Ask Not for Whom the Electronic Water Cyclone Flushes

“Ask Not For Whom the Electronic Water Cyclone Flushes,” Episode 222Buckle up for triple the chaos, triple the comedy, and triple the inter-dimensional madness! 🚽✨ In this three-in-one Perswayssick saga — “Ask Not for Whom the Electronic Water Cyclone Flushes,” featuring the enhanced classic “Wampum Physics” and mini-episode “My Stinkin’ Surprise” — we plunge deep into stranded earthling Nicki Rodriguez’s surreal life in the bizarre dimension of Perswayssick County. Nicki’s insomnia, Gneeecey’s unhinged bathroom habits 🚰👀, shrieking Poe crows 🪶, software-generated fake news 📰🤖, evil Markmen 👁️👁️👁️,  a high-tech chair that mixes drinks, scratches backs, and drives imaginary Porsches 🚗💨, and parachuting, bubble gum-chewing violinists 🎻 collide in this uproarious romp through absurdity. Meanwhile, red-caped anti-hero Sooperflea tries to rehearse for a cosmic concert honoring the legendary Grand Oogitty-Boogitty 🥔🌿🎻 (yes, a potato deity riding a comet 😳🌠), while Gneeecey becomes convinced a coughing, dancing tree is stalking him 🤣🌳💫. Add in a haunted driveway, a psychedelic 1975 Splodge 🚘🛠️, emergency therapy with Ingabore Scriblig, AKA “Grandma” 🛋️💬, dead-air disasters at WGAS-FM 📻💥, and a battery-powered dream system (don't ask) — and you’ve got one stooooopendously wild Perswayssick adventure.Will Nicki survive Gneeecey’s madness, Flea's piano abuse 🎹😖, and a fleet of invisible goo-slathered alien Markmen named Mark? Or will Perswayssick County finally flush her sanity for good? 💥🤯🚽 Hit play and buckle in. This rollercoaster is fifty-fifty scientifically guaranteed to make you laugh till you wheeze. 😆🌀 😜 🎧🎧Special thanks to Sam Leviatin for co-producing this episode and providing Gneeecey and Flea with such lovely piano and violin music! Episode Artwork Created by ChatBox AI We hope you enjoyed this week’s episode! We thank Marysol Rodriguez, Sal Solá, Sandi Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera, Diane L., Brunie Cariño, Toni Aponte, and Aileen Bean for being generous supporting members through BuyMeACoffee.com.

#Comedy #fantasy #SciFi #dogs #dogsofInstagram #Podcast #hitchhikersgalaxyfans #montypythonfans #ParallelUniverse #FunnyAudioDrama #Multiverse #DimensionHopping #WeirdFiction #AudioTheater #RickandMorty 

Transcript

Transcript / Ask Not For Whom the Electronic Water Cyclone Flushes – Episode 222, by Vicki Solá. 

(Based on material from THE GETAWAY THAT GOT AWAY by Vicki Solá  (© 2011, Full Court Press)

All content © 2025 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, and the gang…. 

SFX: [Magic Spell] [Misfortune & Misgivings]

NARRATOR VICKI SOLÁ:  Canine-humanoids Fleaglossitty “Flea” Floppinsplodge and Diroctor Bizzig “Zig” Gneeecey remain frozen in suspended animation—forced to relive snippets of their chaotic past, almost like a cosmic life-review gone terribly, hilariously wrong.

Meanwhile, stranded Earth-human Nicki Rodriguez continues narrating her misadventures documentary-style, chronicling the bizarre trials she's endured since crash-landing in the dimension of Perswayssick County.

Previously on Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy—in “A Sock in the Hand is Worth Two in the Piano” — Shisskey’s Bakery was robbed and vandalized, and in classic questionable-friendship fashion, Gneeecey somehow managed to implicate his loyal pal Flea. Because when you’re stuck between a stinky sock and a hard place, who better to blame than your BFF?

SFX: [Magic Spell] [Misfortune & Misgivings]

FLEAGLOSSITTY “FLEA” FLOPPINSPLODGE, AKA “SOOPERFLEA”: Boy, Zig, ya really threw me under the bus there, didn’t ya? If we ever get outta all this, am I gonna get you! Possibly even before!

G: Heh, heh…heh, heh…. 

