Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy

Shopping at Home With GAS

September 07, 2021
Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy
Shopping at Home With GAS
Show Notes Transcript

“Shopping at Home with GAS,” Episode 5 

Gneeecey and Nicki arrive late to his GAS Broadcast Network—again. As usual, it’s his fault. As usual, he blames her.  

“Shopping at Home with GAS” airs after lunch. Brown-nosing donkey-humanoid intern Stu Pitt scurries about setting up show items—Digital Drapes that display the time, and a one-wheeled BlabbaFlabb exercise bike. He brags that he’s transformed the room into an on-location studio, complete with wind, rain, and snow—all controlled by a red lever. 

Gneeecey orders Stu to come in tight with the camera at the end—he’ll use the opening and closing display drapes to send a life-and-death “Horse Code” message to one of the evil alien Markmen..

Gneeecey hawks three-legged pantyhose and other junk. Stu squirms with excitement, unaware that another BlabbaFlabb’s rubber bands have wrapped themselves around his legs. Gneeecey attaches an assembled machine’s bands to his jaw, hands, and feet. He resembles a malfunctioning windmill. 

Gneeecey pounds a fist on the table piled with drapes. It collapses. His flailing limbs become entangled in the display curtains. They open and close behind him, tumbling to the floor, along with Gneeecey. Arms and legs revolving, he screams. 

Stu lunges forward to help but is snapped backward by the bands circling his legs. He flies in Gneeecey’s direction, shoots sideways, then grabs a red lever. A ceiling trapdoor opens, dumping a half-ton of snow on Gneeecey’s noggin. 

 Vicki, Nicki, Frank (who contributed to this episode), Cleve, Gneeecey, Grandma, and even Stu want to thank Marysol Rodriguez, Sandi Sola, Sal Sola, Marcellina Ramirez, and Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera for being generous supporting members via! We appreciate your helping to keep us afloat, more than words can say! And thank you again, Sam Leviatin, for your awesomely funny musical contributions! (our Buzzsprout website, episodes, transcripts) ( to support this podcast) (Amazon Author Page, check out our books!) (Interview with Vicki Solá)
(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! 

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Transcript / “Shopping at Home with GAS,” Episode 5, 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]  

[Music Bed]

 Hey there, Nicki Rodriguez here, thanking you for tuning in. Vicki and I also want to thank Marysol Cerdeira Rodriguez, Sal Sola, Sandi Sola, Marcellina Ramirez, and Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera for being generous supporting members via! We deeply appreciate your sponsorship of “Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy,” more than we can even say! And thank you again, Sam Leviatin, for your help with Gneeecey and Sooperflea’s, uh, music! It’s back by popular demand here! And now— SFX: [Cell Phone Ring]

N: Hello?        

IS: Hallo, Nicki?

N: Ah, Ingabore Scriblig, owner of Perswayssick County’s Veggie Meatball Express and also Gneeecey’s therapist, otherwise known as Grandma! Hi, Grandma!

IS:  Yah, dis is Grrrrandma! Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha! How doodle you do?

N: I’m fine, thanks, and you?

IS: I’m doodling wery vell! I just vanted to confirm our appointment for later today and to make sure dat Gneeecey vill be on time.

N: Oh, yes, Grandma, I’ll make sure—I’ll bring him myself! And I’m sure we’ll have lots to talk about—as usual!

IS: Alrightsky den, tank you, Nicki! Bye-bye!

N: Bye, Grandma…okay, now, out of the blue, I’ve just remembered this one particular morning in the otherworldly dimension of Perswayssick County, where I still am— SFX: [Cell Phone Ring] Hello? SFX: [Scary Ambience] Hello?

Markman: Heya, Doc—

N: Um, this is not Diroctor Gneeecey. And how did you get my number?

Markman: Hah, hah, hah, dat’s for me to know an’ you never to find out! 

N: Well, what do you want? [whispers: It was vicious alien gangster, Redheaded Broken-nose Mark—one of dozens of waxy-skinned aliens, all named Mark—except for their leader Bob. They were always calling Gneeecey and dropping in on him too—unexpectedly.]

Markman: Who you talkin’ to?

N: Uh, uh—none of your business, really! Now what do you want? I’m busy!

