelle-institute.com, that's A-R-D-E-L-L-E dash institute dot com. Take it from me, Gneeecey!Support the show
Transcript / "Gneeecey’s ‘Gratest’ Hits, 2" – Episode 68, 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]
SOOPERFLEA, AKA FLEA, AKA FLEAGLOSSITTY FLOPPINSPLODGE: Hey, everyone, I’m your friendly local canine-humanoid superhero Sooperflea Fleaglossitty Floppinsplodge, at your service. But you can jus’ call me “Flea,” right, Nicki?
NICKI RODRIGUEZ: That’s right, Flea.
F: So, I’m sittin’ here in my best buddy Zig Gneeecey’s mansion, wit’ my good friend, stranded human earthling Nicki Rodriguez, an’ we’re havin’ a nice cup of coffee an’ some Sloggenberry pie, an’, y’know, y’know, jus’ relaxin’ a bit.
N: Yeah, while my, uh, boss and your best friend and fellow canine-humanoid Zig Gneeecey is back at the office, y’know, at his GAS Broadcast Network, catching up with his work. And he has lots to catch up with—I mean, the three of us were missing in action for so long.
F: Yeah. Now that we’ve finally made it back to our dimension of Perswayssick County—
N: —and once back, also out of Perswayssick County’s one and only horrible hospital, Florence Ferguson Memorial—
F: Yeah, after all that, we definitely need some downtime after the crazy adventures we’ve managed to live through. We thought it would be fun to continue reminiscin’ ’bout some of our Zig Gneeecey’s, uh….
F: Yeah, Nicki, that’s the right word. Misadventures. Some of ’em really embarrassin’, too.
N: Yep. And y’know, Flea, he’d be pretty mad if he knew we were doing this….
F: [Chuckles] I know! Before we get started, here’s a message for our listeners. We’d love for you to let us know what you enjoy most. We’d love to hear from ya, even if it’s just to say hi! Ya can email us at b-i-z-z-i-g-3 at aol.com. That’s b-i-z-z-i-g-3 at aol.com. Bizzig3@aol.com.
N: Y’know, Flea, once, due to dimension burn, I had shrunk to the size of a matchstick.
F: Oh, I remember well, Nicki! That was scary! Thank Bogelthorpe, ya returned to your normal size.
N: Yeah, Flea. For a while, I was living inside Gneeecey’s T-shirt pocket…not a real appetizing place to be. I recall this one particular morning….
F: Is that when Zig’s expensive Electronic Water Cyclone 3000 toilet went on the fritz?
N: Yep, Flea….
SFX: [Magic Spell] [Halloween Spooky & Fun Logo] [Digital Alarm Clock]
N: The constant, high-pitched beep of Gneeecey’s alarm clock blazed through my tiny cranium. Evidently, I’d managed to survive through the night.
“Stinkin’ mornin’ awready?” shrilled Gneeecey, in a tone similar to that of his annoying timepiece. “Now, I gotta geddup an’ deal wit’ my latest lousy predikookaments.”
His speech impediment—or impedipoodiment, as he called it—was a weird neurological condition diagnosed as ooglitis. Ordinarily, it would’ve made me chuckle. But now, thoughts of my own predicament began flooding my consciousness in waves, washing away the night’s dreams as if they had been designs scribbled in the sand with a stick.
SFX: [Digital Alarm Clock]
“Button on this dopey clock don’t work no more. Proboobably from me smaaashin’ it all the time. Lemme try throwin’ it ’cross the lousy room. That usually stops it.”
SFX: [Digital Alarm Clock]
The thing stopped beeping.
“Almos’ forgot…ya still down there, Ig? Ya still wit’ me?”
I nodded, knowing full well that the good diroctor couldn’t see or hear me.
“Well, if ya are still wit’ me, Ig, bad mornin’.” On Gneeecey’s native Planet Eccchs and in Perswayssick County, “bad morning,” “bad afternoon,” “bad evening,” and “bad night” are customary salutations.
