Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy

Me and Gneee (or Nice to Meet You...I Think)

January 25, 2022
Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy
Me and Gneee (or Nice to Meet You...I Think)
Show Notes Transcript

“Me and Gneee (or Nice to Meet You…I Think),” Episode 25

After her explosive accidental arrival in unearthly Perswayssick County, red-caped canine-humanoid superhero Sooperflea drives Nicki to his best buddy’s greasy eatery, Gneeezle’s. She meets zany, multi-titled Jack Russell-like canine-humanoid Gneeecey—the dive’s owner, the GAS Broadcast Network CEO, and also the county’s Grate Gizzygalumpaggis-elect.

Alas, Gneeezle’s menu features nothing edible unless you yearn for rocks, sauteed nuts and bolts, algae-covered tire gauges, and stewed athletic socks. Rasputin had nothing on these folks!

We thank Marysol Rodriguez, Sandi Solá, Sal Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera, Diane L., and Toni Aponte, for being generous supporting members via BuyMeACoffee.com! We appreciate their sponsorship and support more than words can say! 

https://buymeacoffee.com/Perswayssick (Please support us with a one-time gift or monthly sponsorship amount—various levels available—to help keep us coming to you via BuyMeACoffee.com! We’ll shout you out during our podcast episodes and in our show notes here, plus supply you with more fun perks!)  

https://www.amazon.com/Vicki-Sola/e/B07J29RVMQ (Amazon Author Page, check out our Gneeecey/Nicki e-books and paperbacks!)

https://www.nfreads.com/interview-with-author-vicki-sola/ (Interview with Vicki Solá)

https://perswayssickradio.buzzsprout.com (right here, our Buzzsprout website w/episodes & transcripts!)   

And much thanks to disproportionately cool artist Jay Hudson for our podcast logo! https://yojayhudson.com/

This Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy podcast is made possible in part by a generous grant from The Ardelle Institute, providing Executive Coaching for aspiring and established professionals who want to develop their careers, including upwardly-mobile executives, professionals who may be in between jobs, and college graduates transitioning to the workforce.  The Ardelle Institute helps with resumes, cover letters, LinkedIn profiles, interview skills, and effective job search strategies.  For more information, please call (201) 394-6939, that's (201) 394-6939, or visit them on the web at ardelle-institute.com, that's A-R-D-E-L-L-E dash institute dot com. Take it from me, Gneeecey!

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Transcript / “Me and Gneee (or, Nice to Meet You…I Think)” Episode 25, written by Vicki Solá. 

All content © 2022 Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy.

Music/Intro: Hi there, I’m author and radio host Vicki Solá, welcoming you to Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy. I invite you to escape with me into the bizarre dimension of Perswayssick County, where wackiness rules! The laughs begin when I morph into my alter ego, radio DJ Nicki Rodriguez and clash with the zany, alien canine-humanoid Gneeecey!

And now, I turn it over to my other self, Nicki….

SFX: [Magic Spell]

DOCTOR ALEXANDRA C. IDNAS: Vell, Nicki, it’s so vunderful dat you are triumphing over your amnesia caused by your dimension burn—your accidental travels betveen your Earth and our dimension of Persvayssick County! You are remembering a great deal, in detail, and in seqvential order! 

NICKI RODRIGUEZ: Yes, Doctor Idnas. I’m very pleased, and relieved as well! Weak leg muscles and purple skin are bad enough! 

INGABORE SCRIBLIG, AKA, GRANDMA: Yah! As Doctor Idnas says, vee are so pleased about dis breakthrough. Vee vere able to get to such a place, vitout even employing hypnosis. Now, in last veek’s session, you told us about how you first arrived in Persvayssick County, trough dat big explosion vhile you vere driving.

N: Yes, Mrs. Scriblig—

IS: Call me Grandma—remember?

N: Yes, Grandma, sorry…hopefully, my short-term memory will remain intact now!

DI: Don’t vorry, it vill, Nicki, you’ve been trough so much. Now, you told us about how you ended up on dee Persvayssick River Bridge and how an invisible force pushed your car off dee bridge.

IS: Yah, and how Diroctor Gneeecey’s best friend, fellow canine-humanoid superhero Sooperflea zoomed underneath your car before it could go into dee river or hit dry land, and he rescued you.

N: Yes, Grandma, he rescued me and drove me into Perswayssick City. His ability to read my mind freaked me out more than a little, and his driving was kinda horrible, but wow, what a nice guy—hard to believe that Sooperflea is actually—

SFX: [Door Opens] [Burp]

GNEEECEY: Best friends wit’ meee?

N: I didn’t say that—you did!

DI: Diroctor Gneeecey, vhat are you doing here?

IS: Yah, you vere supposed to be avay—in Boooleebeeezia, at a conference on egocentrism. You claim dat you’re an expert!

G: I think youse can agree, I most certaintaneously aaam!

N: Yeah, you told me you’re a keynote speaker, and you’d be busy all week—out in the far reaches of Perswayssick County.

G: Whassamatter? Ain’t youse huuumans hapoopy to see me?

DI: It’s not dat—it’s just dat—

IS: Vee vere just radder surprised—

DI: Yah! Vee vere not expecting you.