Markman: I wanna know, what’s dis here Who’s buyin’? Do I jus’ buy a cup? Or can somebody else jus’ gimme a cup? Any donuts to go wit’ it? Where is da place? I see ya got a list of people there—who are dey? 

N: It’s actually a website—

Markman: I don’t understaaand—I don’t see no spiders—

N: Just go online to, and you’ll see that it’s a way to support podcasts like this one. You can either buy me a virtual cup of coffee with a small one-time donation, or you can become a monthly sponsor—there are different levels of monthly support—

Markman: Aaah, fugget about it—virtual coffee don’t even come in no different flavors. If I want a good crappucino, I’ll jus’ go to Gneeezle’s an’ harass the doc! Now, tell the doc I’ll be seein’ him—like, real soon! Hah, hah, hah.

N: Don’t even mess with me before I’ve had my coffee! Bye!

Markman: Guh-bye, Ig! Hah, hah.

N: Ugh! Not a nice guy! None of ’em are! Now, where was I? Oh, yeah… I was telling you that I’ve just remembered this one particular morning in the otherworldly dimension of Perswayssick County, where I still am.

My wacky boss, county leader canine-humanoid Diroctor Gneeecey had made us late to work at his GAS Broadcast Network—again. And as usual, the exasperating, walking, talking Jack Russell dog took it out on me. This is how today’s episode, “Shopping at Home with GAS,” went down…literally….

SFX: [Magic Spell] 

“Igzed felopsaded. . .igzed felopsaded,” repeated Gneeecey as our elevator zoomed up to the Edgar Vompt building’s two-hundred fiftieth floor, causing my stomach to feel like it was falling through my feet.

“What language are you speaking this morning?” I asked. 

“I’m studyin’ for my eye exam—memorizatin’ the dopey doctor’s lousy eye chart so I do good this time. I stinkin’ hate failin’ tests!”

SFX: [Elevator Chime] [Automated female voice:] Two-hundred fiftieth floor!

“Now, c’mon, Ig, we’re stinkin’ late again!” Gneeecey gave me the evil eye as we scurried out through the sliding golden doors and into the lobby of his GAS Broadcast Network. It occupied the surreal skyscraper’s top ten floors. 

“Don’t freaking blame me!” I snarled, trying to catch my breath as we sprinted toward his AM radio studio…

“Why not? Gotta blame someone, an’ you’re here, so—”

“It’s not my fault that you took five zillion years to find your dirty lucky socks that you just had to wear today—”

“I’ll have baaad luck today if I don’t wear ’em, ya lousy Ig—”

“And my name is Nicki, not Ig, and I’m not lousy—”

“Okay, ya lousy Ig! An’ how was I supposed to know my stinkin’ socks were in the piano?”

“Because you freakin’ use it for a laundry hamper! And you came downstairs late this morning—as usual—then had to work on a crossword puzzle, knowing that we were already late—”

“Still can’t stinkin’ figure out, what’s a word for ‘normal,’ wit’out the L—clue said it’s a five-lettered girl’s name!”

“Norma! I already told ya, it’s Norma!”

“Can’t be—it ain’t normal!”

Gneeecey pulled me by my scarlet sweater’s unraveling hem into the AM studio. Its walls were painted “pastel black,” as he described it. Swearing, he scampered over to the audio board and opened the microphone. “The deceased program is prerecorded,” he shrieked. He slammed his fist against a rickety, ancient reel-to-reel recorder, causing its play button to pop off and spring across the room. SFX: [Boing] “Got fifteen stinkin’ minutes, Ig—C’mon!” 

As I followed the elbow-high Gneeecey into the newsroom, I read the misspelled instructions he had scribbled on my clipboard. “Durin my newzcast,” he wrote, “I’ll signal ya to simulkast a sicks, spelled S - I – C - K – S, sekkond delay on FM igzactly wit a ate, spelled A-T-E, sekkond delay on AM.” 


“That’s stinkin’ Diroctor Gneeecey—sheesh—do I gotta keep remindicatin’ ya that I’m a doctor an’ director of this here lousy county?”

“Stinkin’ Diroctor, uh, Diroctor Gneeecey, how can anyone simulcast a six-second delay exactly with an eight-second delay?”

“Do the lousy math, Ig.” 

