Sports in Outer Space (A Little Celestial Cross-Training)

“Sports in Outer Space (A Little Celestial Cross-Training),” Episode 11

An exhausted, overworked and demoralized Nicki Rodriguez finds herself sailing through space atop a diaphanous oval spinning golf course. A gleeful Gneeecey, golf bag slung over his shoulder, skips down the celestial fairway, mocking the planets in Earth’s solar system. He is intent on destroying each orb systematically. Nicki begs him to stop, but to no avail. She is incredibly distraught when Gneeecey turns his attention to her planet and the sun.

After that nightmare, Nicki schedules a solo therapy session with veggie meatball maven/licensed therapist Ingabore Scriblig, AKA “Grandma.” When Gneeecey crashes the session, and Grandma advises him that he must schedule appointments with her, he says something that, as usual, makes sense only to him. 

Vicki, Nicki, Grandma, and even Gneeecey thank Marysol Cerdeira Rodriguez, Sandi Solá, Sal Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, and Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera for being generous supporting members via BuyMeACoffee.com! We appreciate their sponsorship 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!

Transcript

Transcript / “Sports in Outer Space (A Little Celestial Cross-Training)” -  Episode 11,  
written by Vicki Solá 

All content © 2021 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…. SFX: [Magic Spell]

[Music bed]  

Hey there, Nicki Rodriguez here, welcoming you to this week’s episode of “Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy.” My alter ego Vicki and I would like to give special thanks to Marysol Cerdeira Rodriguez, Sal Solá, Sandi Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, and Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera for helping us out greatly by being generous supporting members through BuyMeACoffee.com! 

Now, as you may know, being trapped in the wacko, unearthly dimension of Perswayssick County, living with and working thirteen-hour days eight days a week for zany, greedy, alien, walking, talking Jack Russell dog Gneeecey was, well, not easy. Neither was sneaking around, desperately searching the four floors of Gneeecey’s pigsty of a mansion for my missing portfolio case containing ten thousand hard-earned dollars. And my dimension burn, featuring purplish skin and weakened legs, was no walk in the park. This particular night I’ve just remembered, I was feeling totally dog-tired….

SFX: [Magic Spell]

“Mangy megalomaniac mutt,” I hissed, pulling my itchy, egg yolk-colored blanket up over my head. Out of habit, I switched my friend, GAS Broadcast Network co-worker Cleve Wheeler’s palm-sized radio on. One of the few things I looked forward to was listening to “Normal Commentaries” under the covers. SFX: [Scary Ambience] But now, thanks to those evil alien Markmen—the creeps that Gneeecey always seemed to kiss up to, Normal Radio 98.6 FM broadcasted only static. The creeps had burned that radio station to the ground. And gotten away with it, as usual.

I had hoped to apply for a job at Normal Radio and leave my lousier-than-lousy-in-every-way gig at Gneeecey’s GAS communications empire. Sighing, I yanked the plug out of my ear and stashed the tiny receiver behind the cardboard box by my mattress. Still couldn’t afford to buy a nightstand—or my own radio, on what Gneeecey paid me. 

Meanwhile, I could hear Gneeecey across the hall, raiding the refrigerator, noisily stuffing his food-sucking face with three-week-old goonafish salad—that is, greens peppered with the county’s infamous luminous blue two-tailed, headless fish. Also on Gneeecey’s nightly menu were Mrs. Dammit’s moldy molderberry pie and sauteed rusty nails. Rasputin had nothing on Gneeecey. 

And, as usual, Gneeecey jabbered away on the telephone, spitting food bullets all over its mouthpiece. “Well,” he shouted, probably at another reporter who had obtained his unlisted number, “redivloppment’s divloppin’ a stinkin’ place that’s awready been divlopped!”

SFX: [Scary Ambience]

Yep, it was all about the upcoming vote on Referendum 345…and Mierk, a mucky manufacturing byproduct of miercoles that covered the Perswayssick’s riverbanks. The substance was highly toxic and hazardous to the health of county citizens. Referendum 345 called for redevelopment of the riverbank area and the banning of mierk. The Markmen did not want that to happen…and neither did Gneeecey. He was afraid of those nasty guys.

I could hear Gneeeey’s red high-top sneaker tapping. “An’,” he added, “that ain’t smart, redoin’ somethin’ that’s awready stinkin’ been done. So, go redivlop ya mother!” He slammed the phone down. SFX: [Bang]

It rang again, two seconds later. SFX: [Phone rings] “Whaaaaat?!” Gneeecey’s harsh tone softened when he heard his intern Stuart Pitt’s jackass voice at the other end. The donkey-humanoid always kissed up to him. “Oh, Stuey— everythin’ okay? Whaaat?! Dinwiddie’s Inflatable Squeak Toys an’ Broadcast Supplies promised me a five-foot banana that would squeak on-air! Squeeze it again, Stuey. . .it still don’t squeak? Shove it in the engineerin’ closet—the Ig will write up an outvoice.” 