N: Yeah, we really didn’t expect you to come bursting through the door here. Even though you usually do.

G: Does a guy always gotta explain not doin’ what he said he was gonna do an’ verse visa? Sheeesh! Jus’ came wit’ this lousy announcement that Iggleheimer Vicki Solá forgot to stinkin’ make. SFX: [Papers Rustle] I’ll stinkin’ do it! Here goes. We wanna thank Marysol Rodriguez, Sal Solá, Sandi Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera, Diane L., and Toni Aponte for bein’ generous supportin’ members of “Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy” through BuyMeACoffee.com. Hope they buy me a coffee too! Heh hah, heh, haah, heh haaah!

Now, I’m still writin’ my speech for the conference. Thought I’d open up wit’ these great words of wisdom:  I stink, therefore I aaam! 

DI: Vee can’t argue vit dat!

IS: Ah, ha, ha, ha, ha! Have a good trip!

SFX: [Boing] [Duck Horn]

G: Ow! Ya wished me to fall on my bimbus, an’ I did! Some appreciation I get! Stinkin’ guh-bye! SFX: [Door Slam]

N: So, as I was saying, before that, uh, interruption, Sooperflea, also known as Flea—his real name is Fleaglossitty Floppinsplodge—well, he was true to his last name, clumsy and flopping all over the place, but he is a really good guy. And on the way, I saw many strange things, including the hideous, huge old refinery known as the Mierkolatory, canine-humanoids and humans existing side-by-side like there were no differences, plus skyscrapers that looked like they were several hundred stories high. And I heard, uh, Gneeecey’s voice on my car radio, on his GAS Broadcast AM and FM stations.

DI: And Sooperflea said he vas bringing you to his best friend’s restaurant.

N: Yes, Doctor Idnas. We arrived there, saw this gigantic white limo slither snake-like around corners, and finally park, taking up a whole city block. Musta had thirty doors on each side. New Jersey license plates said “Grate 1.” Parking, Flea hit a trash can and two parked ambulances, fell out of the car and over a fallen tree. And into Gneeezle’s Restaurant we limped.

DI: Nicki, please tell us vhat happened next.

IS: Yah, Nicki, please do.

SFX: [Magic Spell]

Gneeezle’s, I wondered aloud. “Three E’s in a row—” 

“Spare a vowel, spoil the food!” shrieked a familiar voice from under a deflated chef’s hat. 

“Huh?” 

Jet ink spattered both sides of this canine-humanoid’s cranium and triangular ears and dipped down over his right eye. Dingy white fuzz carpeted his scowling snout. A soiled apron covered his T-shirt. 

“You’re purple,” he observed, staring me up and down. “Ya should see an epidermicist.” 

“What’re you talking about—I—” 

Flea pinched me. His hiccups had suddenly disappeared—the ones he had developed the moment that we pulled up in front of Gneeezles. 

“C’mon in, I guess,” snarled the surly critter. He flung the plate glass door open and shoved past us. “Laaast one in’s a rotten egg!” Flea flew in after him. Seconds later, a grungy index finger pointed my way. “Yooou!” whooped the voice attached, “yooou’re the rotten egg!” 

I bit my lip. So hard that it almost bled. 

“Heya, Zig, whazzup?” inquired Flea, ignoring his buddy’s antics. 

“Price of vowels.” The two canine-humanoids slapped high-fours, sprang up and down rubbing elbows, pranced in clockwise, then counterclockwise circles—hopping on alternating feet—a half-dozen times. 

Afterward, Flea turned to me, winded. “What’s your name again?” 

“Nicki, who needs to get back to the parkway.” 

“Icky!” shouted Flea’s friend. “Icky Parkway—whatta stooopid name!” 

“Nicki,” began Flea, nodding in the loudmouth’s direction, “this is Doctor B.Z.Z. Gneeecey—we jus’ call him Bizzig—or Zig.” 

I gasped. “You mean—that’s—that’s—” 

“That’s Guh-neeecey,” stated Gneeecey, “wit’ three E’s—but’cha only pronounciate two, ’cause one’s a spare. Spares are good—in case ya get a flat.” 

“And,” Gneeecey informed me before I might commit any phonetic blunders, “ya pronounciate the G, but it ain’t spare—ain’t got another.” 

“Y’know,” bragged Flea, “Zig’s known as ‘The Grate One’—” 

“That’s G-R-A-T-E,” interrupted Gneeecey. “Wouldn’t wan’cha to picture it wrong.” 

Didn’t think I would. 

“I suppose,” he said, scratching his noggin through his hat, “I could use that G as a spare, but it might not fit—it’s too used to bein’ near different letters.” 

I extended my hand. “Pleased to meet you, uh, Doctor Gneeecey.” Hmmmph. Doctor, I thought. Doctor of what? Vowels? My dad was a doctor. A real one, who had run a clinic in East Harlem. 

Gneeecey’s snoot wrinkled. 

“C’mon Zig,” coaxed Flea. “I can vouch for her.” 

After an awkward moment, Gneeecey’s hand grasped mine. His bristly fur made me itch. “Zig owns this place,” said Flea, peering into the dark dining room, “plus the GAS Broadcast Network.” 