“It is lousy math—” 

“Thought’cha knew how to do radio.” He raced over to the news wire and began to rip paper copy from the 1980’s relic, using the counter’s sharp edge to tear and separate stories. He was too cheap to go digital. “Yooou shoulda done this, Ig. Stu did all your other mornin’ junk.” 



Something sharp slid under my heels and tilted my whole body backward. Next thing I knew, I was flying down the corridor on wheels, at breakneck speed. “Whaaat the—” 

“C’mon, Ig! Sheesh, this here lousy handcart don’t go faaast enough wit’ yooou on it!” he shouted as we rolled highspeed into the studio. 

“Root, Root, Root for your planet! Cheer, cheer, cheer for your schoooool! PUNI! PUNI! Rah! Rah!” sang some cheerleaders, blasting their way out of WGAS-FM’s on-air speakers. “To register for the coming post-Blirg semester at Perswayssick University of New Ideas,” whinnied a dorky voice, “or to take advantage of our continuing Eccchs-centric Adult Education Program, call 999-333-3334. That’s 438-555-9876.” 

I’ll admit, I must’ve looked confused. Gneeecey rolled his eyes.

“Those are sub-numbers, Ig,” said Gneeecey. “You’ll learn all about sub-numbers when ya spend your lunch telemarketin’.” 

“Telemarketing? On my lunch?” 

“I’m sicka you an’ Cleve takin’ breaks together!” Fussing with frayed wires and an old-fashioned patchboard, he flung a program log in my face. SFX: [Rustling paper]


 “Stop complainin’, Ig. Now, I got AM an’ FM radio runnin’ together simultaneousfully. You’re gonna engineer my newscast!” 

Reluctantly, I sat down at the controls. From the disintegrating 1970’s-style console to the walls and carpeting, everything around me was colored an electric diarrhea-brown. 

SFX: [violin and piano]

Some horrible, yet very familiar music blared. I recognized it as legendary Planet Eccchs composer Zirbert Shriekensobb’s “Plight of the Goonanfish,” played by violinist Gneeecey and his black-furred canine-humanoid pal Sooperflea, also known as Flea. That, uh, music, had kept me from sleeping, night after night, as the two rehearsed, right across the hall from my room, for an upcoming concert at the Perswayssick Civic Center.

“Uh, Diroctor, I didn’t know that you and Flea recorded that—’’

“Yeah, Ig, don’t it sound priddy? I think Flea’s getting’ better on the piano!”

“Um, uh—”

“Gotta make a real quick phone call to my attorney, John Smiff, Equestrian.” SFX: [dialing phone] “You’ve reached the Law Offices of John Smith, located on 595 Shady Deal Drive in Perswayssick City. We are currently and usually unavailable. Please leave a message at the sound of the beep and someone might get back to you.”

SFX: [Beep]

 “It’s me, Diroctor Gneeecey. When ya have a chance, John, get back to me an’ lemme know, if I pay my own station to play my own stinkin’ music, can I get into trouble for payola? I’ll jus’ claim ignoramusnous till I hear from ya. Bye.”

SFX: [Cell Phone Ring] Sheesh. Now stinkin’ what? Smello?

SFX: [Scary Ambience] “Heya, Doc, it’s me!”

“M-M-Mark, what can I do for you?” stammered Gneeecey. “I’m about to go on the air!”

“Jus’ wanted to remind ya, hah, hah, I’ll be waitin’ for that little secret message from ya at the end of your home shoppin’ show, y’know, wit’ them curtains. It’s a matter of life an’ deaf. Hah, hah, hah. Guh-bye.”

“Uh, sure thing, Mark. Guh-bye.” Gneeecey stuffed his cellphone back into his T-shirt pocket and tore into FM’s shoebox of a news booth. He glared at me through its smudged window and stuck his tongue out. I popped a StomQuell antacid tablet and opened his mike. 

“Bad mornin’, everyone,” he began, shrill enough to shatter bulletproof glass. “You’re in GAS Radio Newsmaker Territory!” 