“Bad morning sure freakin’ fits,” I muttered. I had long given up on Gneeecey ever addressing me by my proper name. “Ig” was short for Iggleheimer, the clumsy three-legged oafs that, as legend had it, ground-pounded their way through the rugged mountains and hills of Gneeecey’s native Planet Eccchs. I sighed…Once an Ig, always an Ig…I guess…
“Here, Ig, here’s some light in case you’re still down there in my pockooket.” Gneeecey flipped on a switch, and in a flash, his dollar store light illuminated my new debris-filled digs. As he lurched forward, I fell backward and bashed my itty-bitty brains out on the bottom of his spare trombone tube. The one he kept in his pocket just in case he ever came across a trombone missing that very same part.
Suddenly, Gneeecey sneezed directly into his pocket. “Ah haah haaah haaatchoooo!”
I scrambled beneath a cluster of fluff to escape the chill mist that rained down. “Ugh. Like I said, bad freakin’ morning to you, too.”
“Heh, heh. I pride myself on sneezin’ phonetically. Hmm…them dopey bedroom drapes been starin’ at me all funny ever since I opened my lousy eyes. Gonna teach ’em a thing or two.”
SFX: [Fabric Tear] SFX: [Bang]
The ripping sound, followed by a loud bang—probably the curtain rod crashing to the floor— nearly blew out my microscopic eardrums. Gave me an instant migraine. “That’ll stinkin’ teach them dirty rags to be lookin’ at me all cross-eyed. They’ll never deckookerate this room again! An’ that dancin’ Mister Tree out there in the backyard better stinkin’ watch out, too.”
I sighed. Couldn’t recall when Gneeecey had last taken any of his meds. I glanced over to my left and kicked his clear blue plastic pillbox, crammed with tablets and capsules. His neurologist, Dr. Idnas, had authorized Bumpex to treat his advanced case of Redecoritis, a disorder caused by exposure to mierk. The toxic, goopy, brown manufacturing by-product of miercoles covered the Perswayssick River’s banks. It seeped into every product imaginable, even foods. The malady accounted for Gneeecey’s sightings of mambo-dancing oaks, jogging chairs and goggling window treatments. Gneeecey’s colleague Dr. Matt Hazz had prescribed Repulsid for the Redecoritis-related speech impediment, ooglitis. Didn’t seem terribly effective. And the Health Cigars were for Gneeecey’s “bat’room probooblem,” as he called it. I wasn’t sure why his pal Dr. Yuppernope had him taking Millvill.
Motion sickness soon overtook me as Gneeecey hopped, skipped, and jumped down the hallway, yelping all the way, “I neeeed da baaat’rooom!”
Couldn’t see the room, but as the good diroctor stumbled toward it, I recalled, from my last accidental visit, the items that littered the floor. Spray cans of Atomic Blast Deodorant, still sealed in shrink wrap, rolled all over the dingy gray tiles. And there were the thick hardcover books like Gone with the Wind and War and Peace that sat atop a humongous, tattered Perswayssick County phone book, plus Gneeecey’s dog-eared, handwritten manuscript entitled My Unauthorized Autobiography, and various laxative products.
“Stinkin’ uh-oh, them Health Cigars must finally be workin’!”
SFX: [Boing] [Duck Horn] “Stinkin’ ow! I bang my dopey nose on that wall every lousy mornin’!”
I flopped downward as Gneeecey lunged in the direction of what was probably his Electronic Water Cyclone 3000, a high-tech commode that featured a razzle-dazzle of flashing, colored lights on its tank. The contraption boasted three thousand cyclones per flush.
“Sorry, Ig, but when nature calls, there ain’t no voicemail!”
Ugh. I groaned.
“Jus’ stick your fingers in your ears an’ hold your nose, Ig. I’ll be done priddy quick. Unless I start readin’ somethin’ interesticatin’.”
I decided I’d need at least three hands.
“Let’s begin my stinkin’ bat’room readin’ where I left off yesterday, wit’ the letter D in my dictionary which coinkidinkally also begins wit’ the letter D,” declared Gneeecey. “Says it’s the fourth letter of the alphoophabet…next, it lists deuterium, which is a chemickookal…oops, I’m done! Done starts wit’ a D, too! Time to flush—flush starts wit’ a F! Hold on, Ig, for your life!”
I imagined my matchstick-sized self, swirling helplessly in a tumultuous three-thousand
cyclone whirlpool. Clutching the light blue polyester fabric of Gneeecey’s T-shirt pocket, I held my breath (for several reasons) and braced myself for the worst.
SFX: FLUSH HANDLE
Gneeecey flushed. Not much happened. I blinked.