SFX: [Magic Spell]  [Misfortune & Misgivings]

NARRATOR VICKI SOLÁ: And now, we present a real triple-treat for you, three episodes in one: “Ask Not for Whom the Electronic Water Cyclone Flushes,” which includes an enhanced version of the ever popular episode “Wampum Physics,” which contains mini-episode, “My Stinkin’ Surprise.” This allows our story to flow “propooperly,” as Gneeecey would say, in chronological order. Or, make that, chronokookologickookal order…. Here’s Nicki. And Gneecey and Flea are stuck watching and listening.

NICKI RODRIGUEZ: It was the worst of times; it was the worst of times. Punching my pillow, I continued my predawn review of my miserable existence at 3 Bimbus Crack Drive. The only place I ever found peace was the bathroom—unless Gneeecey already sat enthroned upon his high-tech john, geared up for another marathon session.
 He never closed the door. When I’d pass by, his bloodshot eyes would peer down at me from over the top of some tabloid whose headline proclaimed that an albino alien had given birth to a dump truck driven by a one-legged, opera-singing werewolf in drag.
 The insomnia-stricken Poe crow’s recent relocation to the window ledge outside—shrieking “Nevermore!” at all hours—did little to alleviate the good diroctor’s chronic constipation. or bad moods.
 Lately, Gneeecey’s moods were blacker than ever, especially after those midnight meetings with Mark. Or Mark. Or Mark. The arrogant creeps never spoke to me. Whenever one showed up
 at the house—and they did frequently, usually unannounced—I’d head for my little utility closet of a room, muttering, “Thanks for asking. And how are you?”
Then, with an uncharacteristic tremble in his voice, Gneeecey would stammer, “Where she comes from, they ain’t got no stinkin’ manners.”
I slugged my pillow again, harder. My waking hours—when I wasn’t preoccupied with work—were spent worrying. About my mom, Alex, and Dave. And my jobs and apartment. And my creditors. I’d been gone for over a month. Everyone must’ve given up on me. Except my creditors.
I’d fantasize about bursting in on my own memorial service and transforming it into a joyous homecoming—a bash filled with hugs and tears. Maybe Carlos’s band would be wailing away in my honor. A relieved Rico would shake my hand and say, “Place is still yours—always knew you’d be back!”
Fernández would rehire me on the spot. Never one to offer an outright compliment, he’d simply grumble, “that temp who took your place just couldn’t cut it.” Scratching an extra itchy plane bite on my arm, I chuckled. “And,” the not-quite-smiling Fernández would add as he handed me
a thick envelope, “we took up a collection. Put it toward your bills.”
One thing was for sure—I’d have no shortage of strange stories to tell.
Second thought, I’d be wiser to concoct some believable explanation for my absence. The truth would, most likely, get me put away. “Me pondrían en el manicomio,” as my mom would whisper, whenever she stashed away a particularly way-out abstract painting she’d done—they’d put me in the nuthouse.
I sighed. My legs were as gimpy as when I’d arrived. Even if I found my portfolio, traveling home anytime soon was out of the question. As much as I loved my dad, I wasn’t ready to meet him yet. Or Julio. Every day, I did die a thousand deaths, visualizing the awful moment
that Gneeecey might slip his slimy paws into my case’s secret sleeve and discover my 10 grand. He’d prance back and forth, flashing my cash, screaming, “Finders keepers, losers weepers!” Then, with my luck, he’d dematerialize into some other dimension. Maybe the one where
his missing sock ticket was hiding. 
And work. Work sucked more than ever. Gneeecey had just purchased some advanced news-guessing software. You’d enter his pre-approved list of names and places into the computer, then click on the “Financial,” “Show biz,” “Scientific,” “Sports,” or interchangeable “Political” and “Scandal” icons, and bingo, the program created an infinite variety of so-called news stories. An infinite variety that, according to the program’s manufacturers, had a fifty-fifty chance of
being true on any given day.
Invariably, the logged-on user’s name—usually Cleve’s or mine—popped up in the fabricated copy, instead of Justin Imbroglio’s or Frank Salvador’s, or whomever else Gneeecey intended to slander.
The good diroctor would snatch the faulty copy from our hands as he sprinted into the news booth, bellowing that there wasn’t enough time to make corrections. It was probably a blessing in disguise that I was known ’round those parts as “the Ig”—I’d long given up on being
called by my actual name.
Of course, only Stu operated the software properly. And even more despicable than WUGG’s monotonous musical rotation was the nausea-inducing string of “Top Ten hits” that spewed out of WGAS-AM and FM, day and night. To my horror, I found myself humming along with King Cholesterol’s “Our Love Unraveled Like a Cheap Sweater,” the Invasive Procedures’ “Before You Scream Again,” and Noble Gases’ “Dancin’ on the Third Rail.”