A bulky, old-fashioned tape cartridge sailed over my head, crash-landing on my held-together-with-duct tape audioboard. SFX: [Bang] Wincing, I shoved the projectile into a battered “cart” machine. The start switch sprang off as I pressed it. SFX: [Boing]

“This mornin’s news,” screeched the prerecorded Gneeecey on the cartridge, “is brung to ya by Bogelthorpe’s Bweeeek Emporium, purvooverator of fine, repossessed Earth automobiles, located on 345 Drip Drive, in Snurddles Township, near Snott’s Landing.” 

I didn’t even want to know how they’d obtained vehicles from my dimension. I reopened Gneeecey’s microphone and watched, puzzled, as he made a series of wild slashing gestures at his throat.

SFX: [Belch] Gneeecey’s elongated belch lasted maybe eight or nine seconds—on AM and FM, for all the county to hear. I had failed to hit the delay button. If looks could kill, I’d have been traveling horizontally in a black Caddy station wagon, clutching daisies and headed to St. Vlad’s, to be dumped—quite unceremoniously, I’m sure—six feet underground. 

“Any mistakes youse folks hear are the fault of the Iggleheimer engineer who ain’t followin’ instructions,” he growled, flashing me an “I fixed you” look. 

“Today in sports,” he continued, “yesterday Planet Eccchs’s Sportin’ Commission ruled that if two teams play equally lousy, they tie for a loss. Tension at the meetin’ was so thick, ya could cut it wit’ a balloon. Get it? Heh hah, heh haah, heh haaah! Cut it wit’ a balloon!” 

I wondered what halfwit had written that copy. 

“An’ accordin’ to uninformed sources, the commission plans to indict Gregg Gronkle into the Zorgle Hall of Fame. Now, there’ll be weather today, an’ plenny of it. The prevoovalent winds are blowin’ in from the east-west, an’ tonight’ll be sunny, wit’ heavy traffic. Tune in later at six, for igsclooosive details on the Whoop Cream Bandit’s latest excitin’ bakery robbery!”

A couple minutes after Gneeecey’s newscast ended, my WGAS colleague and good buddy, Cleveland Wheeler, strode into the studio. “I am not covering a spitting contest—” 

“Look, Clevooveland, I’m stinkin’ boss—” 

“Send Stu—his first initial and last name spell ‘spit.’” 

“Stop pickin’ on Stuey. An’ anyways, I need him to set up merchoochandise for our home shoppin’ show. We’re on in a little while!”

Eyes fixed on the half-fallen drop ceiling, Cleve didn’t notice the lopsided figure executing cartwheels as it sang, “I love my job! Hee haw!” 

“I wish everyone here was like yooou, Stuey. Ya remindicate me of myself when I was young.”

“Thanks, boss,” replied the panting intern. “And thanks for all the overtime!” 

Stuart Pitt was about five-foot-five. A donkey-humanoid, he sported a carrot-red crew cut and a ponytail that wagged at the nape of his meaty neck. His scarlet, mule-like ears matched his annoying little knob of a nose. His face was moon-shaped, except for one sharp chin that jutted out of six others. A dense mask of freckles surrounded his beady eyes. “Don’t know what I’ll do with that extra nickel!” he exclaimed, patting his short-sleeved polyester shirt’s pen-populated pocket. 

Gneeecey smiled. Stu pulled the mustard slacks that matched his eyes up to his sunken chest, exposing doughy, hairless calves—more human-like than donkey-like—and white socks half-swallowed by scuffed brown oxfords.

Gneeecey handed him a roll of duct tape. “Fell outta your pocket when ya were demonstratin’ your very depreciatin’ corpooporate enthusiasm an’ team spirit.” 

“Thanks, boss—got that roll of duct tape at Squiggleman’s Hardware!” Stu possessed the voice of a young jackass vaulting its way into puberty on a pogo stick. SFX: [Boing]

“Great place,” said Gneeecey. “That’s where I purchoochased my Electronic Water Cyclone 3000 high-tech terlit.” 

“Y’know, boss, I read that the safest place to be during a thunderstorm is sittin’ on a toilet!” 

“Yeah—I never once been hit by lightnin’, sittin’ on one of them.” 

“And thanks for letting me do the voice-over on that PUNI commercial!” 

“Stuey, good junk comes to desiccated employees. The more ya do for me, the more I’ll do to you.” 

“And the hotline rang this morning and I didn’t answer it!” 

Gneeecey patted his intern on the back. “Atta boy!” 