SFX: [Flush Handle] “Hey, wait! What the—somethin’ ain’t right here! This ain’t never supposed to hapoopen!”
“My Electronic Water Cyclone 3000 ain’t stinkin’ flushin’!”
He was right. It was stinkin’, and it wasn’t flushing.
“This igstremely igspensive high-tech terlit ain’t never supposed to not work. Came wit’ a ten-year quarantine!”
SFX: [Cell Phone Ring]
Gneeecey whipped his phone out of his pocket, causing me to fly in fifty different directions. “Yeah, smello, who’s this? An’ whaddaya stinkin’ want so stinkin’ early in the stinkin’ mornin’?”
SFX: [Scary Ambiance]
“Heya doc, it’s me, jus’, y’know, checkin’ up on ya. Haah, haah.”
I recognized the voice—it was none other than Redheaded Broken-nose Mark, one of the nasty alien Markmen that always seemed to be calling and visiting Gneeecey.
“M-M-Mark,” stammered Gneeecey, “caaan’t really talk now, I’m dealin’ wit’ some real serious probooblems!”
“If ya don’t come through for us, you’re gonna find out what real serious problems are! Haah, haah, haah! Have a nice day! Guhbye! Haah, haah!”
I could hear Gneeecey’s heart beating fast and could feel him trembling. I leaped out of the way when he dropped his phone back into his pocket.
“Oh, say, old chap,” began an all too familiar voice, “do you habitually keep the door to your water closet open while it is in use?”
I froze. It was Ebegneeezer Gesundheit Eeeeceygnay, Gneeecey’s evil, much more sophisticated double from the parallel universe we’d recently escaped from. Ebegneeezer had accidentally transferred himself, along with Gneeecey and me, back to the dimension of Perswayssick County, from his own Planet HyenaZitania. I’d totally forgotten he was still with us in the four-story mansion.
Gneeecey cleared his throat. “Ahem. You’re in my lousy house now, an’ I’ll use my terlit wit’ the door open if I stinkin’ want. Didn’t have no time to close it, anyways. An’ it ain’t no closet. Ya see any dopey clothes hangin’ up in here? Haaah? An’ would I hang ’em up in water? Sheeesh! An’ I stinkin’ forgot yooou were here in my house! I’ll stinkin’ use my terlit whatever way I want!”
Ebegneeezer’s left eyeball emitted a brilliant light, one that nearly blinded me, even through the weave of Gneeecey’s shirt pocket. Squeezing my lids shut, I recalled how that purple blaze intensified whenever he became angry.
“It would appear that your pricey loo is malfunctioning.”
“No poop, Sherlock. Whaddaya think, I was born tomorrow? Guess I’ll hafta call tech support.” With that, Gneeecey yanked his phone out of his pocket again, up past my recoiling body. “Sorry, Ig,” he mumbled as if my very existence were a mere afterthought.
“Are you actually conversing with someone inside your clothing, you daft fool?” inquired Ebegneeezer.
“Yeah. Yesterday the poor Ig shrunk from her stupid dimension burn an’ so, nice guy that I am, I’m keepin’ her safe in here.” He smacked his pocket and sent me flying down to the bottom, near that perilous open seam. Spaces between stitches appeared miles wider than they had the night before. I had grown even smaller.
Ebegneeezer chuckled. “Rather intriguing. We shall see how long you manage to keep her safe.”
Chills ran down my little spine.
“Hafta put this call on speakerphone,” said Gneeecey, apparently not hearing his lookalike.
SFX: [Dialing Phone]
A soothing prerecorded female voice greeted us. “You’ve reached Supersonic Latrines, Incorporated. When yours won’t flush, we blush.”
“You’re gonna be all stinkin’ red today,” warned Gneeecey.
“Please listen carefully—our options have changed. For sales, press one. For installations, press two. For billing, press three. For our speed-of-light tech support, press four….”
“Stinkin’ four!” Gneeecey smashed his furry finger down. SFX: [Phone Tone]
“Hi there, my name is Adam,” answered a pleasant, techy-sounding young man. “We thank you for using our Supersonic Latrines.”