SFX: [Thumping Tail] [Bell]
 My alarm clock’s thumping tail interrupted my cheery thoughts. Ugh. . .six a.m. I smashed the piece of junk against my cardboard-thin door. SFX: [Wood Demolition Bang] Next thing I knew, Gneeecey was spraying me with spittle. “Ingratitooodinous Iggleheimer—how dare ya abuserate that poor, innocent clock!”

SFX: [Magic Spell]
 My employer’s hideous cackling cascaded down the corridor. SFX: [Cackling] I reached under the FM studio’s dusty console for the bottle of antacid Cleve and I had stashed away, and I took a long swig.
 Just as I was about to air the Metabolites’ “Klogged Lint Filter” for the four-millionth time that day, something rammed my chair. SFX: [Wood Demolition Bang]
 I flew sideways, slammed into the wall, and landed flat on my back, dazed. Then, a dirty sneaker stepped down on my neck. The red high-top’s owner, oblivious to my plight—and FM’s resulting dead air—chattered away on his orange phone. “Yeah, Mark, like I tol’ youse guys last night—over an’ over again—I’m sorry! I meant to signal youse that I don’t got it quite yet. . .I know I made youse jump the gun wit’ your boss, an’ now we gotta go faster! I know it’s gonna cost me.”
 I managed to grunt. To no avail.
 “Ya saw what happened wit’ them lousy curtains durin’ our last Shoppin’ At Home Wit’ GAS show,” continued Gneeecey. “It was stinkin’ beyond my control...uh-huh...yeah, there won’t be a next time. . . ”
 “Take your foot,” I croaked, “off my throat!”
“Yeah, Mark. . .uh-huh. . .changin’ the subject, the nerdologist did one of them brain scans on me, an’ he didn’t find nuthin’. Yeah. . . yeah, I’m severely happy ‘bout it!”
The sneaker pressed down harder on my neck. I could barely breathe. “Ooow—would you please—”
“Oh, him. . .he’s a Slogaholic. . but his toilet’s so clean, ya can drink from it. Yeah. . .uh-huh, like I promised, it’ll be soon, I swear! An’ I want the resta what youse ain’t finished givin’ meee.”
“Ow—Diroctor—”
Gneeecey looked down at me. “Her? She’s the one who turned our Shoppin’ at Home Wit’ GAS show into a real disaster—it’s her fault everythin’ got messed up! An’ now she’s layin’ down on the job. Eavesdroppin’ on our conservation. I’ll dock her.” He kicked me. “Geddup, ya lousy Ig! Can’cha seee? We got dead air on FM!”