“Plus, I figured out a better way to set up cameras than how Cleve taught me!” 

“Bet’cha stinkin’ did, Stuey!”

Cleve adjusted his tie and limped out of the studio, muttering something about going downstairs to blow up master control. 

“An’ Stuey, show the Ig here how to simulcast a six-second delay wit’ a eight second delay.” 

“Sure thing, boss,” replied the donkey-humanoid, galloping out into the hallway. “Hee haw!”

Gneeecey then turned his attention to me. “Hurry, Ig! Go help Stu set up merchoochandise in Studio A. An’ fill the cartridge carousels in the FM studio, take a traaansmitter readin’ while you’re in there, an’ then stop in my office! Then check my e-mails.” 


“An’ then run back to AM—check that transmitter readin’—then go up to dupooplicatin’. Photocopy all these here program logs. SFX: [Rustling Paper]


“An’ stop complaineratin’! Now, throw a few gloortworms to the goonafish. An’ check the alkookalinity in their tank.” 


“But before ya do anythin’, get to TV right away, to help Stu. But do all that other stuff first. But don’t stop to do a single thing before ya go help Stu.” He hurled a reel of audiotape at me. SFX: [Bang] “Make this a TV show!”

“But,” I protested, bending down to pick the metal reel up, “how can anyone possibly—” 

“Ya don’t hafta be a rocket surgeon to know TV’s jus’ radio wit’ pictures. Now do all that junk, but get to TV right away, to help Stu.” 

When I finally zoomed into Studio A, sure enough, there was Stu Pitt, braying as he bustled all over the set with armfuls of shrink-wrapped digital drapes. The curtains’ high-tech fabric actually displayed the time. 

Stu had assembled a strange, one-wheeled bike in front of Studio A’s fake, drape-covered bay window. Five long, thick red rubber bands dangled from the machine’s pulleys. There was no seat. Just a three-inch-long gray curved platform labeled “detachable chin rest.” 

The intern waddled toward me. A small office shredder hung from his puce necktie. “Icky!”

“That’s Nicki,” I replied, gulping for air, having just dashed from FM to Gneeecey’s office to AM to duplicating to the goonafish tank, and finally TV. “Uh, what happened to your tie?” 

Stu giggled. “Oh, I was just multi-tasking again. Aren’cha gonna thank me for doing all your work this morning?” 

I bit my lower lip. Till it almost bled. “Thanks, Stuart.” 

He yanked his tie out of the shredder. “Check this out, Icky! I’ve turned this place into a cool on-location studio—won’t even hafta bother goin’ places anymore!” 


“We got backgrounds for indoors, outdoors, day, night, city and country—and this spiffy wind machine that blows the boss’s ears around! Heee haaaw!” 

“Uh, really cool, Stuart.” 

“And look at these babies here,” he cried, ponytail wagging as he pointed to a panel of multi-colored buttons and switches. “We can make it rain and snow inside—all ya gotta do is pull this red lever up here!” 

“Uh, you’re a real, uh, technical wizard.” 

Blushing, he dumped a load of drapes onto a card table positioned near the peculiar exercise contraption. 

“Stu, what still needs to be done here?” 

“Nuthin’, Icky—I’ve already set everything up—” 

“That’s Nicki—” 

“Oh, and I got a little tip for ya, Icky—boss doesn’t like when ya get to work late. Working in the broadcast biz is a real responsibility. I’m just telling you ’cause you’re new—I’m sure ya wanna stay on his good side—” 

“Didn’t know he had one.” 

Stu’s head whipped around. “What?” 

“Uh, nothing.” 

“Speaking of the boss,” continued the intern, regarding me with raised brows, “he loved my joke about the tension being so thick, ya could cut it with a balloon! Get it? So thick, ya could cut it with a balloon!” 

“Yeah, Stuart, I get it all right.” 

“Ig!” shouted Gneeecey, blustering into the room like an ill wind. “Why’re ya jus’ standin’ there? Aaah, good boy, Stuey—everythin’s already set up.” 

“I did it all myself.” 

“Ig, ya can learn from Stu here. He’s only been internin’ for six months an’ he awready knows little more than when he first came here. He’s ready to be promotated!” 

Stu grinned. Gneeecey scampered behind the sagging card table and set down his tumbler of Slog. “Let’s get this road on the show, like people from her planet say.” 