“Well, Atom or Molecule, whatever yer lousy name is, I jus’ stinkin’ used my Electronic Water Cyclone 3000, but it ain’t flushin’ propooperly! That ain’t never supposed to never hapoopen! This very igspensive sophistiphoosticated smart terlit came wit’ a ten year quarantine that nuthin’ll never go wrong!”
“Sir, we do apologize. Could you kindly supply us with your Electronic Water Cyclone 3000’s service tag?”
“You’ll find it underneath the lid, sir, a combination of nine numbers and letters.”
“Hold on, gotta get up an’ stinkin’ lift the lousy lid, then.” Gneeecey sprang forward,
blasting me up to the top of his pocket. I clung onto its hem with all my might as the titanium toilet seat crashed up against the stainless-steel tank, causing my ears to ring.
“Have you managed to locate the service tag, sir?”
“Yeah,” grunted Gneeecey. “2POO4EVER.”
“Let me input that…number two, letters P-O-O, number four, letters E-V-E-R…we do apologize, sir, our system is a bit slow today…ah…oh my, are we actually speaking with the one and only Diroctor B.Z.Z. Gneeecey… leader of our fair land?”
“Yeah, that would stinkin’ be me. The one an’ only Grate One. Great Gizzygalumpaggis of this here Perswayssick County, also Quality of Life Commissioner an’ owner of Gneeezles Restaurant, plus CEO an’ owner of the GAS Broadcastin’ Network.”
“Sit tight, sir. We shall resolve your issue promptly today.”
“Ya better stinkin’ fix it prompooptly today. Next week, I gotta prep for a lousy colonoscopy.”
Groaning at the thought, I hoped and prayed I’d somehow have returned to my normal size by then.
“So, ya gotta fix this quick!”
“Noted, sir,” replied Adam. “Now, could you kindly confirm your address and telephone number for us, please?”
“Yeah. Stinkin’ whatever. I live in a big mansion at Three Bimbus Crack Drive, Saint Bogelthorpe Parke, New Jersey. The New Jersey in Perswayssick County, not the one on the Ig’s stooopid Earth. An’ I’ll have ya know, I live in a igstremely igsclusive subooburb. Phone number’s 333-333-3333. I can afford all them threes!”
I could hear Ebegneeezer chuckling in the background.
“What’choo stinkin’ laughin’ at?” demanded Gneeecey.
“We’re not laughing at all, sir,” replied Adam.
“Didn’t mean yooou, Atom or Molecule—whatever yer name is,” snarled Gneeecey. “Now, let’s stinkin’ get to the lousy bottom of this. An’ by the way, I live high up on a mountain, so gravoovity should help the water—an’ everythin’ else—go down.”
“Do ya think possiboobly it has somethin’ to do wit’ centrifoofigal force? Or static electricity? Perhaphoops I sat down on it too fast? Couldn’t really help that! Ya think maybe someone hacked into my terlit?”
“Sir, we shall find out. First, we need you to punch in some digits and letters on the tank’s control panel so that we can take remote control of your toilet.”
“Awright. Stinkin’ whatever."
“Please press the following keys on your tank, in rapid succession,” advised Adam. “Then after they’re all beeping and flashing, sit down immediately, as fast as you possibly can. Okay, this is your input sequence: D-O-O-D-O-O-1-2-K-R-A-P. And yes, that’s ‘krap’ with a K.”
“Okay, Atom or Molecule—whatever your name is. Doo…doo…one…two…krap wit’ a K,” repeated Gneeececy, punching in the code. SF: [Electronic Cash Register] I could just about see over the top of his pocket as the blinking buttons chirped melodically. SFX: [Cool Digital Alert Button, Intar Face 2, Electronic Button] The seat clanked as Gneeecey slammed his weight down.
“Okay. I done that an’ I’m sittin’ now. Y’know, on the terlit. Like ya said.”
“Good, sir. We’re in now, we have control…oh my…this is a bit worse than we thought.”
SFX: [Splash Water 1] “Oh, stinkin’ nooo…hey…somethin’ jus’ splaaashed my bimbus!”
“So sorry, sir. Visibility down here is…uh...a bit difficult…impossible, actually…could you please twist around to your left, grab the mouse on the side of your tank, and right-click on the flush handle icon that appears on the small screen? And please, we do apologize for the inconvenience, but we must request that you remain seated until this is resolved.”
“Incornvenience is right,” replied Gneeecey, shifting noisily on his zillion-dollar throne.
