Food’s the common theme here!
In “The Two K’s,” Gneeecey attempts to educate his protégé, mouse-humanoid Gneeezle’s employee Altitude. “I’m trynna teach ya ’bout the two K’s—cookin’ an’ cleanin’,” Gneeecey advises the hapless rodent after he nearly burns down the eatery. (Gneeecey had slapped some jackass burgers on the grill and ordered Altitude to watch them. Watch he did, as they went up in flames.)
Nicki, working there part-time, expresses alarm that the blobs inside the establishment’s lava lamps seem hyperactive. Gneeecey, on his way out, instructs her not to look at them. He adds that during Blirg (a season where time runs backward due to Perswayssick County’s dimensional “electronical gravoovitational disruptications”), the lamps may be hungry. If so, Gneeecey warns Nicki that she’d better run for her life.
Two evil alien Markmen, Redheaded Broken-nose Mark and Blond Big Nose Mark show up and intimidate Gneeecey.
Perswayssick City Councilperson Verna Vlott drops in to order lunch. She tolerates Altitude’s rudeness until he repeatedly asks if her order “is for here or to stay,” even though she keeps stating that it’s to go.
Enter Gneeecey, applying a size thirteen high-top to the mouse’s scruffy backside and apologizing to the Councilperson. Pitying Altitude, Verna stuffs a wad of greenbacks in his palm so that he can afford a last name.
In “His Turn to Bring Sandwiches,” Gneeecey supplies refreshments for his Brain Surgery Club. Delighted colleagues happily gobble up Altitude’s two-week-old vegetative-matter-leaking finger sandwiches while they study wall-sized images of partially resected brains.
Present is Gneeecey’s nemesis, his more sophisticated lookalike Ebegneeezer Eeeceygnay. Ebegneeezer and Gneeecey nearly come to blows until Nicki intervenes.
…Later, Nicki takes Gneeecey to visit veggie meatball shop owner (and licensed therapist) Ingabore Scriblig, AKA, Grandma. And, as our Frank Grillo says at the very end of each podcast, “It’s a Gneeecey thing!”
And Vicki, Nicki, Frank, Gneeecey, and Grandma want to thank Marysol Cerdeira Rodriguez and Sal Sola for being generous supporting members via BuyMeACoffee.com! We appreciate your helping to keep us afloat, more than words can say!
https://perswayssickradio.buzzsprout.com (our Buzzsprout website, episodes, transcripts)
https://buymeacoffee.com/Perswayssick (BuyMeACoffee.com page to support this podcast)
https://www.amazon.com/Vicki-Sola/e/B07J29RVMQ (Amazon Author Page, check out our books!)
https://www.nfreads.com/interview-with-author-vicki-sola/ (Interview with Vicki Solá)
And much thanks to disproportionately cool artist Jay Hudson for our podcast logo! https://yojayhudson.com/
Support the show (https://www.buymeacoffee.com/Perswayssick)
Transcript / “Doubleheader: ‘The Two K’s’ and ‘His Turn to Bring Sandwiches,’” Episode 2, written by Vicki Solá. All content © 2021 Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy.
Music/Intro: Hi there, I’m author and radio host Vicki Sola, 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….
SFX: [Magic Spell]
Hey there, Nicki Rodriguez here! Hope you’re having a great day! Vicki and I want to thank Marysol Cerdeira Rodriguez and Sal Sola for being generous supporting members via BuyMeACoffee.com! We appreciate your helping to keep us afloat, more than words can say!
Now, bit by bit, more memories continue to surface—recollections of my being stranded in Perswayssick County, the dimension led by the zany canine-humanoid control-freak, walking and talking Jack Russell dog-lookalike Gneeecey. As small as he is—and he stands elbow-high to me, he’s big trouble!
Today, I’ll be presenting two in one! A doubleheader! Food is the common theme here. Enjoy!
I call this one “The Two K’s.”
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?”
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.”
“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.”
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: [Scary Ambiance]
Just then, two creepy guys approached Gneeecey from the back of the restaurant. I recognized the two evil Markmen. They had destroyed their own planet, Planet of the Marked Men, then traveled through space and time to Perswayssick County. They slathered mierk—the gross, 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.