SFX: [Magic Spell] [HumanWalkDownstairs]
 Gneeecey skipped downstairs, twirling his stuffed teddy bear Yammicles above his head. The two sported identical orange-and-green plaid footie pajamas, complete with buttoning rear trap doors. “Hey, Ig, ya like our nightie suits? Unigeeks hadda order ’em special.”
“Really?” I muttered, rubbing the sneaker sole imprint on my throat.
“For five extra bucks, they threw in a coupla DreamPaks—matchin’ battery-powered dreams that plug into my bed’s headboard!”
“Uh-huh.” I lowered my weary bones into the only chair in the Grate Room he permitted me to sit in—a mud-colored, inflatable piece of plastic that had sprung a leak.
“Ya certaincerely ain’t got no depreciation for fine taste, do ya?” Scowling, Gneeecey climbed the ladder of his vibrating, two-tier, drink-mixing, envelope-licking, hair-combing, back-scratching electronic chartreuse recliner-on-wheels. Seventeen yardstick-sized gear shifters grew, like weeds, out of each overstuffed arm.
With great care, he propped Yammicles up in a corner. The usually limp bear was bursting at the seams.
“Diroctor Gneeecey, Yammicles looks like he’s put on some weight.”
Gneeecey bared his teeth. “How dare ya incinerate that Yammicles is faaat? He got big bones.”
“Uh, maybe it’s just his, uh, outfit.”
Glowering, Gneeecey shifted the chair’s gears. Pretending to drive the tiny white Porsche he kept in his limo’s trunk, for emergencies, he sped in circles, leaving tire tracks all over his lime green “orientical” rug, as he called it. “I’ve certaincerely earned all this luxuriatin’ after such a rough day bossin’ everyone ’round. Vroom! Vroom!”
He jammed on the brakes SFX: [Screeching Brakes] and began fumbling with several remote controls. “Chair’s software’s incompatipoopable wit’ the TV an’ curtains,” he complained, squinting down at me from his padded perch. “Jus’ to watch a little telooolevision, I gotta push all these difooferent dopey buttons!”
With a couple clicks SFX: [Metal Click 4], the living room drapes—the digital, yellow-green ones that told time, opened cans and wiped your nose—retracted, transforming the north wall into an expansive azure sky dotted with scores of parachuting humans and canine-humanoids. All played violins and chewed gum. SFX: [Music Song, cartoon, music]
“Welcome to Channel 3½’s live telecast of the Fourteenth Annual Freak O’Nature Fiddabumbling Championships,” rumbled a deep voice, competing with a zillion badly-tuned, plummeting fiddles SFX: [Violin 1,2,3,4] [Cello Laughs] that screeched a zillion poorly played, plummeting tunes.
Gneeecey sipped a blue fizzy drink his chair had handed him, and smiled. “This is laaast year’s championships.”
“I’m your host, Wursty ‘Gum Bottom’ McGurkey, here with you for the next eighteen hours, bringing you this exciting sport that originated in Planet Eccchs’s famous mountain range, the Yelps. Today, we’ll experience the sheer beauty and dazzling grace of one-hundred-and-thirteen
 of Perswayssick County’s most outstanding fiddabumblers, all competing for that coveted two-hundred-pound Freak O’Nature bubble gum trophy. There’s no snow or skiing involved here, but what skill it takes—in addition to jumping out of a plane, competitors must finish fiddling
 their association-approved selections before executing mandatory vertical landings, or face automatic disqualification. What a disappointment that is, for so many.”
 “A big disapperntment,” mumbled Gneeecey.
 “And,” continued Gum Bottom, “size matters. The judges award those crucial extra points according to the size of bubbles blown before competitors hit the ground.”
 Sure enough, gigantic pink bubbles, some as large as basketballs, protruded from parachuters’ pursed lips.
 “Of course,” added the commentator, “that’s unenhanced regulation Freak O’Nature bubble gum. Ah, the weather’s just spectacular here this afternoon at scenic, mile-high Point Goozey—”
 “Been there, done that, got the stinkin’ T-shirt,” growled Gneeecey, aiming the remote like a pistol and silencing ol’ Gum Bottom. SFX: [Metal Click 4] [Misfortune & Misgivings]
 I glanced up at him.
 “It’s harder than it looks,” he said, addressing Yammicles. “A real mess when ya land on your face.”
 Biting my lip so as not to laugh, I rose.
 “By the way, Ig, me an’ Culvert are sicka drivin’ ya ’round. Got a stinkin’ surprise for ya.”
 “One day,” I hissed through clenched teeth, “I’m gonna surprise you, ya mangy fleabag.”
“What? Ya surprised me an’ made me some tea wit’ a bag? Nah, I don’t want none—awready got this here drink my chair made me.”
I stood, shaking my head.
“Now, go to your room, like a good Ig. Flea’s comin’ in a little while—we gotta rehearse for the big concert. Meet me out on the driveway tomorrow mornin’.”

SFX: [Magic Spell] [Misfortune & Misgivings]

“Let’s take it from the stinkin’ top, Flea,” violinist Gneeecey ordered his pal, pianist Sooperflea. “Your playin’ stinks!”

“Maybe,” shouted Sooperflea, “my playin’ would stink less if ya didn’t keep yer dirty socks in the piano!”

“Jus’ shaaadup an’ play, Flea! You’re massacrin’ Shriekensobb’s ‘Plight of the Goonafish’!’ He’d be strollin’ in his grave! Now, c’mon! An’ a one an’ a two an’ a three an’ a four! An’ a five an’ a half!”

SFX: [Piano and violin]

Guess my life wasn’t already wretched enough. I was working thirteen-hour days, eight days a week, then trying to catch a few sorry winks of shut-eye on a lumpy, spring-popping mutant mattress two-thirds the size of my worn-out body. 