I groaned--the Ig was me. And outvoices were the opposite of invoices. Usually, under Gneeecey’s direction, we contested invoices, stating reasons not to pay up and even threatening countersuits. I had a humongous pile of these outvoices on my desk. I was covering for Gneeecey’s eternally absent administrative assistant, Fraxinella, in addition to attending to my own engineering duties for GAS Radio and TV.

As usual, I had a whole lot of unpleasantness to process at the end of a day in Perswayssick County. Finally, my heavy lids closed….

SFX: [Scary Background II]

Then, suddenly, standing there in front of me was Gneeecey. 

“What’re you doing?” I demanded, chills running down my spine. 

“Whatever I stinkin’ want—as usual.” Eyeing me defiantly, the white-and-black canine-humanoid hoisted his golf bag up over his shoulder.  

“But,” I protested, hugging a nearby maple tree, to keep from flying off the spinning golf course as it hurtled through blackness, “you can’t do that—” 

“I said, I’ll do what I stinkin’ want!” He caught Earth’s cratered moon as it flew by his nose, and he plunked it into a plastic hole. It clunked loudly. SFX: [Golf Ball in Hole]

“Hole-in-one! Pockmarked thing deserves to stay in that matter-eatin’ black hole—your lousy moon ain’t even green. An’ it ain’t made of cheeeeese—almost busted my lousy tooth!” 

“Diroctor—” 

“There weren’t no man in it neitherwise. For Bogelthorpe’s sake, it’s jus’ a crummy ol’ rock!” 

The tree I clung to disintegrated, and I tumbled to the ground. 

“Looky!” squealed Gneeecey, sprinting down the disc-shaped field. “Snatturn—the planet named after Snatturday!”

On Gneeecey’s Planet Eccchs and in his dimension of Perswayssick County, the days of the week were named as follows: Someday, Mondistink, TooStank, WetNoodlesDay (where Gneeecey expected his employees to work upside-down), Thirtsy, FriedEgg, and Snatturday.

I stumbled back to my feet and lumbered after the crazed canine-humanoid. Gneeecey snatched the volleyball-sized planet’s ring and slapped it over his head. “A halo!” 

Still rotating, the grooved band slipped down around his stubby neck. 

“Now,” I observed, “it’s gonna choke you!”

“Not no more!” he yelled, yanking it up over his noggin and tossing it with all his might. SFX: [Swish] I shivered as the glittering, multi-banded swirl of rocks and ice sliced through space like a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee. 

“Now, your Pluto’s a real nuthin’!” he whooped, racing over to the edge of the lush, diaphanous green. “No wonder youse Earth humans demoted it from bein’ a planet!” He leaned forward, plucked the frozen pebble out of its elliptical orbit, and took a bite. SFX: [Chomp]

“Stop!” I pleaded.

“It’s actually a chockookolate-covered raspoopleberry truffle. Kinda sloppy, but tasty.” 

“Diroctor, you don’t eat planets—” 

Gneeecey sucked what was left of the picked-on former planet into his big yapper. He belched. SFX: [Belch] “Scuzipate me.” 

“Don’t think I will,” I replied, shaking my head. 

Next, he pulled a nine iron out of his bag. “Time for a little celestial cross-trainin’. Lessee. . . Jupoopiter’s nex’—red spot on its belly always did get on my nerves. I’m also gonna off that other gasbag, Neptune.” 

“Diroctor—no!” 

“Neptune an’ nuthin’ both got N’s an’ U’s, but borin’ big blue here don’t deserve ’em.”

“I’m freezing and dizzy—” 

“Watch, Ig. I’m puttin’ them two losers in the side pocket—utilizatin’ that rusty planet over there as the cue ball. Y’know, the one youse Earthlin’s named after a candy bar.” 

Gneeecey snapped his fingers, and a spray can materialized. “Gaaas hardener—makes planets bust up better,” he explained, shaking the can, squeezing the nozzle and coating Jupiter and Neptune with a lacquer that smelled like apple pie. SFX: [Spray Can]

He then aimed his iron like a cue stick and smashed Mars into Jupiter, shattering the red planet into a zillion jagged shards. SFX: [Billiard balls] Meanwhile, the spot-bellied ball whirled, at supersonic speed, toward ol’ nuthin’ Neptune, pulverizing it. SFX: [Billiard balls] 

SFX: [Explosion] The explosion sent me flying sideways. Multi-colored sun-lit remnants of the destroyed bodies scattered slowly. 