I perked up. “I work in radio.” 

Gneeecey, still shaking my hand, scrutinized me through narrowed lids. “Guess they’re lowerin’ standards everywhere.” 

“What?” 

“Keep tellin’ her how G-R-A-T-E I am, Fleaglossitty.” 

“Zig’s an inventor, too.” 

Gneeecey’s left sneaker tapped impatiently. “Aaaaan’?” 

Flea adjusted his tattered red cape. The superhero had taken quite a beating on his way from the car into the restaurant, catching his cape in the car door and flopping all over the place. “He’s also chairperson of Perswayssick County’s Quality of Life Commission—” 

“An’,” interrupted Gneeecey, still pumping my arm, “I was jus’ elected Grate Gizzy–” 

“Perswayssick County’s highest office,” explained Flea. 

Gneeecey pounded his sunken chest. “Now, awready—even before my official inordination next week—the freeloaders gotta answer to meee.”

“Ya mean, freeholders.” 

“That’s what I stinkin’ said, Fleaglossitty. Freeloaders. Y’know, I shortened Gizzygalumpaggis to Gizzy ’cause it wasted consonants. No lousy word needs three spare G’s. It was that conversationalist platform that got me elected.” 

“Ya mean conservationist,” said Flea. “That, plus ya swore you’d be held accountable for returnin’ us to—” 

“Enough, Fleaglossitty.” Leaning closer, the furry white-and-black wonder confided, “Most folks say I can do no wrong.” 

Flea grinned. “That’s my best buddy!”

“An’ as Grate Gizzy,” squealed Gneeecey, “I get to oversee myself as Chairperson of the Quality of Life Commission—so even I gotta answer to me. an’ I get to ride horseys!” 

Reeling, I leaned against the wall. 

“It’s tough bein’ me all day,” Gneeecey added. 

“Start a support group for yourself,” suggested Flea, as he lowered himself into the chair I’d been eyeing. 

“Hey,” began Gneeecey, only just noticing the superhero’s scruffy condition, “what happened to you? Your cape an’ nose—” 

“Ain’t nuthin, Zig.” 

“Did sheeee do that?” I gazed down at my muddied maroon shoes. 

“Nah, Zig—I kinda fell outta the car—” 

“Well, ya better go put quarters in that meter before they ticket ya. If they do, don’t expect meee to fix it for ya.” 

“Wait, Flea.” With my free hand, I began digging in my purse for change. 

“Ya let her call ya Flea?!” 

Sooperflea shuffled past his slack-jawed pal. 

“It’s okay, Nicki—I got it.” 

“Gettin’ back to meee,” continued Gneeecey, still shaking my hand, “I do mosta the cookin’, too.” 

“Really?” I answered, my legs crumbling beneath me. 

“I gotta,” he added, in a martyred tone, “till Altitude’s trained. He’s a mouse.” 

“Oh my.” The room began spinning. “Uh, could I sit down somewhere? I feel kinda—” 

“That’s in addition to everythin’ else in my hectic life. Us important people got it real rough.” Suddenly, he cast my hand aside with enough force to dislocate a shoulder, and he covered a small, round object with his foot. As he lurched down, he bashed his honking schnozzle on a tabletop. SFX: [Bang] [Duck Horn] “Ya hunka garbage!” he screeched, kicking the table till splinters and hardware flew. SFX: [Bang] [Wood Demolition Bang] “Die!” The little table stood on one leg, defying him. Gneeecey snatched up a steel rod and smashed the remaining post until it exploded into a fine powder. SFX: [Bang] On its belly, in a cloud of dust, the piece of furniture seemed to plead for mercy. 

Bulgy peepers glazed with hate, Gneeecey displayed a dime. SFX: [Atmosphere] “Finders keepers, losers weepers! Why’re ya lookin’ at me like I’m nuts?” 

As I collapsed into a nearby chair, I tried to quell a slight but nagging notion that I had died. 

“Need that lousy chair inside,” said Gneeecey, as he pulled it out from under me. Mouth gaping, I stumbled backward. 

“Ya look like ya smell somethin’ rotten—whaddaya think this is, Denmark?” 

The place did smell strange. “Now that you mention it—” 

“Let’s sit,” suggested Flea, just walking in and steering me toward the very same seat that had been yanked out from under me, and a table much like the one just murdered. 

Meanwhile, Gneeecey grinned at a jumbo, wall-mounted TV, and his own blabbering likeness, amateurishly superimposed, flying over the Perswayssick River. “Vote no to Question 345 this Octvember 68th—stop the riverfront divlopment!” shrilled his onscreen image, flapping unwashed off-white arms. “An’ save the engendered goonafish!” 

“That was meeee! exclaimed Gneeecey. “Wasn’t that announcement ’bout votin’ against the divlopment real cool?” 

“Uh, yeah, Zig,” replied Flea. “Ya sounded very, uh, natural, speakin’ up against the development.” 

“Mark an’ them’ll love it!” 

“Who?” Wearing a cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin, Gneeecey swaggered into the kitchen. 