Now, I had to suffer through Gneeecey’s late-night rehearsals for his upcoming concert honoring the Grand Oogitty-Boogitty. [SFX: piano, violin] I’d seen their treasured religious figure’s official photo. Their Grand Oogitty-Boogitty appeared to be nothing more than a humongous, toga-clad potato, clutching a giant sprig of parsley. The sacred spud was due to arrive, as he did annually, on the tail of a comet, any day, as Gneeecey declared daily, with a mixture of reverence, dread, and certainty. 

“C’mon, Flea, our Grand Oogitty-Boogitty will be arrivin’ any day now, any day!” shrieked Gneeecey, almost reading my mind. 

SFX: piano, violin] I stuck fingers into both ears and squeezed my lids shut. Somehow, I’d managed to drift off as Gneeecey’s tooth-shattering electric violin howled across the hallway in The Grate Room. Howled as it was murdered by the out-of-tune, two-ton combination laundry hamper of an upright piano that tone-deaf Sooperflea tried to play. Red-caped, black-furred superhero Sooperflea, nicknamed “Flea” and “Fleaglossitty,” was Gneeecey’s childhood BFF from back on their Planet Eccchs. Flea called Gneeecey “Zig,” short for his nickname, “Bizzig.”

SFX: [Piano and violin, stopping abruptly]

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeks!” shrieked Gneeecey, jolting me out of my cacophony-induced coma.

“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa—” counter-shrieked Flea, in a nerdish voice that, except for being slightly lower, bore an eerie resemblance to Gneeecey’s. 

“That stinkin’ treeee out there! I swear, Fleaglossitty, he’s stalkin’ me!” 

“Jus’ keep playin’ your violin, Zig. Let’s take it from where the kazoos come in wit’ the resta the orchestra—” 

“I caaaaan’t keep playin’ my voaline! Mister Tree out there, he’s watchin’ my every move—like a police! Looky! He’s walkin’ ’round the yard—starin’ at me right through the kitchen window!” 

Flea leaped off the piano bench. “I don’t see anyone.” 

At that moment, Gneeecey’s combination-locked refrigerator’s overly sensitive, motion-detecting alarm screeched. SFX:[Alarm beep] The one that always detected rogue shadows the moment I fell asleep. 

Gneeecey jumped six feet into the air. “Hear that? Mister Tree’s in the backyard again!” 

Flea flinched. “Probably jus’ your Redecoritis flarin’ up. Are ya takin’ your meds?” 

Gneeecey pointed to my cracked door, which I could actually see through. So much for privacy. “The lousy Ig there proboobably forgot to remindicate me. But them pills don’t help anyways—how can they take away a whole stinkin’ tree? Listen—he’s laughin’ at me again! Laughin’ so hard he’s coughin’!” 

“A coughin’ tree?” 

“Don’cha hear peals of coughter comin’ from the backyard?” 

“How d’ya know it’s the tree? In fact, how d’ya know the tree’s a tree?” 

Gneeecey scratched his noggin. “Once my friend Mark, y’know, the cop wit’ the blond hair an’ big nose whose fraternically identical twin brothers got smaller noses an’ brown hair—” 

“Zig, I wouldn’t trust any of those guys—I don’t think they’re your friends. I’ve tol’ ya before, they’re after somethin’—” 

“They like me for who I really aaaaaam!”

Oh, this was good. Dog-tired as I was, I dragged myself up off my pathetic excuse for a mattress and traipsed over to the door to watch and listen. 

Sighing, Flea flopped into an orange beanbag chair.

SFX: [Cell Phone Ring]

“Smello?” answered Gneeecey. “Who’s this, callin’ so stinkin’ late?”

SFX: [Scary Ambience]

“It ain’t late,” replied the gravelly voice at the other end. “It’s early! Early in da mornin’. Hah, hah, hah.” 

“M-m-Mark,” spluttered Gneeecey. I recognized the voice, could hear it all the way from where I stood. It was Redheaded Broken-nose Mark, one of the evil, alien Markmen. They slathered mierk—the mucky, toxic substance coating the banks of the Perswayssick River—all over their invisible bodies to give themselves form, otherwise they’d just appear to be a bunch of floating eyeballs. They were all named Mark—except for their leader Bob, who wore argyle socks that lit up and flashed.  

