Demockookracy in Action

January 6, 2026, “Demockookracy In Action,” Episode 231

🎙️ Welcome back to Perswayssick County—and Happy New Year! 🎉
Season 22 of Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy kicks off with chaos, comedy, and a deeply unsettling trip through the past… 👀🌀In this episode, canine-humanoids Diroctor Bizzig “Zig” Gneeecey and his long-suffering BFF Fleaglossitty “Flea” Floppinsplodge find themselves trapped in a bizarre dimension within a dimension. With no way out, they’re forced to relive uncomfortable memories—including Gneeecey’s questionable treatment of his stranded Earthling employee and boarder, Nicki Rodriguez 😬🐾🌍📍 The story plunges us into the packed, crumbling Knapsackville Courthouse, where civic dysfunction reaches new heights. Political absurdity reigns as Gneeecey presides over a wildly unhinged county meeting filled with: 🗳️ derailed referendums ·      🐦 proposed bird taxes 🧦 impounded lucky socks  📰 an over-curious reporter asking dangerous questions 👔 shadowy corporate “Markmen” who don’t want the truth getting out… As Nicki struggles to survive yet another humiliating public ordeal, laughter, menace, and surreal sci-fi satire collide—ending on a chilling cliffhanger that sets the tone for the rest of the season ⚡🎭

✨ If you love:  Comedy sci-fi podcasts  Absurd fantasy worlds  Satirical takes on politics & power  Strong female narrators  Talking canine-humanoids  Dark humor with heart …this episode is for you. 

🎧 LISTEN NOW! https://perswayssickradio.buzzsprout.com

🔔 Subscribe, like, and share to support independent audio fiction, and join us weekly as Season 22 unfolds in the strange, hilarious, and often alarming County of Perswayssick! #ComedyPodcast #AudioDrama #SciFiComedy #FantasyPodcast #WeirdFiction #IndiePodcast #DarkComedy #SurrealStorytelling #hitchhikersgalaxyfans #montypythonfans #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. Artwork Created by Vicki Solá & ChatGPT 

Transcript

Transcript / “Demockookracy In Action,”  – Episode 231, by Vicki Solá. 

All content © 2026 Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy. 

SFX: [Auld lang Syne] [Misgivings & Misfortune]

NARRATOR VICKI SOLÁ: Hey everyone! Happy New Year! Welcome back to the County of Perswayssick—and Season 22. We’re picking up right where we left off before the holidays. Canine-humanoids Diroctor Bizzig “Zig” Gneeecey and his BFF, Fleaglossitty “Flea” Floppinsplodge, are now trapped in something even more unsettling than usual: a weird dimension inside their already weird dimension of Perswayssick County.

With no escape, they’re forced to watch the past play out—moment by moment—including Gneeecey’s not-so-stellar treatment of his reluctant employee and boarder… the stranded Earthling, Nicki Rodriguez.

SFX: [Magic Spell] [Heavenly Drone]

FLEAGLOSSITTY “FLEA” FLOPPINSPLODGE, AKA “SOOPERFLEA:  Holy Saint Bogelthorpe an’ a half!

DIROCTOR BIZZIG “ZIG” GNEEECEY:  It’s—dare I say his name?

ZINFANDEL: Yes, young, misguided man, you may.

G: It’s—it’s Zinfandel, our Planet Eccchs leader! Where ya been all these years when meee an’ Fleaglossitty been in an’ outta trouble? An’ when our Planet Eccchs snitizens have been in trouble? Y’know, wit’ them evil Markmen, scary clowns, rotten Nurse Maudlyn, who’s here somewhere, an’ that wicked Opposite Earth monster, Urgl? Where ya been? Ya deserted us! If I’m misguided, it’s ’cause yooou weren’t there to guide us! What’s goin’ on in our real Perswayssick County?

Z: Quiet, young man!

F: Quiet, Zig. Oh, revered Planet Eccchs leader, are we unalive? Nobody here can see us or hear us!

Z: Mister Floppinsplodge, all of your questions will be answered, in time. I have been with you all along, but you have chosen not to hear me.