“Heya, Doc!” shouted Redheaded Broken-nosed Mark.
“Heh, heh, w-what are youse guys doin’ here?” stammered Gneeecey, blinking rapidly.
“We hadda use da bat’room,” replied Blond Big-nosed Mark.
“Ya finally cleaned it,” said the redhead.
“Heh, heh, y-yeah. So, can I help youse guys wit’ anythin’ before I leave? I was on my way out!”
The redhead’s vivid lime-green eyes bored into Gneeecey’s bulbous peepers. “We was jus’ checkin’ to make sure, y’know, ya had everything under control, like ya promised.”
“Yeah,” piped in the blond. “We can’t afford for dat lousy Referendum 345 to pass.”
“The refooferendum? Got it all sewn up, guys. Gotta go now!”
“Hah, hah, ya better got it all sewed up, Doc!”
Muttering something unintelligible, Gneeecey banged his nose into the wall on his way out the door. SFX: [Boing] [Duck Horn] “Stinkin’ ow!”
Minutes later, Perswayssick City Councilperson Verna Vlott strolled over to the counter.
The delicate-featured sixty-ish human’s reddish-blond curls complemented her fair and remarkably unlined complexion. She wore a dove-gray, horizontally pin-striped power suit. Her immaculate ivory athletic shoes matched the strand of pearls that adorned her rose-colored silk blouse. Her saucer-like emerald eyes widened with concern. “Oh my—was there a fire in here?”
Altitude yawned. “Uh, no Ms. Vern, uh—”
She chuckled. “You’ve got us mixed up, too. I’m City Councilperson Verna Vlott—people always mistake me for my twin sister, Vlotta Vern, the county freeholder.”
“Even though my twin is a couple years older, we’re an awfully lot alike, right down to our dreams for this great county’s future. We also exhibit a rare poetic synergy.”
Not giving a deck of vlecks, as folks around here would say, Altitude just stared into space.
“Well, young man, was there a fire? I do hope our recently revamped fire department responded quickly! Was anyone hurt?”
“Nah, Ms. Verna, uh, Vlott,” answered the mouse. “We was cookin’. Cajun style.”
“Are you sure everything’s okay? I can help, you know.”
“Yeah. Can I take your order now,” mumbled Altitude, in what sounded more like a statement than a question.
“Why, yes, dear! I’d like some lunch.”
“Whatever. Wanna use the bat’room? We cleaned it today.”
“No thank you, dear.” Smiling my way, the councilperson perused the graffiti-like fluorescent-chalked specials scrawled all over the violet wall.
“Well, whaddaya want awready?” demanded Altitude.
Ignoring the mouse’s rudeness, Ms. Vlott set down her delicate, simulated-goonafish-skin attaché case, only to snatch it back immediately, visibly disgusted by the fine layer of slime coating the counter. Goonafish were the luminous, leaping, two-tailed fish found in the Perswayssick River. A popular menu item, they had no unsightly heads.
“Young man,” she began, inspecting her thankfully unscathed briefcase, “I’ll have one jackass patty—but not too well done—with blue cheese dressing—but not too awfully blue—and a plain, quarter-pound jackass burger, with a squirt of zurt on the side, not on the burger—”
“Zurt’ll cost ya a whole extra buck,” warned Altitude.
“Okay. And I’d like a goonafish melt for my sister—”
“She ain’t here.”
“I said, ain’t nobody else here wit’cha, lady!”
“I’m bringing it to her. I’ll also have one Gnautical Seafood Wharf Barf Salad Combo—but please go easy on those sand dollars. And also, a chicken-flavored O’Gurt—those probiotics are so important for good health. And to drink, maybe some clean water.”
“Clean water’ll cost ya—”
“I assure you, young man, I can afford it,” snapped the usually good-tempered councilperson. “And please throw in a generous slice of Sloggenberry pie—make that two. One for my sister, too.”