Ebegneeezer cleared his throat. [AHEM] “I shall excuse myself for now. As you are presently indisposed, perhaps I might entertain myself by taking an informal tour of your humble abode.”
“Oh nooo ya don’t!” shouted Gneeecey, eyes bulging. “Perhaphoops you’ll stay stinkin’ right here where I can watch ya—an’ rememboober, yooou ain’t even welcome here in my humble abdomen!”
Smirking and humming a strange tune, Ebegneeezer strode out of the room.
SFX: [Cartoon 1] [Fail horn] [Magic Spell]
F: [chuckles] That was kinda funny, Nicki….
N: Wasn’t so funny at the time, Flea….
F: Guess not….
N: I think we have time for one more, Flea. And you’re gonna remember this one! You know that I’m an earthling still trapped here in Perswayssick County. Stranded with just the clothes on my back, I had no choice but to stay here in Gneeecey’s mansion—where I still am—and to work at his GAS Broadcast Network—where I still work—until my dimension burn heals and I can attempt a perilous return back to Earth and my old life. Just recalled this one particular night after I first became stranded here….
SFX: [Magic Spell]
“Let’s take it from the stinkin’ top, Flea,” violinist Gneeecey ordered his pal, pianist Sooperflea. “Your playin’ stinks!”
“Maybe,” shouted Sooperflea, “my playin’ would stink less if ya didn’t keep yer dirty socks in the piano!”
“Jus’ shaadup an’ play, Flea! You’re massacrin’ Shriekensobb’s ‘Plight of the Goonafish’!’ He’d be strollin’ in his grave! Now, c’mon! An’ a one an’ a two an’ a three an’ a four! An’ a five an’ a half!”
SFX: [Piano and violin]
Guess my life wasn’t already wretched enough. I was working thirteen-hour days, eight days a week, then trying to catch a few sorry winks of shut-eye on a lumpy, spring-popping mutant mattress two-thirds the size of my worn-out body.
Now, I had to suffer through Gneeecey’s late-night rehearsals for his upcoming concert honoring the Grand Oogitty-Boogitty. [SFX: piano, violin] I’d seen their treasured religious figure’s official photo. Their Grand Oogitty-Boogitty appeared to be nothing more than a humongous, toga-clad potato, clutching a giant sprig of parsley. The sacred spud was due to arrive, as he did annually, on the tail of a comet, any day, as Gneeecey declared daily, with a mixture of reverence, dread, and certainty.
“C’mon, Flea, our Grand Oogitty-Boogitty will be arrivin’ any day now, any day!” shrieked Gneeecey, almost reading my mind.
SFX: piano, violin] I stuck fingers into both ears and squeezed my lids shut. Somehow, I’d managed to drift off as Gneeecey’s tooth-shattering electric violin howled across the hallway in The Grate Room. Howled as it was murdered by the out-of-tune, two-ton combination laundry hamper of an upright piano that tone-deaf Sooperflea tried to play. Red-caped, black-furred superhero Sooperflea, nicknamed “Flea” and “Fleaglossitty,” was Gneeecey’s childhood BFF from back on their Planet Eccchs. Flea called Gneeecey “Zig,” short for his nickname, “Bizzig.”
SFX: [Piano and violin, stopping abruptly]
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeks!” shrieked Gneeecey, jolting me out of my cacophony-induced coma.
“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa—” counter-shrieked Flea, in a nerdish voice that, except for being slightly lower, bore an eerie resemblance to Gneeecey’s.
“That stinkin’ treeee out there! I swear, Fleaglossitty, he’s stalkin’ me!”
“Jus’ keep playin’ your violin, Zig. Let’s take it from where the kazoos come in wit’ the resta the orchestra—”
“I caaaaan’t keep playin’ my voaline! Mister Tree out there, he’s watchin’ my every move—like a police! Looky! He’s walkin’ ’round the yard—starin’ at me right through the kitchen window!”
Flea leaped off the piano bench. “I don’t see anyone.”
At that moment, Gneeecey’s combination-locked refrigerator’s overly sensitive, motion-detecting alarm screeched. SFX:[Alarm beep] The one that always detected rogue shadows the moment I fell asleep.
Gneeecey jumped six feet into the air. “Hear that? Mister Tree’s in the backyard again!”