G: Ya mean, like when I never answered that Hotline when ya were callin’?

Z: Quiet! You two shall remain in a state of suspended animation while you watch all that is unfolding in front of your eyes. Indeed, you have seen it before. Once active participants, you shall now remain observers.

F: But, Planet Eccchs leader, I wasn’t as, y’know, as bad as Zig here—it kinda feels like, y’know, when the whole class gets punished ’cause of jus’ one bad kid, an’—

G: Shaaadup, Fleaglossitty—

Z: Quiet! You shall not be hungry or tired. You shall not want for anything material. You shall merely observe…for as long as it takes. And that shall be…until you find the power to do otherwise.

G: How long is thaaat?

Z: Quiet, you! In addition, Mister Fleaglossitty, your malfunctioning Empathy 5000 machine has caused the dimension of Perswayssick County that you were propelled from to freeze as well.

F: I feel so guilty, like I really deserve to be punished.

G: Shaaadup, Fleaglossitty—speak for your stinkin’ self!

F: Oh, dear revered leader of Planet Eccchs, is this like one of them, y’know, past life reviews I read about? Are we unalive?

Z: I would not have become involved but for these circumstances which forced me. Good bye….

SFX: [Heavenly Drone] 

F: He’s gone!

G: Zinfandel, stinkin’ come back! Pleeeeeaze!

SFX: [Cartoon Character Annoyed Crying x 2] 

NARRATOR VICKI SOLÁ: And this is where we left it before the holidays….

SFX: [Misgivings & Misfortune]

“Anyways, Verna, you’re lookin’ lovlier than ever!”  

Gazing down at her silver-trimmed cross-trainers, the councilperson blushed. 

“I take it, at this beaudiful mornin’s upchuckin’ meetin’, youse’ll help me kill Question 345, right? We even got a chance to removerate it from the ballot! 

“Diroctor Gneeecey, my sister and I actually support Referendum 345. So do all the freeholders, the city council, and most of the Merchants’ Association. We firmly believe that for the health and welfare of our citizens, all of that toxic mierk must be removed from our river’s banks. We must instead substitute zodd, which is nontoxic and plentiful!” 

“But—but—I promised Mark an’ the guys I had it all sewn up—I mean, please, youse gotta—” 

“No, Diroctor, I certainly do not think you’ll have the constitutionally mandated three-quarters majority required to amend the ballot this morning—or any other.” 

Gneeecey’s egg-shaped eyeballs sprang from his sockets.  

“See you earlier, Diroctor,” warbled Ms. Vlott as she scooped up her five bursting-at-the-seams smiley-face take-out bags.

NARRATOR VICKI SOLÁ: And here’s where our story picks up….

SFX: [Crowd Active]
 NICKI RODRIGUEZ:  Merchants, bankers, politicians, and concerned citizens jammed the stuffy old Knapsackville courthouse, packing it to its rotting rafters. Gneeecey, who in addition to being Perswayssick County’s Grate Gizzygalumpaggis, among other things, was also the county’s Quality of Life Commissioner. He poked his fists into my kidneys and shoved me through the crowd. “Bad mornin’, Burt an’ Mary…. Squiggleman, how’s the terlit business? Ya sittin’ priddy? Heh hah, heh haah! Hey, Verna an’Vlotta—or is that Vlotta an’ Verna? Whichever one of youse is whichever one of  youse, youse better do right this mornin’.”
 “We’ll do right,” sang the look-alike sisters, pushing past him, “even if we hafta fight!”
 Hands shaking, Gneeecey just grunted.
 “Heya, Zig!”
 “Whazzup, Fleaglossitty? Hey, Flubbarooney. Cleeevoooveland, didn’t know ya were civoovically minded. Stuey, set up them lousy mikes, like a good boy.”
 “Anything ya say, boss. Hi, Icky.”

“Uh,” I replied, “that would be Nicki.”