“Put lotsa English on that one!” he screeched. 

“But you didn’t put ’em in the side pocket, Diroctor.” 

“This was even better—my own Big Bang!” shrieked Gneeecey, skipping down the fairway. “Too baaad we’ll be runnin’ outta planets soon.” 

“C’mon—stop—” 

“Next, I’ll whack Uranus right offa the face of the universe. It don’t deserve its N’s an’ U’s neitherwise—although I do appreciate its heavenly methane aroma.” 

He plunged his honker into the green clouds that covered the gaseous basketball and snorted vigorously. “Mmmmm! What a simpooply divine fragrance—might decide not to off this baby after all. Second thought, UniGeek’s stocks methane-scented aftershave—an’ they sell it wholesale.” 

Gneeecey grabbed his fixative and sprayed Uranus. SFX: [Spray Can]

(I moan.) “You’re sick—” 

Swinging his club like a bat, he smacked the tilted planet out into the stars. SFX: [Wooden Bang] “Hat trick!”

“You’re destroying my solar system!” I shouted. As I fell down flat on my face, I discovered that each blade of grass was translucent. “What’s this, ghost grass? I can see through it.” 

“Astroturf, ya Iggarooney,” he replied, zigzagging over to Venus. “Hot potato! Hot potato! Catch!” 

“Are you freakin’ nuts?” I shouted, running for my life. 

“Stinkin’ thing’s hotter than it looks! Ain’t really a star neitherwise— your dopey sister planet’s an imposter. I’ll confisticate her N an’ U. First, lemme cook a burger!” He plucked a jackass burger patty out of his T-shirt pocket and tossed it at Venus, causing the sphere to sizzle. SFX: [Barbecue Sizzle] “Hey—she burnt my stinkin’ lousy burger!”

“You truly are nuts.” 

“Take this, ya backward-spinnin’ greenhouse!” He slammed the brilliant body into a hole. SFX: [Golf ball in hole] “Birdie! Go fish! Ol’ Maid!” 

Jubilant, he swung at golf-ball-sized Mercury three times and missed. SFX: [Swish x 3]

“You’ve struck out!” I declared. 

“Stinkin’ asteroid threw me off.” He blew a cluster of stray stars over his shoulder. “It’s a do-over.” 

“C’mon, Diroctor Gneeecey—” 

“Mercury, ya piece of charcoal,” he muttered, slapping at a tiny comet as it whizzed by his ear. “Take this, ya hotheaded dwarf!” Gritting his teeth, he smashed the sun’s nearest planet out of sight.

SFX: [Baseball bat crack w/organ]

“Looky, Ig! Even all the Martians are cheerin’ me, even though I destroyed their stooopid plaaanet! Home run!”

“Ground rule double,” I shouted, just to annoy him. 

“Nah, that was a grand slam touchdown! Din’cha see my imaginary runners on base?” 

“I don’t see any runners or bases.” 

“I make the rules.” 

“Diroctor, Earth there’s the size of a softball, and that sun over there is only as big as a beach ball. I read that the sun could hold 1.3 million Earths— plus it’s about 93 million miles away. This solar system here isn’t real—it’s not to scale.” 

He turned toward the only body still orbiting. “Oh, it’s real.” 

“Noooo!” I cried, instantly regretting having mentioned my planet. 

“Now looky here at this dopey blue ball—it’s all wet!” He whipped an aluminum tennis racket out of his suddenly red T-shirt pocket. “Briney lump of mud’s infected wit’ Ig humans like yooou.” 

“Please—don’t!” 

“Hafta! I get a dime for each planet I whack.” 

“Earth’s populated,” I protested. “Teeming with life—just like your Planet Eccchs! You can’t do this!” 

“Nebberd-kinnezzard—an’ where I come from, that means ‘extra never’—tell me I can’t do somethin’.” 

He splashed his grimy fur pinky into the sparkling Atlantic.  SFX: [Splash] “Better be carefoofal—don’t wanna lose a finger in that lousy Bermuda Triangle.” He withdrew his soaked finger and licked it. “A bit on the salty side. An’ this little boat here tastes like a cruise ship.” 

“Stop it—now!” I begged.

“Want me to make Earth safe for demockookracy?” 

“Just leave it alone!” 

“It is alone, Ig—all alone. Finally get to use this here really cool aluminizated, official replooplica of a Wimboobledon tournament racket.” 

Whistling, he lobbed Earth out of the solar system. SFX: [Whoosh] [Splash] As the shimmering planet sailed over my head, an arcing trail of chilly ocean water sprayed my cheek. Reflected brilliantly in each drop were all the colors of the rainbow. I picked a transparent, ant-sized porpoise out of my eye and placed it in my left palm. And I watched helplessly as the feathery layer of clouds that encircled my runaway world streamed away, flinging a microscopic flock of birds into oxygen-less oblivion. 