“Awright, lady, but like I tol’ ya, ya sister the county freeloader ain’t here—an’ two of somethin’ll cost ya twice as much as one of somethin’, an’ a whole lot more than some of nuthin’.”
“And, oh my, that bag of Rindom Doodles is nearly as big as you! My sister the freeholder and I could snack on it at this morning’s meeting. How much is it?”
“If ya hafta ask, ya can’t afford it.”
Her twinkling eyes darkened. “I told you that I can most definitely afford anything in here. As a matter of fact, I’ll take two. That completes my order. It’s to go.”
The mouse ripped some loose threads off his dilapidated jersey, tearing it. SFX: [Fabric Tearing] “Is that to stay, or is it for here?”
“I said, it’s to go.”
Before Altitude could inquire again, his boss strode in and planted his size-thirteen red high-top sneaker square in the middle of the rodent’s ratty backside.
“Ow, boss! Ya snuck in through the back!”
“Ya gingivitis-head! Ya heard the lady—it ain’t for here an’ it ain’t to stay! If it was for stinkin’ here, it would be to stay an’ not go! If it wasn’t to stay an’ not go, it wouldn’t be for here an’ not to not stay, stinkin’ would it?! Conversically, if it was to stay an’ not go—”
“Bad morning, Diroctor,” chirped Councilperson Vlott, using Planet Eccchs and Perswayssick County’s customary salutation.
“Bad mornin’, Vlotta—”
“That’s Verna.” She smiled.
“Oh, heh, heh, heh. Sorry. An sorry ’bout this little Iggleheimer here, too.”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure Mister uh—what is Altitude’s last name?”
“Oh, he don’t have a last name—he can’t afford one. ‘Specially not on what I pay him.”
An expression of intense pity washed over Verna Vlott’s kindly face.
“Anyways, Verna, you’re lookin’ lovlier than ever!”
Gazing down at her silver-trimmed cross-trainers, the councilperson blushed.
“I take it, at this beaudiful mornin’s upchuckin’ meetin’, youse’ll help me kill Question 345, right? We even got a chance to removerate it from the ballot!
“Diroctor Gneeecey, my sister and I actually support Referendum 345. So do all the freeholders, the city council, and most of the Merchants’ Association. We firmly believe that for the health and welfare of our citizens, all of that toxic mierk must be removed from our river’s banks. We must instead substitute zodd, which is nontoxic and plentiful!”
“But—but—I promised Mark an’ the guys I had it all sewn up—I mean, please, youse gotta—”
“No, Diroctor, I certainly do not think you’ll have the constitutionally mandated three-quarters majority required to amend the ballot this morning—or any other.”
Gneeecey’s egg-shaped eyeballs sprang from his sockets.
“See you earlier, Diroctor,” warbled Ms. Vlott as she scooped up her five bursting-at-the-seams smiley-face take-out bags. On her way out, she dropped a thick wad of greenbacks into Altitude’s grungy palm. “Keep the change, young man. Everyone should have a last name!”
Altitude’s beady red eyeballs sprang from his sockets.
SFX: [Fail Horn]
SFX: [Magic Spell] Nicki here again. As promised, here’s that other memory that just resurfaced. Gneeecey happens to be a member-in-good-standing of his Florence Ferguson Hospital’s Brain Surgery Club. I call this second part, “His Turn to Bring Sandwiches.” Yummy! (Well, not really…)
SFX: [Fail Horn]
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?”
“An’, do ya want us to stop awready or then?”
SFX: [Fail Horn]
Gneeecey and I attended a therapy session after one of the incidents you just witnessed. Our therapist is a woman named Ingabore Scriblig. The kindly Mrs. Scriblig is the proprietor of veggie meatball shop Ingabore’s Meatball Express and also a licensed therapist.
The unearthly dimension of Perswayssick County is populated by a mix of canine-humanoids like Gneeecey and other animal-humanoids, like Altitude and Stuart Pitt, plus humans. These fifteen million citizens of Planet Eccchs became stranded when their planet accidentally grazed Earth’s atmosphere, right over my home state of New Jersey. This outer space mishap created a whole new dimension. Mrs. Scriblig, who still has a strong Eccchsian accent, is one of the many humans living in Perswayssick County. She prefers to be called Grandma. Here’s how our therapy session went:
SFX: [Magic Spell]
IS: Bad afternoon, Nicki and Diroctor Gneeecey. How doodle you dooo?