“Okay, Icky.”
 “Stuart,” I asked Gneeecey’s brown-nosing donkey-humanoid employee as I high-fived my buddy Cleve, “who’s back at Vompt, y’know, back at our GAS Broadcast Network, y’know, running things?”
 “We’re on autopilot,” answered the intern. “Our wonderful boss invented this endless
 bloopy-loop—automatically runs AM, FM and TV. And he never screws up.”
“He?”
“Mister Bloopy-loop.”
“So much for job security,” I muttered, following my elbow-high canine-humanoid boss, as he worked his way to the front of the room.
“Baaad mornin’, Gus!” Gneeecey’s tail, mostly limp and droopy these days, began wagging. “How’re my lucky socks?”
“Hangin’ by their necks till dead,” quipped the deadpan, sallow-complexioned old tailor.
“Whaaaaaaaat?!”
“But they’ll live, most likely,” added Gus, seeing the panic written all over his most steady customer’s face.
“Don’t scare me like that! Now when can I have ’em back?”
“When ya bring me a ticket.”
“But’chooo know them stinkin’ socks are mine!”
 “Sorry. They’re impounded till ya bring me a ticket.”
 “The Ig lost my lousy ticket—ya shouldn’t punish me.”
Gus’s frigid blue eyes settled on me. I wanted to sink through the creaky floorboards and disappear.
“Pleeeeze,” Gneeecey begged. “I gotta have ’em back for our great, revered Grand Oogitty-Boogitty’s concert! He’s our spiritual leader who comes by on the tail of a comet only once a year! An’ them stinkin’ socks are my lucky socks! I’ll be real, real unlucky wit’out ’em!”
“Sorry,” replied the old man. “Rules are rules.”
Gneeecey punched my kneecap. 

“Ow!”

“Ya lousy Ig! Oh, hi there, Seemin’whale—good talkin’ last night. Like ya said, I’ll fix ’em all this mornin’! An’ looky here—Justin Imbroglio! Who let’chooo in? You’re a reporter!”
 “Yup,” answered the olive-skinned thirty-something human, tapping the press pass clipped to his lapel. “You know what we in this business say—‘the people have a right to know.’”
 Gneeecey swallowed his striped health cigar. “Know stinkin’ whaaat?”
“About whatever affects their well-being.” The six-footer’s almond-shaped hazel eyes bored into Gneeecey’s bulgy peepers.
The good diroctor broke eye contact first. “Get a stinkin’ haircut, why don’cha?!”
Imbroglio smiled at me. Wavy jet black locks framed his angelic face and tumbled down onto his square shoulders. “Hi there.”
“Hi,” I replied, mesmerized.
Gneeecey jammed his clipboard into the small of my back. “Ya ain’t permutated to talk to reporters. ’Specially not this one. I’ll have him thrown outta here!”
 Imbroglio grinned.
 “I’ll swipe that smile offa your face—when I buy that muckracketin’ yellow rag ya write for.”
 “Really.”
 “Then you’ll be workin’ for meee—that is, unless someone torches your place first.”
 “I’d rather someone torched us.” Laughing, Imbroglio turned to me. He was fine, and he knew it. “Whadda you think?”
Before I could answer, Gneeecey kicked me. Hard. “Ow! Hey—whadda you think you’re—"

“C’mon, ya lousy Ig!”

SFX: [Sneakers Squeaking] [Magic Spell] [Crowd Active]
“Ig,” Gneeecey shrieked into my ear, once we were seated, “I got a Real dilemnoonical problem!”
 “What? I can hardly hear you!” I looked down from the judge’s bench where we sat, at the sea of noisy humanity—and canine-humanoidity—still pouring into the courthouse’s main room.
 Gneeecey gulped down another unlit health cigar that he’d been chewing on. “I stinkin’ said, I
have—”
“Diroctor, should you be eating all these cigars? I don’t even think they’re helping your, uh, y’know, problem—”

SFX: [Microphone Feedback]
 “Don’t talk ’bout my stinkin’ bathroom problem—”

SFX: [Crowd Active stop] [Audience Laughing]
 Gneeecey’s favorite employee, intern Stuart Pitt, had just pumped up the volume on Gneeecey’s mike.
 All chatter ceased instantly. Except for a few stray snickers, it was so quiet, you could hear a Rindom Doodle drop.
 “Gimme a minute here, peopooples. Gimme a stinkin’ minute!” 