SFX: [Fail Horn]

Inside Gneeezle’s, puke-pink, neon-orange, and fluorescent-purple tie-dyed, Haight-Ashbury flower-power ruled, juxtaposed shamelessly with quasi-classical Greek furnishings. Scores of poorly-reproduced vases, repainted in brilliant black light colors, sat scattered throughout the lava lamp-infested dive. Some housed raspy rindom stalks. Others contained drooping ferns. Our table, lit by a particularly lurid violet fixture, tottered precariously whenever we moved so much as an elbow. A framed caricature of Socrates gripping a goblet engraved “hemlock” graced a nearby wall. Captioning underneath read, “Sock it to me!” Its companion piece, an illuminated, life-sized Bacchus, clenched a froth-filled mug. Each time the jovial immortal’s mechanical fist hoisted the vessel over his head, he winked. And his motorized mouth opened, exposing a neon ad for Perswayssick Breweries’ full-bodied, rindom-based Slog. The schizophrenic scheme extended back to the kitchen’s chipped steel doors, where two Greek pillars, obviously plastic, stood guard. 

Framed by his fake Greek columns, Gneeecey stared into space, wielding an oversized ladle. I held up a cruddy, bent utensil. “Fork’s a tad dirty.” 

“Ain’t nuthin’ wrong wit’ that utensicle—it’s jus’ a little oxidated. Ya oxidate when ya breathe.” 

“I just meant—” 

“An’ a few germs won’t kill ya, neitherwise—they immunizate ya.” 

“She jus’ meant,” began Flea, “y’know—” 

“I stinkin’ know what the Iggleheimer meant! Everything here’s quaquaversically quarantined to be clean, unless it ain’t.” 

My bleary eyes rolled up to the ceiling, one high enough to accommodate the six-foot-plus, waxy-skinned humanoid staring our way. SFX: [Scary Ambience] Flea tugged on Gneeecey’s grimy apron. “Why’s that creepy dude wit’ the amber skin keep lookin’ at us?” 

“That’s my friend Mark.” 

“Ya never mentioned him before.” 

“He’s a new friend.” 

“Why’s he keep lookin’ at us?” 

“Maybe,” suggested Gneeecey, waving to the humorless gray-suited man, “he wants to order take-out for his brothers.” 

“Don’t think so,” replied Flea, as Mark disappeared into the gloomy shadows. SFX: [Fail Horn]

Leafing through Gneeezle’s menu, I wondered if I was on my own planet. 

“Y’know, Zig,” began Flea, patting his cute round belly, “the malted cauliflower sounds delicious.” 

“We’re outta that.” 

“Okay—I’ll have Surprise Stew, then. An’ bring me a mug of Slog. Wit’ extra pulp. But put it in the freezer first, for about ten minutes.” 

“Gotta charge ya for the extra pulp,” growled Gneeecey, scribbling away. His ladle protruded from his underarm like an extra appendage. Flea licked his shiny black lips. “An’ bring me some of them Swillsville Crackers.” 

“Don’t eat wit’ your eyes, Fleaglossitty.” 

“An’ gimme a couple squirts of Zurt.” 

“I’ll hafta charge ya an extra buck for each squirt.” 

“An’ tell me, are your Slothflogs fresh today?” 

Gneeecey crossed his arms. “Ya think I’m gonna say no?” 

“I’ll find out for myself.” 

Gneeecey jammed his face into mine. He had dog breath. “Well, whaddaya waaant awready?” 

“Y’know,” I replied, backing away, breathing through my mouth, “I’m really not very—” 

“Course ya are,” interrupted Flea. “Your stomach’s rumblin’!” Turned off by the alien aromas wafting through the air and a sign that warned, “Don’t Wake the Food!” I closed my menu. 

“Nicki, it’s on me,” declared Flea. “Don’t even look at prices.” 

“Whaddayathink this is?” screamed Gneeecey, pounding a fist on our table, SFX: [Table Pound] {Ceramic Dish] causing it to rock. “A stinkin’ soup kitchen? Your account’s delinquent— an’ now I’m supposed to eat her dinner?” 

All things considered, that last suggestion wasn’t bad. 

“And,” he bellowed, “when our Planet Eccchs uploads my books, your account gathers thirteen months’ interest!” 

Flea shrugged. 

“Thirteen months daily compounderated interest!” 

The superhero rose to his size-thirteen paddles. “Zig, do I hafta remind ya ’bout the time I saved your—”

Gneeecey reached back and grabbed his backside. “How dare ya mention that?! Why yoooou—I’m gonna—hmmm—grfff—” Gneeecey’s arms and legs sliced through the air as his threats deteriorated into unintelligible shrieks. Gneeezle’s patrons didn’t raise their heads. Maybe the food had deadened their senses. After several minutes, Gneeecey slumped over our table, spent. He’d bent the long handle of his ladle into a Z. 

“Election took a lot outta him,” whispered Flea. “Everyone wants a piece of him.” 

“So, whaddaya waaant awready?” Gneeecey demanded, firing spit into my face with each syllable. 

“Uh. . .I think I’ll have some of that Chinese take-out from next door,” I replied, squirming. “Listed here, under entrées.” 