“People from her planet actually talk like that?” 

“Yupperooney, Stuey. They certaintaineously do.” 

As Gneeecey and Stu conversed, I lobbed the wad of gum I’d been chewing into Gneeecey’s drink. SFX: [Splash Water 5] The pink blob splashed in and sank to the bottom. At least I still had good aim. 

“Nice tie, Stuey,” commented Gneeecey, just noticing the mangled mess hanging from his intern’s neck. “Now, be sure an’ come in tight on me wit’ that camera at the very end of the show. Someone real important’s waitin’ for me to give him a special Horse Code message usin’ them digital drapes behind me—it’s a matter of life an’ deaf!” 

“Okay, boss!” 

Our cooking show, “Cooking with Cuisine LePot” was just ending. “And you put the rubber chicken in the oven and put the oven in the pot! Until next time, this is Cuisine LePot saying, ‘Yum yum!’”

Stu positioned himself behind the camera and lifted his pudgy hand, cuing Gneeecey with what resembled an obscene gesture on my planet. 

Turns out, for some strange reason, maybe it was stress, Gneeecey thought it was still morning, even though it was after lunch.

“Bad mornin’ everyone,” began Gneeecey, peering into the camera lens. “Welcome to ‘Shoppin’ at Home wit’ GAS.’ As usual, this TV program’s captioned for the sight-impaired. We got lotsa specials today, an’ we’ll be takin’ testimonials. Did ya know it’s Plaaastic Appreciation Month? Buy any two plaaastic products, an’ you’ll receiverate a free gift—a portable, genuine plaaaastic Freak O’Nature Foods umbrella, complete wit’ that famous three-headed hawk logo!” 

Stu trembled and twitched as no doubt he visualized shielding himself from his new on-location studio’s electronically-generated elements, with his very own Freak O’Nature bumbershoot. The more vividly he daydreamed, the more he squirmed. And the more he squirmed, the more tangled his right foot became in the noisy, snapping red rubber bands attached to a second nearby partially-assembled exercise machine. SFX: [Rubber Bands] Neither he nor Gneeecey seemed to hear the noise they made.

“Okay, folks,” said Gneeecey, sipping his Slog and screwing up his snoot, “we got this authentic plaaastic battery opooperated gigaaantical repooplica of Earth’s quaint Stonehenge that I happen to be wearin’ here on my wrist. It’s a space age watch, wit’ a light-sensitive sundial. Even works in the dark! An’ it’s only 99.95!” 

Stu studied his wrist, unaware that the rubber bands were wrapping themselves halfway around his calves. SFX: [Rubber Bands]   

“Call quick, folks—we got a limited supply!” warned Gneeecey. “Dial ‘Gimmeee That’!  G - I - M - M – E - E  - D – A - T.’ Our opooperators standin’ by in Hemlock Heights’ll take your order. An’ stay tuned—we’ll be right back wit’ our new non-acoustic laundry detergent—for that clean quiet ya jus’ love to hear—plus a bran’ new product specially formulizated to soothe your nauseous feet!” 

Gneeecey then held a pair of three-legged, kelly green pantyhose up to the camera. “Lemme cut through the sizin’ confusionism for youse. The small-large is small, the medium runs large, but the large-medium’s smaller than the large, even though the large is small.” 

Whenever I attempted to signal Stu that a half-dozen rubber bands had wrapped themselves around his leg, he and Gneeecey shushed me. So, I decided to mind my own business. 

“An’ now,” announced Gneeecey, “here’s a testimonial! Hi, Aboobigail, where ya callin’ from?”

“I’m calling from New Buttzville, and I’m thrilled to be talkin’ to yooou,” gushed an older female. “This pantyhose is great! I use the third leg as a tail warmer!” 

“What a faboobulous idea! Thanks, Aboobigail! Now, on to our next product!” 

When, due to my missing lunch, my empty stomach roared, Gneeecey and wiggling Stu shot me dirty looks. Well, Stu wasn’t wiggling all that much. Gneeecey was hawking something that didn’t really interest Stu—the strange machine just like the half-put-together one whose rubber bands were climbing his right leg. SFX: [Rubber Bands]

“It’s the amazin’ BlabbaFlabb exercise system! Blab your flab away! First, this master plaaastic elaaastic band attaches to your jaw—one size fits all! Next, ya attach these other four miercolated bands to your hands an’ feet. Ya can use this here chin rest, or ya can go freestyle, like meee,” suggested Gneeecey. He attached one band to his yapper and the others to his hands and feet. He tossed the gray chin rest over his shoulder. 