Once folks had resumed coughing and yakking, SFX: [Crowd Active] [Audience Laughing], Gneeecey elbowed me. “I said,” he repeated, covering the microphone, “I got a stinkin’ problem.”
Sick of dealing with nothing but problems, I groaned. “Now what?”
“I caaan’t start the most important parta this meetin’—the 345 Refooferendum part where these dopey environmentalists wanna vote to get rid of our precious mierk—till Mark an’ them get back from the Mierkolatory.”
“Why not?”
“None of your bee’s droppin’s.”
“Well then, how do you expect me to help you?”
“Who stinkin’ asked ya to?”
 “And what are they all doing at the Mierkolatory?”
 “Whaaat? Did I say thaaat? Pretenderate ya never heard that, or I’ll dock your crummy little checks more than I awready do!”
I gazed up at the water damaged ceiling and counted to ten, slowly.
“Ig, how can I waste time?”
“I dunno.”
“I know—I’ll bring up a buncha other dopey junk.” Reaching under his tattered black judge’s robe, Gneeecey scooped several fistfuls of shredded paper out of his T-shirt pocket and dumped them next to his laptop—the one with the slashed screen. SFX: [Rustling Papers] Forcing a toothy smile, he smashed his gavel three times. SFX: [Wood Demolition Bang x 3] “Order in the courthouse, order in the courthouse. Flubbubb wants to speak, Speak, Flubbubb, speak!”
 Squinting, the obedient golden-furred canine-humanoid head of Perswayssick County’s useless Nearsighted Committee shuffled up to the mic.

SFX: [Sneakers Squeaking]
“Take down everythin’,” Gneeecey ordered me. “Write it all down, of course unless I tell ya not
to.”

SFX: [Microphone Feedback]
 “My indistinguishable fellow citizens,” began a squirming, throat clearing Flubbubb, “it is my indubitable honor to commence this suspicious occasion by introducin’ our great and tragic county’s equally tragic Quality of life Commissioner an’ newly-elected Grate Gizzygalumpaggis, under whose expedient stupervision we have suffered the extreme enjoyment of untold an’ awful—”
 “Siddown, ya Iggleheimer! An’ that’s Grate Gizzy—stop wastin’ all them ’spensive letters! You’d appreciate all your consonants an’ vowels if ya hadda earn ’em, like I did.”
 Flubbubb trudged back to his chair, dragging his magnificent tail behind him. 

SFX: [Sneakers Squeaking]
 Gneeecey smashed his gavel with such vigor that wood chips flew in his face. SFX: [Wood Demolition Bang] “Bad mornin’, ladies an’ gentootlemens,” he shrilled, spitting and blinking. “Welcome to our county seat, located on the shores of scenic Buzzard’s Breath Bay.” 

SFX: [Applause]
 
 Polite applause echoed through the gray-and-institutional-green sardine can of a room. 