“Wong’s is closed!” SFX: [Fail Horn] [Magic Spell]

A steady stream of high-decibel expletives—punctuated by crashes and smashes SFX: [Metal Crashes]—poured out of the kitchen. I glanced over at Flea. “Be charitable,” he advised, crunching on appetizers that resembled a rock collection I had when I was seven. “He’s had lots to overcome in his life.” 

Just then, Gneeecey, an avant-garde vision in soot, burst through the doors. “A boiled pot never watches,” he grumbled, plopping down next to me. Before he caught his breath, a brass band struck up a dirge-like rendition that reminded me of “Four-and-twenty Blackbirds.” 

Gneeecey and Flea shot up so fast, they nearly toppled the table. Facing the television hung over the slog bar, the two placed their hands over their hearts. As their tragic anthem blared, a lone tear streamed down Gneeecey’s cheek. “My plaaanet,” he bleated, blowing his nose in his hat. SFX: [Nose Blow] 

Onscreen, cameras panned across an orange-and-green octagonal field. Its vivid patterns created an illusion of movement, making my woozy head swirl. Commentators marveled at the legions of fans that packed the arena, waving purple-and-orange “X” banners in support of their visiting planet’s underdog team. 

“Those X’s,” Flea informed me, “are short for E-C-C-C-H-S.” 

“Saves lotsa C’s,” added Gneeecey. “Game’s startin’!” 

Emblazoned on a giant scoreboard was “Planet Eccchs Gnorks vs. Home Planet Zoid III.” Gneeecey shot me a haughty, sidelong glance. “I’m from a consonant-rich planet. Where are yooou from?” 

“Earth.” Couldn’t believe I’d just said that. 

“Earth—sounds so puny—” 

“C’mon, Zig—” 

“Say it over an’ over again! Earth! Earth! Sounds meanin’less after a while, don’t it?” 

Sighing, I glanced up at the screen. Attired in baggy purple-and-orange suits, matching football helmets, and monstrous kelly-green masks, the Gnorks rushed the field. Zoid III’s smug players, already in formation, sported streamlined silver uniforms. 

Flea stuffed an onion-like, three-legged Slothflog in his kisser. “Our Gnorks are finally contenders.” 

“Congratulations.” I knew what it was like to root for the New York Mets. 

“We’re playin’ the toughest team in the quadrant. But we got Gronkle.” 

“Highest-paid player this side of the universe,” added Gneeecey, tearing past with a toilet plunger. 

“But,” cautioned Flea, “we’re not used to Zoid III’s zloggy atmosphere. Our fans are wearin’ masks. See all those purple nurkzoog particles floatin’ ’round?” 

“Yes,” I replied, hoping that a football game might steady my nerves before I hit the parkway. 

“No—zorgle’s more like football, baseball, an’ bowlin’ combined,” stated Flea. “And this game’s also known as belchball.”

“Hey—you said your telepathy wasn’t—” 

“Sorry—I jus’ guessed wha’cha were thinkin’.” 

“Play zorgle!” bellowed an argyle-tuxedoed referee as whistles screeched. SFX: [Referee Whistles] [Baseball Crowd] Roars erupted from the stadium and Gneeezle’s slog-chugging crowd. Gneeecey tossed plates and bowls at our table SFX: [Bang] {Dish Ceramic] as he dashed from the dining room to the kitchen. 

“Watch it!” warned Flea, dodging a plum-colored flying saucer. Egg-shaped eyeballs glued to the screen, Gneeecey pitched a jumble of unmatched utensils our way, SFX: [Metal Crash] coaching his team all the while. “Zorg! Don’t let ’em plook! Defense! Defense!” He ran backward through the kitchen doors and landed on his butt. It honked loudly. SFX: [Boing] [Duck Horn] “Ow! My bimbus!”

Seconds later, he emerged, hauling a steaming, mustard-colored bucket across the orange tiles. Teeth clenched, he lifted it up to our table. “Here’s your lousy stew.” 

Flea salivated as cloudy amber broth rained into Gneeecey’s oversized dish, along with a canvas upper, some bottle caps, a seaweed-covered tire gauge, and several blue blobs from the river. 

“I’m givin’ me an’ you the best, right offa the top,” proclaimed Gneeecey, pouring out a smaller portion for Flea. 

A gallon or two later, the chef turned to me, and swearing under his breath, dumped remnants into my cup—an athletic sock, some screws, and a clump of something green. The two canine-humanoids took little notice of what they gobbled so ravenously—and noisily. Folks here obviously had different nutritional requirements. And strong tooth enamel. Gneeecey accidentally stuck his elbow in my soup and shot me a dirty look. I didn’t give a deck of vlecks. I’d pick up a snack soon, at a parkway rest stop. Or hopefully, just wake up and raid my own refrigerator. 

SFX: [Baseball Crowd] [Referee Whistles]

Suddenly, my dinner companions bounced up, slapping high-fours. 

“Second time ever,” exclaimed the sportscaster, “that the Gnorks have plooked a triple-boinger!”

“Is that like a grand slam?” I asked. 

Gneeecey sneered. “Better.” 