“So,” he added, “ya  jus’ go about your business—ya won’t even know ya have your BlabbaFlabb exercise system on. I’m gonna wear it for the resta this show!” 

Gneeecey’s arms and legs whipped around in fifty directions as each syllable spewed out of his blabbering snout. He resembled a malfunctioning windmill. “Order now an’ we’ll send ya some fries to chew on— free! Whole thing’s just 299.99!” 

Stu, perking up at the notion of food, resumed wriggling, and the rubber bands climbed above his knee. SFX: [Rubber Bands]

“Time for our laaast item,” declared Gneeecey, the BlabbaFlabb’s pulleys spinning so fast that they were barely visible. 

“This is the product that enaboobled me to start this network—our Digital Drapes! We got an overstock, so today, we’ll be offerin’ ’em at jus’ 19.95!” 

As Stu danced, one of his rubber bands crossed over from his right ankle to his left. He didn’t notice.

“What a great product!” exclaimed Gneeecey. “How many times have ya asked yourself, ‘What time is it? My clock has stopped an’ my watch is broke! If only I had curtains that told the time!’”

Enraptured by his boss’s passionate presentation, Stu wept softly. 

“An’,” added Gneeecey, “how many times have ya said, ‘My calendar is busted! What day is it? What’s the tempooperature outside? If only my drapes could tell me!” 

Stu nodded his prickly head in agreement. 

“Not only will our Digital Drapes give ya a read-out of the time, date, an’ tempooperature on their high-tech surface—they’ll even play Planet Eccchs’s anthem— at the top of every hour!” 

Stu sighed. 

“You’ll feel more secure too—they automatically open an’ close every ten seconds, whenever you’re not home! Plus they’ll open your bottles an’ cans, do your taxes, fry your goonafish, an’ dice your veggies!” 

Stu was sobbing again. 

“But wait—there’s more! Their sturdy plaaastic rod makes ’em ideal for hangin’ everythin’ from wet underwear to decorative poultry, like dead rubber chickens for the holidays! Plus, ya can use ’em to dry your hands, wipe your nose, polish nearby furniture, an’ even clean up spills!” 

The intern began hyperventilating. 

“Not available in any store, Digital Drapes come in the followin’ colors: yellowed green—which ya see hangin’ here behind me—an’ burgundy blue! An’ y’know whaaat? I’m gonna lower the price today, jus’ ’cause I like youse!” 

Stu gasped. 

“How much,” Gneeecey asked, “do ya think you’d hafta pay for a product packed wit’ so many spectakookular features?” 

For emphasis—and with great effort, as his rubber bands had other plans for him—Gneeecey pounded a fist on the mound of drapes heaped in front of him. SFX: [Bang]

What happened next was sheer poetry in motion. As the overloaded table collapsed, Gneeecey’s flailing limbs became entangled in the window’s display curtains. They had begun opening and closing behind him, all by themselves. 

Gneeecey and the entire rapidly fluttering set—rods and all—tumbled to the floor. SFX: [Bang x 3] SFX: [Fabric Tear] Arms and legs revolving, the canine-humanoid poked his head out of the mess. “Hallllp!” 

Coming to his boss’s aid, a bug-eyed Stu Pitt lunged forward, only to be snapped backward with equal force by the rubber bands that had become his newest, most affectionate friends. SFX: [Rubber Bands]  [Boing] On the rebound, he flew back in his howling boss’s direction, then shot sideways, with sudden violence. 

SFX: [Donkey] Braying like a terrorized mule riding a roller coaster, the hapless intern managed to grab hold of a nearby red lever. A split second later, a trapdoor in the ceiling opened and dumped a half-ton of snow—real snow—on Gneeecey’s noggin. SFX: [Pouring Sand] Only the camera remained upright, still filming. 