“We like your purdy music, Doc, hah, hah, hah! Good for, y’know, daaancin’! We can hear it real good! See ya real soon! Guh-bye! Hah, hah, hah.”

“Heh, heh, Guh-bye, Mark. Glad we’re not, y’know, disturbicatin’ ya!”

“Zig, like I said, if I were you, I wouldn’t trust any of those guys—they’re not really your friends. They creep me out—I told ya, they’re after somethin’—” 

“They stinkin’ like me for who I really aaaaaam! Now, Fleaglossitty, before the phone rang, I was trynna tell ya—once Mark was a tree that wasn’t a tree!” 

“Huh?” Flea’s glazed eyeballs spun in opposite directions. 

“He went, y’know, incognizant—as a tree—to one of them costume parties. So, he was a tree that wasn’t a tree.” 

“Zig, my question was rheumatical. How do ya know the tree’s really a tree?” 

Gneeecey smacked Flea’s head with his frayed moose hair bow. 

“Ow!” exclaimed Flea. “An’ if the tree coughs, an’ no one’s around to hear it cough, is it really coughin’?” 

Gneeecey stared at Flea, puzzled. 

“I mean,” continued the superhero, “what if it’s like they say, y’know, that matter can be either energy waves or particles, dependin’ on whether or not it’s bein’ observed?”

Gneeecey grinned. “Wampum physics?” 

“Now ya got it.” 

Gneeecey’s smile disappeared. “Well, if particles can wave at’cha, then so can trees!” 

“No, Zig—I meant, maybe it ain’t really a tree when no one’s lookin’ at it.  So don’t look at it. Then it can’t hurt’cha.” 

“What I wanna know is, if the tree ain’t lookin’ at me ’cause I ain’t lookin’ at him, does that stinkin’ mean I don’t exist?” 

“Well, Zig, when I’m not lookin’ at someone or thinkin’ of ’em, they don’t exist for me at that moment.” 

“Fleaglossitty, this here has real implooplications. What I asked before, ’bout me not existin’ if the tree ain’t lookin’, was jus’ hypoopotheatrical. He’s always lookin’ at me, so I don’t gotta worry for myself—” 

“Huh?” 

“But if yooou say the lousy tree don’t exist, that means he can’t see you neitherwise, so yooou don’t exist. Aha! I jus’ proved yooou don’t stinkin’ exist!” 

Down the hall—in his prized Hall of Clox—a couple of Gneeecey’s latest acquisitions—a replica of Rodin’s Balzac, complete with an analog clock implanted in his belly, and a life-sized chrome motorcycle that sported a similar timepiece in its stomach— rumbled SFX: [Stomach Rumble] and vroomed SFX: [Motorcycle vroom]. 

Flea glanced at his watch. “Four-thirty a.m.—gotta go. Some of us gotta get up for work in the mornin’.” 

Gneeecey smashed the piano lid down. SFX: [Piano Bang] Startled, his exotic orange-and-green-checkered monotony birds squawked. SFX: [“Bore, bore, bore, bore, monotony! Monotony!”] 

Gneeecey ripped off a red high-top sneaker and hurled it at their gilt cage. SFX: [Bang] The birds were stunned into silence.

Head shaking in disapproval, Flea whisked his music back into his briefcase. 

Gneeecey crouched down and yanked a filthy piece of loose rubber off his other sneaker. “Y’know Fleaglossitty, if ya go home, ya won’t be here to play that lousy piano. An’ if ya don’t play that lousy piano, I don’t gotta look at’cha. An’ then I won’t gotta thinka ya neitherwise.” 

“So?” 

“Outta sight, outta mind!” declared Gneeecey.

Flea shuffled out of the room. “Bad night, Zig,” he said, using Planet Eccchs’s and Perswayssick County’s customary salutation. 

“Bad night, Fleaglossitty. Y’know, I usually only thinka myself. Now, I’ll thinka myself even more. Then I’ll exist forever!” 

The door slammed shut. SFX: [Door Slam]

“Heh, heh, I sure fixed that Sooperflea,” laughed Gneeecey, snatching his stuffed bear Yammicles off the couch. “I’m a PUNI graduate—ya really can’t argue wit’ meee or anyone wit’ a degree from Perswayssick University of New Ideas. We can argue both sides ’cause everythin’ in life’s fifty-fifty! PUN! PUNI! Rah! Rah! C’mon, Yammy, let’s go to bed.” 