“And there’s Gronkle,” added a second TV commentator, “circling the field as his fans cheer, many wearing big, floppy ears like his. He’s a huge guy, about eight-vlurd-five.” 

Flea grinned. “Gronkle’s triple puts us ahead, three-zip!

“Y’know, Fleaglossitty,” began Gneeecey, slurping his slop, “this reminds me of the time I threw up in Seemingwhale’s—remember?” 

“Yeah. Last year, in electronics.” 

“The Gnorks had just plooked their first triple-boinger. They showed it over an’ over, on every TV in the whole department.” 

Flea stuffed a fistful of wiggly Slothflogs in his face and washed ’em down with a hardy gulp of Slog. “I hadda find a janitor.” 

Queasy enough already, I turned my attention to the game. It appeared that when a zorgler managed to run through the line of tacklers and toss a wooden bat over his adversaries’ goal post, then, he’d attempt running eight bases placed helter-skelter across the field and then try to roll the heavy black ball known as a belchball into his own team’s net. All the while, his opponents chased him. His own teammates did little more than hurl insults at the enemy. Each hard-won, completed task was considered a “boinger” and earned one “zoing.” When a player completed all three boingers, he’d have zorgged, or plooked, a triple-boinger. The referees would yell, “go fish! Boing three!” Most players never got past the first boinger. 

“Let’s celebrate,” suggested Gneeecey. “Let’s have pizza for dessert—it rhymes wit’ our dinner.” SFX: [Referee Whistle]

I looked at him. “Pizza doesn’t rhyme with stew.” 

“It’s the taste,” he explained, eyeing me with a mixture of pity and contempt. “Pizza rhymes wit’ our dinner’s taste.”

 “I want ice cream on mine,” said Flea. 

“One scoop or two?” asked Gneeecey. 

“Two. Any chicken flavor left?” 

“Yupperooney—that’s my favorite, too.” 

“Don’t forget the whipped cream!” 

Gneeecey sprinted into the back and returned, schlepping a corroded aluminum tray dripping with red sauce. In the center, atop two triangular slices of cheese-covered dough, sat four mounds of a frozen, whipped cream-topped gray concoction that smelled like a supermarket’s meat aisle. 

Flea’s eyes widened with delight. The two plunged in, muzzle-first, surfacing only for air. SFX: [Dog Eating] Grossed out, I turned my attention to the TV, where a blinking, eight-hosed, high-suction vacuum slithered around, devouring everything and anything in its way—including a lamp. SFX: [Vacuum] “Commercial’s kinda long, isn’t it?” I asked. 

Gneeecey wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “It’s a infomercial, ya Ig.” 

“My name’s Nicki—” 

Flea raised his glop-covered snout. “But, whaddabout the game?” 

“Halftime,” replied Gneeecey. “I’m runnin’ this Octovac spot while the bands play.” 

“Octovac musta paid ya top dollar.” 

“Yeah—I’m rerunnin’ it later, insteada the news.” 

Flea licked his fingers. “Zig, thinkin’ of tomorrow, an’ our recital at the rally—” 

“Yeah?” 

“Well,” the superhero ventured cautiously, “our good buddy Flubbubb still wants to play. He’d only hit his triangle a coupla times—y’know, ding, ding. Wouldn’t really hurt nuthin’—” 

Gneeecey slammed his fist down. SFX: [Table Pound] [Dish Ceramic] “Ya mean, when me an’ you perform Shriekensobb’s ‘Plight of the Goonafish’?” 

“I jus’ thought—” 

“When I dramatize the plight of dyin’ goonafish, on my electric voaline?” 

“Violin.” 

“Stinkin’ whatever. He’ll even putrificate your piano part—if ya don’t ruin it yourself, always playin’ aheada me ’causa your dopey ESP.” 

“No need to get personal.” 

“Although your ESP ain’t workin’ like it used’ta—” 

“No need to rub it in. I jus’ thought ya could maybe give Flubbubb a chance—I mean, he’s worshipped the ground ya walk on since we were kids.” 

“Got no use for freelance percussionists. Subject closed.” 

Flea stared down at his lap. “Need a favor.” 

Gneeecey burped. SFX: [Burp] “Whaaaat?!” 

“Uh, my roommate’s havin’ a buncha people over. Nicki an’ me need somewhere to stay tonight.” 

I shot up. “What?! I’m not staying anywhere! You said—” 

Flea shook his head. “Sorry, Nicki—” 

“I’m leaving—tonight!” 

“I been observin’ ya. It’s too soon.” 

Tears stung my eyes. “You promised you’d get me back on the parkway—tonight!” 

Flea cracked his fur-covered knuckles. “No way—it could kill ya.” 

Overtaken by a sudden wave of nausea, I fell back into my chair. “I—I don’t understand—”

“Get’cha Ig elbows offa my table,” ordered Gneeecey, picking his teeth with a bottle opener. “Ain’cha got no manners?” 

“‘Zig—” 

“Ya might be right, Flea, She could end up like Julio.” 

“Who’s Julio?” I demanded. My head was killing me. 

“Tell her, Fleaglossitty.” 