SFX: [Fail Horn]

Well, after that little mishap, Gneeecey needed to talk to someone. So, after we finished snow-blowing Gneeecey’s winter wonderland of a head, off to our therapist we went. Lucky for us, the kindly Ingabore Scriblig, otherwise known as Grandma, was able to see Gneeecey, even though, as usual, he arrived late.

SFX: [Magic Spell]

IS: Bad afternoon, Nicki and Diroctor Gneeecey. How doodle you do?

N: Bad afternoon, Grandma, we’re okay, kinda. I’m so sorry we’re late after I promised we’d be on time today. 

G: Speak for your stinkin’ self, Ig. I ain’t kinda okay! An’ yeah, Graaandma, I was kinda worried ’bout your availavoolability after five. 

With that, the good director missed Grandma’s couch and, to add insult to injury, fell on the floor, landing on his butt. SFX: [Boing] [Duck horn]

G: Stinkin’ ow! My bimbus! An’ I wan’cha to know I’m late ’causa cirkookumtaaancial cirkoocumstaaances.

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

G: I do stinkin’ say—an’ it ain’t funny!

IS: Vell den, please tell me, vhat vent so terribly wrong today, Diroctor?

G: Every stinkin’ thing! It was a real stooopid day!

IS: Vell den, tell me vhy vas eet so stupid?

G: Well, first we got to the station late because of the Ig here an’ then she couldn’t even simulcast a six-second delay igzactly wit’ a stinkin’ eight-second delay—” 

IS: Vell, how could anyvun do dat? Dee math doesn’t ewen vork! It doesn’t add up!

G: Whose stinkin’ side are ya on, Grandma? Ya don’t hafta be a rocket surgeon to do radio! Why are youse two lookin’ at each other like that? Y’know, ’causa the Ig here—”

IS: Dat vould be Nicki—”

G: That’s what I said. ’Causa the Ig here not payin’ detention to my signal when I pointed at my lousy neck, the whole stinkin’ county heard me belch on air. Normally I wouldn’t give a deck of vlecks, but it was her fault an’ then my Shoppin’ at Home wit’ GAS got totally ruinated ’causa my display table broke an’ a BlabbaFlabb exercise machine almost ate my intern an’ then a ton of freezin’ cold snow fell outta the ceilin’ an almost busted my dopey noodle! My lousy hair’s still shiverin! An’ then I missed getting’ a very importootant life or deaf message to someone. An’ all this hapoopened ’causa the Ig here got us to work late an’ gave the day a lousy start an’ made everythin’ else hapoopen! Why are youse two lookin’ at each other like that again?

IS: Vell, Diroctor, it sounds like maybe you could try getting up just fifteen minutes earlier on vork mornings.

G: Well Graaandma, that’s no good if my left sneaker’s lost an’ my lousy nose starts runnin’ an’ I put my underpaaants on backwards an’ that gigaaantical Poe Crow keeps sittin’ outside on the ledge screamin’, “Nevermore! Nevermore!” when I’m havin’, y’know, my usual bat’room probooblems ’causa my lousy health cigars ain’t workin’ propooperly an’ my stinkin’ lucky socks are makin’ the whole livin’ room smell bad ’cause they’re lost somewhere inside the piano an’ I’ll have a real baaad day if I don’t wear ’em an’ I can’t find the toy surprise inside my box of Crack O’Dawn cereal an’ the whole time the Ig is jus’ staaandin’ there makin’ me more nervoovous ’cause she’s waitin’ by the door an’ keeps lookin’ at her dumb watch that always runs too faaast!

IS: Vell, eet sounds like maybe you could try to, you know, organize tings a little more, dee night before.

G: Tell that to the Ig here! Perhaphoops she could get up earlier!

N: [whispers]“Why? So I could stare at my watch longer?”

G: Why are ya whispooperin’, Ig? An’ why are youse two lookin’ at each other like that again?

IS: Before vee vork on your learning to take personal responsibility and not blaming odders, Diroctor Gneeecey, I vant you to try to do vhat I suggested. Get ready as much as you can dee night before, and set your clock to get up just a little earlier in dee morning. Now, vhat hawe you learned today?

G: Not to lock the horse’s mouth after the barn door escapes?

SFX: [Fail Horn]

Y’know, I’m tired just thinking of that whole day! So, I’m gonna make myself a nice cup of tea 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] ###