Flea flinched. “Probably jus’ your Redecoritis flarin’ up. Are ya takin’ your meds?”
Gneeecey pointed to my cracked door, which I could actually see through. So much for privacy. “The lousy Ig there proboobably forgot to remindicate me. But them pills don’t help anyways—how can they take away a whole stinkin’ tree? Listen—he’s laughin’ at me again! Laughin’ so hard he’s coughin’!”
“A coughin’ tree?”
“Don’cha hear peals of coughter comin’ from the backyard?”
“How d’ya know it’s the tree? In fact, how d’ya know the tree’s a tree?”
Gneeecey scratched his noggin. “Once my friend Mark, y’know, the cop wit’ the blond hair an’ big nose whose fraternically identical twin brothers got smaller noses an’ brown hair—”
“Zig, I wouldn’t trust any of those guys—I don’t think they’re your friends. I’ve tol’ ya before, they’re after somethin’—”
“They like me for who I really aaaaaam!”
Oh, this was good. Dog-tired as I was, I dragged myself up off my pathetic excuse for a mattress and traipsed over to the door to watch and listen.
Sighing, Flea flopped into an orange beanbag chair.
SFX: [Cell Phone Ring]
“Smello?” answered Gneeecey. “Who’s this, callin’ so stinkin’ late?”
SFX: [Scary Ambience]
“It ain’t late,” replied the gravelly voice at the other end. “It’s early! Early in da mornin’. Hah, hah, hah.”
“M-m-Mark,” spluttered Gneeecey. I recognized the voice, could hear it all the way from where I stood. It was Redheaded Broken-nose Mark, one of the evil, alien Markmen. They slathered mierk—the mucky, toxic substance coating the banks of the Perswayssick River—all over their invisible bodies to give themselves form, otherwise they’d just appear to be a bunch of floating eyeballs. They were all named Mark—except for their leader Bob, who wore argyle socks that lit up and flashed.
“We like your purdy music, Doc, hah, hah, hah! Good for, y’know, daaancin’! We can hear it real good! See ya real soon! Guh-bye! Hah, hah, hah.”
“Heh, heh, Guh-bye, Mark. Glad we’re not, y’know, disturbicatin’ ya!”
“Zig, like I said, if I were you, I wouldn’t trust any of those guys—they’re not really your friends. They creep me out—I told ya, they’re after somethin’—”
“They stinkin’ like me for who I really aaaaaam! Now, Fleaglossitty, before the phone rang, I was trynna tell ya—once Mark was a tree that wasn’t a tree!”
“Huh?” Flea’s glazed eyeballs spun in opposite directions.
“He went, y’know, incognizant—as a tree—to one of them costume parties. So, he was a tree that wasn’t a tree.”
“Zig, my question was rheumatical. How d’ya know the tree’s really a tree?”
Gneeecey smacked Flea’s head with his frayed moose hair bow.
“Ow!” exclaimed Flea. “An’ if the tree coughs, an’ no one’s around to hear it cough, is it really coughin’?”
Gneeecey stared at Flea, puzzled.
“I mean,” continued the superhero, “what if it’s like they say, y’know, that matter can be either energy waves or particles, dependin’ on whether or not it’s bein’ observed?”
Gneeecey grinned. “Wampum physics?”
“Now y’got it.”
Gneeecey’s smile disappeared. “Well, if particles can wave at’cha, then so can trees!”
“No, Zig—I meant, maybe it ain’t really a tree when no one’s lookin’ at it. So don’t look at it. Then it can’t hurt’cha.”
“What I wanna know is, if the tree ain’t lookin’ at me ’cause I ain’t lookin’ at him, does that stinkin’ mean I don’t exist?”
“Well, Zig, when I’m not lookin’ at someone or thinkin’ of ’em, they don’t exist for me at that moment.”
“Fleaglossitty, this here has real implooplications. What I asked before, ’bout me not existin’ if the tree ain’t lookin’, was jus’ hypoopotheatrical. He’s always lookin’ at me, so I don’t gotta worry for myself—”
“But if yooou say the lousy tree don’t exist, that means he can’t see you neitherwise, so yooou don’t exist. Aha! I jus’ proved yooou don’t stinkin’ exist!”