Flea’s eyes misted over. “Ya mean, who was Julio?” 

“Julio croaked trynna go home. Was a big mistake.”

“Holy crap!” I exclaimed, clutching my sides. I felt faint. “Tell me all this’ll go away if I close my eyes.” 

“It won’t,” replied Flea. 

Our gracious host leaped to his feet. “Youse two better get goin’. I’ll get your check. Hotels, motels—even all the dumps—are fillin’ fast causa the Mierk Fest.” 

Flea jumped up. “Hotel? Motel? I’m your best friend!” 

“Don’t matter—I treat everyone alike.” 

“Ya remember the time I saved your—” 

“Don’t keep bringin’ that up!” 

Flea’s jaw tightened. 

“Okay—ya can stay wit’ me.” 

“Thanks, Zig.”

“Well, actually, ya can stay at my pet dog’s condo.” 

I looked at him. “Your pet dog’s condo?” 

Gneeecey turned to Flea. “Her too? She gotta stay?” 

“Do I hafta remind ya—” 

“Aw-stinkin’-right, youse can both stay.” Gneeecey glared my way. “But jus’ tonight. An’ make sure she’s stupervised at all times.” 

“Zig, I don’t think ya hafta worry.” 

Gneeecey stuffed a cold Slothflog in his mouth. “I don’t usually allow people from other plaaanets.” 

“His pet dog’s condo,” I muttered, regarding my fate in a curiously detached manner. 

“Spot’s got his own condo,” snapped Gneeecey. “His own phone, his own big boy life. whole derangement works out priddy good—I get all the fun of pet ownership, but none of the responsiboobabilities.” 

Sick to my stomach, I staggered to my feet. “Uh, where’s the restroom?” 

Gneeecey pointed in Bacchus’s direction. “Hope ya fall in. A good swim might refresh ya!” 

Shooting him a disapproving glance, Flea rose to steady me. 

SFX: [Fail Horn] [Magic Spell]

I sat at our table, watching as Gneeecey snatched a newspaper from under an astonished customer’s nose, and waddled to the back. 

“Pardon the indelicacy,” I whispered in Flea’s droopy ear, “but, what was that plastic thing attached to the back of the seat in the, y’know, privy? It fell off and wouldn’t go back on.” 

“Oh, ya mean, the sploggle,” he replied, blushing through his fur. “Sploggles, uh, keep our tails high and dry.” 

“Uh, Flea, we’ve gotta talk—I’ve gotta get back home—” 

A blood-curdling yelp let forth from the bathroom. Seconds later, Gneeecey appeared, nostrils flared. Before he could unlatch his poisonous muzzle, patrons began cheering wildly. SFX: [Baseball Crowd] 

“It’s an upset!” exclaimed the TV announcer as Flea jumped up. “With Gronkle completing a second triple before the clock ran out, Planet Eccchs has beaten Zoid III, six boing to one zoing! First time an expansion team’s taken a berth in the Zyphon finals and gone on to win the Intergallactic Championship!” 

Flea and Gneeecey skipped in circles, chanting, “Six boing to one zoing, six boing to one zoing!” When the two flopped into their seats, drunk with ecstasy, Gneeecey turned to me. “Ya made me miss the enda the game, plus ya didn’t eat your dinner.” 

“I—” 

“There’s hungry people on other plaaanets.” 

“Zig—” 

“Waste not, want not—the early bird eats the worm.” 

Groaning, I pulled out my watch. It still read—uh, I’m not gonna say those dangerous numbers! Anyway, the timepiece flew out of my hands when Gneeecey shrilled, “Bad evenin’, Altitude!”

“Bad evenin’, Boss,” replied an oversized mouse. Black-and-white, he was a negative of his similarly-marked employer, to whom he stood elbow-high. 

“You’re two hours late, ya gingivitis-head!” 

“Weren’t my fault.” 

“I hadda cancel all the deliveries!” 

Altitude studied his filthy sneakers. His dilapidated Gnorks jersey bore the name of everyone’s hero, Gronkle. 

Gneeecey smashed his tankard at the young mouse’s sneakered feet, spraying my bare ankles with wet shards. SFX: [Shattering Glass] [Dish Ceramic] “This is posilutely, absitively disgustipatin’! Remember which side of the carpet your bread’s buttered on! Ya wanna end up back in that sploggle factory, workin’ for broken-nose Tommy?” 

Altitude raised his head. A chewed-up yellow pencil dangled from his lip. “It was the ol’ Splodge. Muffler fell down on Vompt Boulevard. Boy, am I lucky it didn’t come down by Saint Vlad’s, wit’ all dem tombstones!” 

Gneeecey bared his unbrushed teeth. Altitude set down his “BZZG”-monogrammed violin case. “Hadda walk all the way back to Summer Vacation Street for my bike. Its tire was only flat on top. But every time I pedaled, it went flat on the bottom. So, I hadda half-ride it back home an’ jump off every time the bottom went flat.” 

Gneeecey twisted his ladle. 

“Was real good I went home,” Altitude pointed out, “’cause I had forgotted to lock my door. Since it was open, I went right in an’ sat down. Then Gronkle plooked a triple boinger.”