SFX: [Boing] [Duck Horn] Gneeecey walked into a wall, hitting his big schnozz on his way into Grandma’s office.
G: Stinkin’ ow—I ain’t doodling too good, Graaandma! Can’cha move that lousy wall outta here?
IS: Dat vould be radder impractical if not impossible! Now, let’s begin again. Bad afternoon, Nicki and Diroctor Gneeecey. How doodle you doooo?
N: Bad after—
G: Why d’ya always gotta greet the Ig before me, Graaandma? I’m certaintaneously more importootant than her!
IS: Here, no vun ees more important than annnyvun else, Diroctor.
G: Well, I stinkin’ am! I could argue it elvelven difooferent ways!
N: Eleven ways?
G: That’s what I stinkin’ said! Elvelven ways!
IS: Elewen vays?
N: You know, Grandma, I think it’ll take more than eleven therapy sessions for Gneeecey to understand things.
G: Ya mean Diroctor Gneeeccey, ya Ig! Are ya stooopid?
IS: Now, no vun here ees stupid.
N: Thank you, Grandma.
IS: You’re wery velcome, Nicki. You remind me of my granddaughter.
G: [in mocking voice] No one here is stupid. ’Cept the Ig.
G: Uh, nuthin’. Heh, heh, heh…
N: You know, Grandma, I think this would be a perfect time to mention the fact that I hate when Diroctor Gneeecey calls me “Ig.” My name is Nicki. Nicki Rodriguez.
IS: You do know, Diroctor, on our Planet Eccchs, “Ig” is a wery derogatory term, short for Iggleheimer. Legend has eet dat deese Iggleheimers vere wery clumsy, not-wery-smart, tree-legged troglodytes who ground-pounded their vay tru our planet’s mountains, particularly dose of dee Bozovian region, vhere you and I bot come from.
G: Yeah…I stinkin’ guess it ain’t kinda too nice of me….
IS: Vell, yah, dis is progress, hearing you say dat.
N: Yes, Grandma. You know, Diroctor, how you feel insulted and disrespected when I forget to put “Diroctor” before your name?
G: Yeah. I do feel insultipated.
N: Well, have you ever thought that I feel the same when you call me “Ig” instead of “Nicki”?
G: Geewhizzicles, I never ever thought of yooou feelin’ insultipated. In fact, I never think of you even havin’ feelings!
IS: Vell, vee are getting somevhere dis afternoon! Ewen dough you bot hawe differences, I tink dee two of you really dooo, on a certain lewel, care about each odder.
N: Yes, Grandma, you know, it’s kind of strange…as angry and exasperated as Diroctor Gneeecey makes me—it seems, on a regular basis—I actually do care about him. After all this time, it almost feels like we’re family, in a way.
G: It actually shocks an’ almost stinkin’ upsets me to say this, but I care ’bout yooou too, in a certain way, Nickels!
IS: Vell, I guess “Nickels” ees better den “Ig.”
G: Not as good as dimes or quarters, but better.
N: [Sighs] Yes, Grandma, this is progress…I suppose.
IS: Yah! Ah ha ha ha ha!
G: It ain’t stinkin’ funny, Graaandma! Nuthin’s stinkin’ funny!
IS: Vell, Diroctor Gneeecey, I did see you ower dere, smiling. I am vondering, vhat hawe you learned from all of dis today?
G: That a boiled pot never watches?
SFX: [Fail Horn]
Well, yeah, I guess we did make some kind of progress…till next time! Thanks for hanging out with us! And now, I’m throwing it back over to my alter ego, Vicki.
SFX: [Magic Spell]
Music/Outro: Thanks, Nicki! Vicki here again. Thanks so much 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 subscribe and tell a friend! And keep on laughing!
Frank: It’s a Gneeecey thing! [SFX: Door Slam] ###