Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy

Welcome to My Humble Abdomen

August 24, 2021
Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy
Welcome to My Humble Abdomen
Show Notes Transcript

“Welcome to My Humble Abdomen,” Episode 3 

Dimension burn shrinks Nicki to the size of a matchstick. She’s living in his debris-filled T-shirt pocket. 

Things go from bad to worse this morning. Gneeecey hightails it to his Electronic Water Cyclone 3000, a high-tech commode boasting three thousand cyclones per flush. “Sorry,” he apologizes, “but when nature calls, there ain’t no voicemail!”

Gneeecey’s ready to flush. Nicki imagines her matchstick-sized self swirling helplessly in a tumultuous three-thousand cyclone whirlpool. She braces herself.

He flushes. Only a few hollow clunks and a weak stream of water follow. Rotten alien  Redheaded Broken-nose Mark calls, and Gneeecey’s more sophisticated lookalike Ebegneeezer Eeeceygnay saunters in, making a series of snide remarks. (Ebegneeezer, who has unwittingly traveled from his planet HyenaZitania to Perswayssick County, is an unwelcome guest in Gneeecey’s mansion.) 

Gneeecey calls Supersonic Latrines. He lets loose on poor technician Adam.

Adam instructs Gneeecey to punch in digits and letters, in rapid succession, on the tank’s control panel so he can take remote control. Then Gneeecey needs to sit back down quickly.  

Once in, Adam states that the problem’s worse than “we” thought. Gneeecey must remain seated until it’s resolved.  

“As you are presently indisposed,” volunteers Ebegneeezer, “perhaps I might entertain myself by taking an informal tour of your humble abode.”

Gneeecey shouts, “Perhaphoops you’ll stay stinkin’ right here where I can watch ya—an’ rememboober, yooou ain’t even welcome here in my humble abdomen!” 

Ebegneeezer strolls out of the room…. 

…Later, Gneeecey visits 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 Rodriguez and Sal Sola for being generous supporting members via, and for their suggestions! We appreciate your helping to keep us afloat, more than words can say! (our Buzzsprout website, episodes, transcripts) ( page to support this podcast) (Amazon Author Page, check out our books!) (Interview with Vicki Solá)

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! 

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Transcript / “Welcome to my Humble Abdomen,” Episode 3, 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—

G: Hey, wait a stinkin’ minute, it’s meeee, Gneeecey!

N: Gneeecey, you’re crashing this episode—your part doesn’t come till later!

G: I rule! I’m Grate Gizzygalumpaggis of this here Perswayssick County—an’ do I gotta keep remindicatin’ ya to call me Diroctor Gneeecey? I’m a lousy doctor an’ county director! I can craaash any epoopisode I want! Whenever I wanna!

N: (sighs) Okay, Diroctor Gneeecey, but—

G: But, nuthin’! Now, I jus’ wanna thank Marysol Cerdeira Rodriguez and Sal Sola for being generous supportin’ members through! We appreciate your helpin’ to keep these great stories ‘bout meee…an’ the Ig, goin’!

N: Well, Diroctor, for once, I agree with you! Thank you so much, Marysol Cerdeira Rodriguez and Sal Sola!

G: See ya in a few stinkin’ minutes, Ig!

SFX: [Door Slam]

Okay, so moving right along, bit by bit, more recollections have been resurfacing—memories of my being stranded in Perswayssick County. This unearthly dimension is led by a wacky canine-humanoid control freak, the walking and talking Jack Russell dog-lookalike Gneeecey—the guy you just heard! Due to severe dimension burn from my travels back and forth from Earth and regular New Jersey to Perswayssick County (in unseen New Jersey), I had shrunk to the size of a matchstick. And for a while, I ended up living inside Gneeecey’s T-shirt pocket…not a real appetizing place to be. This is how one particular morning began… SFX: [Magic Spell]

SFX: [Digital Alarm Clock]

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]

SFX: [Bang] 

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. 