SFX: [Scary Ambience]

“Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeks!” screamed Flea from outside.

Gneeecey froze. “What the stinkin’—” 

“Tree is movin’,” shouted Flea, pounding his fists on the side door and ringing the doorbell. SFX: [Door Bell Ring] [DoorPound] “Dancin’—wit’ a buncha floatin’ eyeballs!” 

Gneeecey’s teddy slipped through his trembling hands. 

“Lemme in, Zig! Lemme back in!” SFX: [Door Bell Ring] [DoorPound]

“Not on your stinkin’ life!” screamed Gneeecey as he tore into the kitchen and dove under the table. 

SFX: [Door Bell Ring] [DoorPound]

I bolted out of my room to go save Flea. Didn’t have to go far. SFX: [Door Open] He was right at the door, eyeballs bulging and mouth hanging open. I managed to carry him over to the couch.

SFX: [Magic Spell]

The following morning found me outside on Gneeecey’s driveway, reeling with exhaustion.…

“C’mere, Ig, got a stinkin’ surprise for ya!” shouted the canine-humanoid, waving his four-fingered furry white hands.

My jaw dropped so far down, it darned near fractured my collarbone when I beheld the gargantuan orange-and-purple hunk of dented-up metal cringing on Gneeecey’s driveway. 

I hadn’t seen fins like those since the day my grandfather dumped his old ‘57 Plymouth. Now, years later, this psychedelic dinosaur of a vehicle sat in front of me, sagging mournfully on four bald, colorfully patched tires of various heights and widths. 

The old wreck’s cross-eyed headlights gazed heavenward, and its toothless grille grimaced as if gasping for oxygen.

“Ya like it, Ig?” 

“Isn’t that Altitude’s old delivery car?” I asked. “You know, the one he uses for your Gneeezle’s Restaurant?” I’d never seen it close up. Gneeecey’s young assistant Altitude was a mouse-humanoid, one with a real attitude problem, and a, well, poor driving record. 

“Not no more, it ain’t Altitude’s. It’s yours, now,” replied Gneeecey, with that usual ain’t-I-wonderful look plastered all over his unwashed kisser. “Ya can even start drivin’ it today. Take Fleaglossitty home—if he ever wakes up.” 

“I—I don’t understand,” I mumbled, still freaked out, remembering how a catatonic Flea had fallen through the door, right into my arms, only hours earlier. The superhero was still half-asleep, mumbling something about a tree dancing with a bunch of floating, disembodied eyeballs.

“Look, Ig, Altitude ain’t gonna be usin’ this here very nice automobile no more. He’ll be ridin’ his bike for the forstinkable future. Traffic court jus’ regurgitated his license.” 

I couldn’t take my eyes off the old jalopy. 

“So, I thought, why should this ol’ bomb—I mean, this lovely 1975 Splodge—jus’ be sittin’ here, uglifyin’ my beaudiful new driveway—” 

“What?”

“Uh, I mean, why should it, y‘know, jus’ be sittin’ here feelin’ unwanted when I could be makin’ a profit—I mean, jus’ be sittin’ here when a transpooportationally challenged Ig like yooou could drive it? Ya can’t afford nuthin’ else anyways.” 

Three words somersaulted from my nearly paralyzed vocal cords. “Does it run?” 

“Haaaah? Whaaaa’? Speak up, Iggleheimer, speak up! I know you’re overchrome wit’ emotion.” 

Chrome is certainly more than the ol’ Splodge had. Clearing my throat, I tried again. The words tripped hoarsely from my lips. [clear throat] “Does it run?” 

“Only when ya drive it.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I meant—” 

“Well. it don’t jus’ take off wit’out’cha. Usually it waits for ya to start it up. Wit’ jumper cables. Or that concraption I invented, y’know, out in the garage there.” 

I wondered if I’d ever see my red Mustang again, or even my own planet, for that matter. 

“Look, wit’ any car, there’s never no quarantine that nuthin’ll never go wrong wit’ it, no matter how ol’ or new it is, y’know, Ig, y’know?” 

I knew. I knew. 

Gneeecey strutted over to the rusty old rattletrap. “Don’t brush a gift horse’s teeth—I’m givin’ it to ya.” 

“Giving it to me?” 

“For a price, of course—everythin’ comes at a price.” 

“Well then you’re not giving it to me, are you?” 