Gneeecey’s spoon snapped in half. 

“Then,” continued the mouse, “I said, geeez, the boss probably wonders where in Hemlock Heights I am. So, I went outside, but went back in when I saw I was wearin’ my watch wit’ the dead battery I couldn’t find another one like.” 

Gneeecey listened, bug-eyed. 

“Searchin’ under my bed for my other watch, I found one of dem flushable cameras—an’ it still had a coupla shots left on it.” 

Gneeecey was frothing at the mouth. 

“Then,” added Altitude, “Zeke’s Pizza an’ Transmissions called, an’ after I reminded ’em it was your car, they said it’s the whole exhaust system an’ transmission too.” 

Gneeecey fell to his knees. 

“Too bad,” concluded Altitude, “it wasn’t jus’ half the exhaust system an’ transmission, y’know, like jus’ half my tire goin’ flat. two of those halves wouldn’a cost as much as two wholes of one thing each.” 

Altitude swaggered over to Flea. “Great game, huh? Did’ja see Gronkle zorg—after Obble couldn’t block him?” 

Gneeecey lunged in Altitude’s direction. Howling bloody murder, the mouse tore toward the kitchen, his boss hot on his heels. The two crashed through the doors like a train wreck. SFX: [Metal Crash] [Fail Horn] [Magic Spell]

Gneeecey flicked the light switch. “Eat up!” Cutlery clanked as customers bolted down their meals. “Line up by the register when you’re done,” he ordered, snatching a dish from under an elderly human’s poised fork. “I think you’ve had enough for now, sir, don’chooo?” The gray-haired gentleman gawked. “Take it wit’cha, why don’cha?” Gneeecey dumped the entrée into a paper bag and tossed it into the man’s lap. “It’ll keep—it’s kept for months awready.” 

Hoping to kick some life back into my limbs—and convince Flea that I was strong enough to leave—I limped over to Gneeecey’s puke-pink plastic Greek columns. As Bacchus winked my way, I reached out to touch one. SFX: [Explosion] It crashed to the floor and cracked in half. 

“Iggleheimer!” shrieked Gneeecey as he ran toward me and climbed me like a ladder. He dug his sharp, skinny feet into my shoulders and plastered his face against mine. 

“Get offa me,” I pleaded. 

“Ya broke my restaurant—ya busted my precious lousy column! Y’know how much this is gonna cost me?” 

“Ow—all I did was touch it lightly—with one finger—” 

“Even if they stinkin’ fix it,” he yowled, yanking a fistful of hair out of my scalp, “it’ll never be the same!” 

“Fleeeea!” I hollered. 

“Whole place is ruint! Permutantly disfigurated!” 

Flea zoomed across the room and peeled his crazed pal off me.  

“Zig, it was an accident.” 

“Accident, shmaccident—she did it on purpoopose!” 

Seeing stars and a couple of planets circled by birds, I sank back into my chair. Altitude, pleased to see someone else in the doghouse, smirked. 

“Ya jus’ need some glue, Zig,” insisted Flea. “It’ll be good as new.” 

“But the crack will still show,” sobbed Gneeecey, long, blond strands of my hair hanging from his clenched fists. “My column will look ancient!” SFX: [Fail Horn] [Magic Spell]

SFX: [Bang] Gneeecey kicked his cash register open and began scooping greenbacks and coins SFX: [Clinking Coins] into a King Oggle Supermarket’s sack. After a couple seconds, he jerked the entire tray out and turned it upside down. SFX: [Bang] “Tips in the bag, too,” he instructed diners. “An’ once your mon-ney’s in, I can’t give out no change—it’s against my policy. An’ I’m watchin’ youse—I count it all at home.” 

The way Gneeecey pronounced the word “money,” exaggerating the word’s two syllables, sounded really silly to me. As each departing patron paid, the canine-humanoid shouted angrily, “Bad night!” 

Flea, last in line, opened his purple rubber billfold. “Gee, Zig, prices really rose since last week!”

“Inflation hits everyone, even business maggots like me.” 

I opened my purse. “Here, Flea—” 

“No,” he replied, handing Gneeecey a pile of crumpled bills. “I told ya, it was my treat. Besides, ya didn’t eat nuthin’.” 

Gneeecey tapped his foot. “That’s thirty-five thirty-nine.” 

Flea scrounged through his pockets. SFX: {Clinking Coins] “Here—two quarters.” 

“Can’t give out change.” Gneeecey quadruple-knotted his bulging satchel’s drawstring, then marched over to a metal box and threw three giant switches. Gneeezle’s ghastly interior disappeared into darkness—a euthanasia of sorts, albeit temporary. 

SFX: [Fail Horn] [Magic Spell]

Nicki Rodriguez here again! We hope you enjoyed this week’s episode of “Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy!” And we thank you for listening. Please help us spread the word—please tell a friend about us! We appreciate every single download! And again, thank you, Marysol Rodriguez, Sal Solá, Sandi Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera, Diane L., and Toni Aponte, for being generous supporting members through BuyMeACoffee.com!  

Time now to turn it back over to my alter ego, Vicki. Until next time, be well and stay 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] ###