“Well Ig, like they say, ya can never go home. An’ now, ya never will.” 

I gazed out into the frigid heavens, then down at my hand. My squealing porpoise had morphed into a lifeless, cellophane facsimile of itself—a smiling, cartoon-like creature. 

“Got one of your planet’s lousy evergreens stuck in my teeth,” complained Gneeecey, picking at his fangs with the edge of a bent golf scorecard. “Prickly—tastes kinda like brockookoli.” 

“Diroctor,” I stammered through chattering teeth, “I can’t breathe!” 

“Why, that’s ’cause there ain’t no air here.” 

“But—but, you’re breathing—” 

“How many times do I gotta tell ya? I make the rules.” 

Gneeecey bopped up to the sun. Blazing brightly, it hovered about a foot above the center of the golf course. “Glad it’s night!” He flashed a devilish grin. “Couldn’t do this durin’ daytime.” 

“Nooo!” I screamed, shielding my eyes. 

“Ya big spotted furnace—ya ain’t as hot as ya think! I’m not even breakin’ a sweat. Okay, here goes—” 

“No! Diroctor, I beg you—” 

“No more solar acne flare-ups for yooou—it’s curtains, big guy.” 

I stood there paralyzed. 

Gneeecey winked as he extracted a gigantic pair of mirrored sunglasses from his pocket and clamped them over his snout. The sun’s blinding image reflected off each lens. He rubbed his palms together. “Awready made eighty-five cents! SFX: [Clinking Coins] They’ll only gimme a nickel for Pluto an’ the moon—but I’ll get a whole buckerooney for puttin’ out this bad boy!” 

“Nooooooooo!” I wailed.

“Adds up to a buck-eighty-five. Plus, today I discovered that secret compartment in your poopfolio!”

“I knew it all along! You did steal my portfolio case!” 

“Yep, Ig, an’ I found all your mon-ney.” 

“Why you—” 

“Once I put the kibosh on your lousy sun, I’ve actually earned ten thousand-one bucks an’ eighty-five cents! Not bad for a day’s work, huh, Ig?” 

A sparkling gold hoop earring suddenly sprouted out of his left ear. 

I crumpled to my knees. 

“Now, lemme make a wish before I blow it out!” Gneeecey puckered up, and with ease, blew out Earth’s mighty five-billion-year-old star, extinguishing it forever. SFX: [Blowing] [Fail Horn]

Sobbing, I rolled off my undersized, spring-popping mattress and onto the floor of the undersized utility closet that had been converted into what Gneeecey called a “guestroom.” 

That next day, I scheduled an appointment with Gneeecey’s therapist, veggie meatball maven Ingabore Scriblig, also known as “Grandma.” I went without Gneeecey.

SFX: [Magic Spell]

IS: Hallo, Nicki, how doodle you do?

N: Hi, Grandma, not that great. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.

IS: You are wery velcome, Nicki. 

N: You know, the nightmare I had last night—the one I mentioned on the phone—was absolutely terrifying!

IS: Yah, Nicki, I can only imagine. I tink vee may be able to talk more freely about dis vit’out, you know, Gneeecey. Now, I tink dis terrible dream may represent—

SFX: [Door Opens]

G: Heya Graaandma! Heya Ig!

N: What—what are you doing here?

IS: Yah, vhat are you doing here?

G: I saw the Ig’s car outside, so I figured I’d come in!

IS: But, Diroctor Gneeecey, you don’t hawe an appointment scheduled today. 

G: I don’t stinkin’ need to make no stooopid scheduled apperntments. I’m meeee, the Grate One! Around here, I rule!

IS: I don’t care who you are. Scheduled appointments are not stupid. Dey are necessary. Do you understand vhy? 

G: Yeah. Baked pigeons can’t fly into your mouth if it’s closed.

IS: Vhat?

N: What?

SFX: [Fail Horn]

Nicki Rodriguez here, hoping you enjoyed our latest episode! Again we thank Marysol Cerdeira Rodriguez, Sal Solá, Sandi Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, and Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera for being generous supporting members through BuyMeACoffee.com!  

And hello to everyone listening to us on the U.S mainland and Puerto Rico, plus Kenya and India—special shout-outs to our many listeners in Delhi, and New Delhi, and Kolkata in West Bengal. And hello to Germany, Denmark, Ireland, Thailand, Sweden, the United Kingdom, and New Zealand! And a big welcome to our new listeners in Nigeria! Thank you so very much for checking out “Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy!” Please tell a friend!

And now, it’s time to turn it back over to my alter ego, Vicki. Be well and safe!

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] ###