Down the hall—in his prized Hall of Clox—a couple of Gneeecey’s latest acquisitions—a replica of Rodin’s Balzac, complete with an analog clock implanted in his belly, and a life-sized chrome motorcycle that sported a similar timepiece in its stomach— rumbled SFX: [Stomach Rumble] and vroomed SFX: [Motorcycle vroom].
Flea glanced at his watch. “Four-thirty a.m.—gotta go. Some of us gotta get up for work in the mornin’.”
Gneeecey smashed the piano lid down. SFX: [Piano Bang] Startled, his exotic orange-and-green-checkered monotony birds squawked. SFX: [“Bore, bore, bore, bore, monotony! Monotony!”]
Gneeecey ripped off a red high-top sneaker and hurled it at their gilt cage. SFX: [Bang] The birds were stunned into silence.
Head shaking in disapproval, Flea whisked his music back into his briefcase.
Gneeecey crouched down and yanked a filthy piece of loose rubber off his other sneaker. “Y’know Fleaglossitty, if ya go home, ya won’t be here to play that lousy piano. An’ if ya don’t play that lousy piano, I don’t gotta look at’cha. An’ then I won’t gotta thinka ya neitherwise.”
“Outta sight, outta mind!” declared Gneeecey.
Flea shuffled out of the room. “Bad night, Zig,” he said, using Planet Eccchs’s and Perswayssick County’s customary salutation.
“Bad night, Fleaglossitty. Y’know, I usually only thinka myself. Now, I’ll thinka myself even more. Then I’ll exist forever!”
The door slammed shut. SFX: [Door Slam]
“Heh, heh, I sure fixed that Sooperflea,” laughed Gneeecey, snatching his stuffed bear Yammicles off the couch. “I’m a PUNI graduate—ya really can’t argue wit’ meee or anyone wit’ a degree from Perswayssick University of New Ideas. We can argue both sides ’cause everythin’ in life’s fifty-fifty! PUN! PUNI! Rah! Rah! C’mon, Yammy, let’s go to bed.”
SFX: [Scary Ambience]
“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeks!” screamed Flea from outside.
Gneeecey froze. “What the stinkin’—”
“Tree is movin’,” shouted Flea, pounding his fists on the side door and ringing the doorbell. SFX: [Door Bell Ring] [DoorPound] “Dancin’—wit’ a buncha floatin’ eyeballs!”
Gneeecey’s teddy slipped through his trembling hands.
“Lemme in, Zig! Lemme back in!” SFX: [Door Bell Ring] [DoorPound]
“Not on your stinkin’ life!” screamed Gneeecey as he tore into the kitchen and dove under the table.
SFX: [DoorPound] [Fail Horn] [Orchestra Cliffhanger] [Magic Spell]
N: And I bolted out of my room to go save you, Flea. Didn’t have to go far.
F: Oh, boy, I sure do remember, Nicki…. I’ll never forget…I think I’m still traumatized….
N: There you were, Flea, right at the door, eyeballs bulging and mouth hanging open. I managed to carry you over to the couch. SFX: [Door Open] [Squeaking Sneakers]
N: Uh-oh—I think Gneeecey’s home….
SFX: [Fail Horn] [Orchestra Cliffhanger]
DIROCTOR BIZZIG “ZIG” GNEEECEY: What are youse two doin’ here in my stinkin’ house, luxuriatin’ an’ bein’ lazy an’ eatin’ up Sloggenberry pie an’ my lousy Merk Perk coffee while I’m at the office workin’ like a dog? I—I mean, workin’ real hard?
N: See you next week, everyone!
SFX: [Fail Horn] [Magic Spell]
SOOPERFLEA, AKA FLEA, AKA FLEAGLOSSITTY FLOPPINSPLODGE: Sooperflea here again! Well, even though that last recollection made me look dorky, I enjoyed it. We hope you enjoyed listenin’, too! An’ don’t forget, we wanna hear from you! Please email us at email@example.com to give us feedback on our episodes or just to say hi! That’s b-i-z-z-i-g-3 at aol.com. An’ Zig an’ I thank Sam Leviatin for bein’ co-producer, helpin’ us out wit’ our piano an’ violin music—
SFX: [Voaline 4]
G: Y’mean our beaudiful piano an’ voaline music!
F: Yeah, Zig!
SFX: [Cartoon 1] [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 BuyMeACoffee.com.
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] ###