 “We’ll start wit’ a few items that need to be started wit’, before we can start wit’ other items that can’t be started wit’ till they can be started wit’.”
 Picking through his tattered notes, Gneeecey scoured the room for any signs of his amber-skinned, sinister pals Mark, Mark or Mark. Or even Mark or Mark. There were none present.
 “Before I start wit’ what needs to be started wit’,” he continued, flashing a dirty look at Cleve, who sat conversing with Justin Imbroglio, “I wanna rekookognize the folks from MierkoZurk Mining’s subsidoodooary, PassGass Petroleum. An’ I wanna welcome my friends from
 Stenchover an’ Associates, the Potts’ Chamber of Commerce, an’ also our Windsock Preservation League, of which I’m a proud, foundin’ member. An’ last, but certaincerely not least, the members of a coupla civoovic orgooganizations I chair—S.C.R.A.M., our shopping cart rescue an’ aid mission, an’ also the Society to Prevent Cruelty to Antennas.”
 SFX: [Applause] All present clapped courteously.
Gneeecey plunged his fist back into his scrap pile. “I must also acknowledge this Quality of Life Commission’s Vice Commissioner—over there, somewhere—he’s also the President of the prestigoogious Alphabet Exchange on Zugzwang street, where I trade vowels an’ consonants daily. An’ let’s give a worn welcome to the Mal de Mer Yachting Club, of which I’m a rail-huggin’ sea-barfing member—”
 “Stop wasting time!” shouted a hulking canine-humanoid.
Gneeecey pounded his gavel so hard, it shattered. SFX: [Wood Demolition Bang] “Now, I propose a propooposition proposin’ we regoogulate our county birds.” Gneeecey glanced
around the room again. Still no Marks. “I say we charge all birds—excepting exotic pets, of course—a seven percent tweeting tax, to increase county revenues.”
“Instead,” interrupted the usually bashful Flubbubb, making his way back up front, SFX: [Sneakers Squeaking] “why don’t we do somethin’ ’bout all the nasty little airplanes that fly around Perswayssick County, biting us? Kill ’em!”
 Choruses of “Kill ’em! Kill ’em!” followed Flubbubb’s impromptu recommendation.
 “We’ve had this conservation before,” said Gneeecey, whipping a spare gavel out of his bulging, endless pit of a T-shirt pocket. “Perswayssick County’s a wildlife refuse. Ya kill all the planes, ya wreck the food chain. Birds’ll starve—they’ll croak an’ put all the frogs outta work. Then it’s a real uphill swim for the rest of us.”
 Flubbubb shuffled back to his seat, head bowed. SFX: [Sneakers Squeaking]
 “Any better suggestications to improoverate our crummy quality of life? You, human, wearin’ the green-an’-a-half necktie—step up to the mic. Identificate yourself.”
 “Manny Meantwell here. We at Good Intentions Paving wanna underwrite free hearing testing for all residents—”
 “Nah,” snapped Gneeecey. “We don’t usually like what we hear, so why would we wanna hear it more? An’ our friends at the Center for Selective Hearing Loss wouldn’t be too happy  neitherwise.”
 The only person scribbling meeting minutes faster than me was Justin Imbroglio, still grinning.
 “Okay,” declared Gneeecey, “since this here’s demockookracy in action, I’ll throw up some topics. We’ll disgust whichever ones get ‘ayes.’ First one: If all new cars’ headlights always stay on, how’ll we know when there’s a funeral procession? Shouldn’t local government step in?”
 A couple disinterested ‘nays,’ and several loud yawns, erupted.
 “Uh, lessee. . . .” Eyes darting about, looking for his pals, Gneeecey reached for another
 crumpled piece of paper. “How about I elect Fleaglossitty here to be in charge of our Oversight an’ Hindsight Committees?”
“I’m honored,” responded Fleaglossitty “Flea” Floppinsplodge, also known as “Sooperflea,” as he stumbled over a chair. SFX: [Sneakers Squeaking] [Wood Demolition Bang] “But ‘oversight’ means I’ll forget stuff.”
“But then, Fleaglossitty, when you’re leadin’ the Hindsight Committee, you’ll look back at what’cha gonna forget.”
“If ya say so, Zig,” replied the black-furred canine-humanoid, rubbing his sore eyeballs. He’d spent the day cramming for his chiropractor’s exam and helping Burt and Mary Shisskey install an alarm system in their newly repaired, often burglarized bakery.
“Okay, I unanimooosly elect Fleaglossitty Floppinsplodge to both posts. Now that we got that deciderated. . .hmmm. . .okay, let’s talk about pet dogs. Mine lives in his own condo. But what about all them stray dogs who built their own homes? Whenever one of ’em’s adopted, he  abandons his house. Shouldn’t we tax ’em? Abandoned dog hice bring down all our propooperty values!”
A ripe tomato sailed over Gneeecey’s head and splattered up against the wall. 

SFX: [Splatter]
 “Order! Order! How many of youse keep unicorns as pets?”
 Verna Vlott strode up to the microphone. SFX: [Sneakers Squeaking] “Why are we discussing mythical creatures and other nonsensical matters, when we have the critically important Referendum 345 to consider? It’s nearly dawn!”