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?”  

“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.  

SFX: [Bang] 

“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.” 

“Noted, sir.” 

“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. 

SFX: [Bang] 

“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: [Fail horn] 

Gneeecey really needed counseling after that traumatic experience, which took several hours to resolve. So, off we went to see therapist/veggie meatball shop owner Ingabore Scriblig, who insisted upon being called “Grandma.” Actually, I was still the size of a matchstick, living inside Gneeecey’s T-shirt pocket, so all I could do was listen and take mental notes…Gneeecey had informed Grandma that I was away on vacation…Here’s how that session went…. 

G: Baaad afternoon, Mrs. Scriboobles— 

IS: Please, please, just call me Grrrandma! How doodle you do? 

G: Ain’t doodlin’ too good today, Graaandma. I had this real stooopid day!  

IS: Vell den, Diroctor Gneeecey, tell me all about vhy you feel your day vas so stupid.  

G: Well, Graaandma, my real igspensive terlit, my Electronic Water Cyclone 3000 that only us rich people can afford, it stopped flushin’ an’ first one of the bad guys, Redheaded Broken-nose Mark called me right in the middle of everythin’ an’ got me even more nervoovous than I awready was an’ then the stupid tech support guy named Atom or Molecule or whatever, made me sit on my terlit forever while he took remote control of it an’ he even splashed my bimbus wit’ water an’ then this bad guy who looks just like me but ain’t really me an’ he’s even from a different planet, Planet HyenaZitania, an’ his name is Ebegneeezer, he came in while my terlit wasn’t flushin’ an’ I was jus’ sittin’ there on it an’ the tech guy said I couldn’t geddup an’ I’m real upset that I still can’t get back to my Planet Eccchs an’ y’know, my girlfriend Goonafina Blopperdang, she’s a goonicologist—that’s the study of goonicology—we were supposed to get married an’ then she jilted me by interdimensional email— 

IS: You don’t say! Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha! 

G: I do stinkin’ say—an’ it ain’t funny! Y’know, Goonafina broke up wit’ me after when I said I love ya, she said I love ya more an’ then I said, yeah, well, I guess ya do, an’ I really don’t understaaand why she got so maaad, an’ then she said I didn’t ever brush my teeth before I called her—I don’t think my breath is that bad that ya can smell it over the phone from another dimension. An’ then y’know, back at my office, my administrative assistant Fraxinella who was out sick, she still ain’t come back to work at my GAS Broadcastin’ Network an’ the Ig is still away havin’ lotsa fun, so I still gotta do more, an’ my cat Klunkzill, today he had a accident an’ ’cause he’s half-cat an’ half-motorcycle, he made 10W/40, y’know, oil all over my stinkin’ already messed-up carpet an’ I slipped in it an’ almos’ busted my dopey noodle, an’ the second lousy replacement inflatable squeak banana that Dinwiddie’s Inflatable Squeak Toys an’ Broadcast Supplies sent us didn’t squeak on air either so I ain’t gonna pay them, an’ oh, looky, looky what time it is, I gotta get to the sock repair shop before it closes, ’cause Gus says he fixed my lucky socks awready, an’ yeah, I’ll save ya the trouble of askin’ me, like ya usually do, what I learned from all of this junk. I learned that the chicken crossed the road to keep its lousy pants up an’ not to comb its stupid hair. Guhbye! SFX: [Boing] [Horn] An’ can’cha get ridda that lousy wall? I keep bangin’ my lousy nose on it! 

SFX: [Door Slam] 

IS: Vell, dat vas a stupid day. A wery stupid day. 

SFX: [Fail horn] 

Nicki here again! Spoiler alert: I did eventually return to my normal size! Thanks you so much for hanging out with us today and letting me share my latest memories with you. I have to say, it really helps as I try to make sense of all this craziness.  And I look forward to our next episode! Now, I’m gonna get some rest and turn 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] ###