“I aaam, Ig—I’ll jus’ take a little more outta your paycheck each week.” 

“I only get paid—if you can call it that—every two weeks.” 

“Well, if I take somethin’ out every week, then you’ll pay it off twice as fast.” 

“Oh, geez—” 

“It’s this, or walk, Ig.” 

So, it was this, or walk. Mass transit in Perswayssick City was so unreliable. If you missed a bus or train, you might have to wait a couple hours for another one. And out in suburban areas like St. Bogelthorpe Parke, where Gneeecey’s mansion was, public transportation was practically nonexistent. 

I just stared. My tear ducts had long gone dry. 

“Altitude won’t be drivin’ this thing for six whole months. This ol’ heap—I mean, very nice automobile—will proboobably be in pieces by then.” 

He kicked one of its tires, and a loose piece of fender crashed to the pavement as if to punctuate his sentence. 

SFX: [Bang] [Fail Horn] [Magic Spell] [Misgivings & Misfortune]

I did end up driving the ol’ Splodge that day—to a much-needed therapy session. Flea really felt that he needed to talk to someone, so he accompanied us to the office of Ingabore Scriblig, otherwise known as Grandma.

N: Hi Grandma, thanks so much for seeing the three of us on such short notice.

IS: Vell, then, bad afternoon to dee tree of you!

F: Please, Mrs. Scriblig, don’t say tree. Oh no, I jus’ said it!

IS: Sooperflea, please call me Grrrandma! And I’m sooo sorry, I said tree, not tree!

F:  There, ya did it again, Grandma!

IS: Did vhat?

N: Flea, where are you going?

F: Under the couch, where Zig’s hidin’!

G: How stinkin’ stooopid of ya, Flea!

IS: Vhat is stupid, Diroctor Gneeecey? And vhy do you call your best frrriend Sooperflea stupid?

G: That stinkin’ evil Mister Tree musta followed us here! An’ now, Flea here jus’ gave away my hidin’ spot! I am sooo outta here! An’ Graaandma, I’ll save ya the trouble of askin’ me what lousy lesson I learned from all this. Youse can lead a horse to water, but youse can’t make it take a shower!

F: I’m outta here too!

SFX: [Door Slam]

N: Grandma, I’m so sorry! I’d better go after those two before they get into real trouble! I’ll call you later!

IS: Alrightsky, den!

SFX: [Fail horn] [Human Running]

I sprinted two city blocks down Murgatroyd Avenue before I finally caught up with the two spooked canine-humanoids. Twisted my left ankle in the process. Drove Flea home to his studio apartment on Veggie Burger Avenue, and Gneeecey and myself back to his mansion up on Bimbus Crack Drive, in Saint Bogelthorpe Parke. My wonderful gift, my lovely eyesore of a new ride, the ol’ Splodge, lurched and backfired the entire time. SFX: [Car Engine] [Backfiring]

SFX: [Magic Spell]

F: Boy, Zig, in addition to bein’ a horrible friend, you’re also a horrible boss, ain’cha?

G: I guess I aaam, Fleaglossitty….

F: So maybe you’re finally feelin’ some empathy, then?

G: It’s your lousy Empoopathy 5000 machine that got us into this stinkin’ mess, ain’t it?

F: Oh, yeah? Come over here an’ say that!

G: I aaam over here!

SFX: [Blue Danube Fight] [Blue Danube Silly Kazoo]

F: We’re makin’ a lot of noise for possibly bein’ unalive!

G: If we’re stinkin’ unalive, that’s your fault too!

F: Don’t you start, Zig!

G: I won’t start, Fleaglossitty—I’ll stinkin’ finish it!

F: Oh, yeah? An’ you’re a crummy violinist, too!

NARRATOR VICKI SOLÁ:  See ya next week!

SFX: [Magic Spell]

We hope you enjoyed this week’s episode! Special thanks to Sam Leviatin for co-producing this episode and providing Gneeecey and Flea with such lovely piano and violin music! And we thank Marysol Rodriguez, Sal Solá, Sandi Solá, Marcellina Ramirez, Rick “El Molestoso” Rivera, Diane L., Brunie Cariño, Toni Aponte, and Aileen Bean for being generous supporting members through BuyMeACoffee.com. 

And thank you 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! Please make sure to tell a friend! And keep on laughing! 

Frank: It’s a Gneeecey thing! [SFX: Door Slam] ###