SFX: [Applause]
 She received an ovation.
 “Order!” cried Gneeecey, pulverizing another gavel. SFX: [Wood Demolition Bang] “Nobody’s proven unicorns don’t exist—there’s a fifty-fifty proboobability they do. We even got laws protectipatin’ ’em. But do they care about us? At least them two-tailed blue goonafish, as disgustipatin’ as they may be, they let us
eat ’em.”
 “Zig,” called out Mary Shisskey, “let’s get down to the nitty-gritty—most of us have been working since before dusk.”

Mary was right. It was Blirg, Perswayssick County’s annual season of Blirg, where time ran backward.

“Okay, I’ll speed things up. Now, it was brought to my detention that Candlestein Park needs more illuminization at night. Wouldn’t it be more cost-deficient if we learned to walk through there makin’ believe our eyes were shut?”
 Attendees jeered. SFX: [Crowd Booing]
“Next item. I’m studying reincarceration—y’know, the fact youse may have lived before. We could invent a new agency to investigate who everyone was in their previous lives—think of how we could utilizate that information to make increasements in county revenues!”
 Gneeecey’s idea was met with more boos and hisses. SFX: [Crowd Booing]
 “But if we could find out who owes back taxes an’ deboobits from their past lives an’ make ’em pay up now, I bet’cha banks an’ credit card companies would pay finder fees!”
A pie whizzed, like a cream-covered Frisbee, over Gneeecey’s ducking noggin. SFX: [Cartoon Slip]
“Order! Order! Guess I’m presidin’ over a buncha deadbeats. Okay. How about we build a cobooblestone goth path in Plutonium Park? Yooou know, wit’ encloserated areas where they could relieve themselves in pieces? Manny Meantwell, I’ll award yooou the contract—”
[in unison]: “Nay! Nay! Nay! Nay! Nay! Nay!”
“How about,” suggested Burt Shisskey, “we catch that bakery bandit?”
Everyone cheered. SFX: [Applause]
“Our cops are workin’ on it,” replied Gneeecey.
Burt wrinkled his nose and his wife Mary shook her head.
“Now, peepooples, this next item is very exciting! I found the cure for chicken pox in my own stinkin’ refrigerator!”
Everyone gasped. I began to gag. 

SFX: [Crowd Oooh]
 “Geewhizzicles, I said, chicken pox mus’ be related to chicken salad—when it goes bad! Anyways, I’m offerin’ innoculizations, real cheap—”
 “As long as we’re wastin’ time,” hollered Flubbubb, “let’s limit the number of ecnalubmas allowed to park in front of your Gneeezle’s Restaurant! There’s never any room for us payin’ customers.”
 “What in Bogelthorpe’s name is a ecnalubma?”
 “One of them white trucks wit’ sirens that I see in my rearview mirror, y’know, that takes people away from your restaurant after they—” SFX: [Laughter] 
“Siddown!” howled Gneeecey, straining to be heard over all the hoots and hollers.
 A hush came over the crowd when a couple dozen waxy-faced men burst in through the courthouse’s side door, wearing three-piece steel gray suits, white shirts, and winking, blinking luminescent spider’s web-patterned neckties.
 Gneeecey wiped the perspiration from his grimy fur brow. “Welcome Mark, Mark. Mark, Mark an’ Mark! An’ Mark, Mark an’—”
 “Let’s get on with this!” demanded Steve Squiggleman, the tall, gaunt human proprietor of Squiggleman’s Plumbing.
 “Just a stinkin’ minute!” 

Five Markmen—as Cleve and I had begun calling them—approached Gneeecey, bearing armloads of pamphlets. Three others surrounded Justin Imbroglio. A tall, brown-haired
 Markman bent down and whispered something that wiped the grin off the reporter’s face.
 As Imbroglio leapt to his feet, a blond, big-nosed Markman jabbed something concealed under his jacket into the suddenly quiet newspaperman’s ribs, and escorted him out of the courtroom.

SFX: [Orchestra Cliffhanger] [Magic Spell]

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.

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

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