Transcript / He Can Control Minds?! Hypoopnotized! – Episode 271, by Vicki Solá.
All content © 2026 Perswayssick Radio: Unearthly Comedy. (Based on material from YOU CAN’T UNSCRAMBLE THE OMELET by Vicki Solá (© 2019, Perswayssick Press & Audio Works LLC)
SFX: [Tribute to Tito]
If you’ve been listening, you know that dimension burn, from my traumatic, accidental travels between Earth and the otherworldly Perswayssick County, has done a job on my memory. I’m remembering things in bits and pieces. Not really in any order. SFX: [Horror Scary Moment] I’ve just recalled the morning after the zany, walking, talking dog Gneeecey had barged into my basement apartment at 3 a.m., scaring the living daylights out of me. SFX: [Metal Door Opens] And my steel door had appeared to open all by itself!
When Gneeecey showed up, memories came flooding back. He accused me of stealing his teddy bear Yammicles, plus his thousand-dollar bill. And I suddenly panicked, wondering if the evil alien Markman gangsters had followed him to my dimension. Gneeecey owed them money. Back in Perswayssick County, the creeps had tried to kill us several times.
Gneeecey informed me that he too was suffering from dimension burn—indeed, his skin was purple beneath his grungy white fur. He insisted that he had to stay with me for a while. I told him that he absolutely could not.
Didn’t stop the rude little elbow-high canine-humanoid from jumping into my bed with his red high-tops still on, and making himself comfortable! And he had the gall to tell me that I could sleep on the floor! As he began to doze, I eyed the tall glass tumbler on my bedstand next to him. I fantasized about dumping its freezing contents on Gneeecey’s head. Quite suddenly, the glass levitated, pouring icy liquid onto an enraged Gneeecey’s noggin. Perplexed, I denied having anything to do with this—it appeared that the glass had acted on its own. Little did I realize, I was in the process of discovering something new about myself. And about Gneeecey, too.
Back to that morning after Gneeecey arrived. Ever get up extra early so you won’t be late? Well, here’s what went down….
SFX: [Magic Spell] [Alarm Beep] [Misgivings & Misfortune]
The alarm clock’s shrill beep pierced my brain like a knitting needle dipped in acid. Five-thirty a.m.
Ugh. Had to make it to the radio station an hour earlier that morning to finish producing a bilingual commercial for a constipation remedy. For one of WUGG’s newest clients—Grunts Aplenty. I knew I could ace it and have the sixty-second spot ready to blast onto the airwaves in minutes. Only had to add a music bed plus some prerecorded flushing sounds. However, the micro-managing Bill Fernández, who himself wore a constant, pained expression of chronic constipation, wouldn’t hear of me “leaving anything to chance.” Even though the ad wasn’t scheduled to air until after lunchtime.
Flinging off my covers, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed. As my frozen feet fished around for slippers, I glanced down at the open bottom dresser drawer where Gneeecey had been sleeping. It was empty. What was Gneeecey doing up so early?
I grabbed my robe and raced toward the bathroom, turning on lights and stumbling over my hairy houseguest’s propeller-beanie civil defense helmet. Spotted my sleek new cellphone shimmering on a nearby bookshelf. Kept leaving the darned thing home.
As I entered the turquois-tiled privy, I flicked the switch and skidded to a stop. “What the?”
I squeezed my eyelids shut several times, but each time they opened, the mess was still there—yards and yards of wet toilet paper plastered to the shower stall walls and beyond. Little creep. My words formed clouds in the frosty air as I sprinted into the kitchen.
There stood a drenched Gneeecey, sporting my pink paisley shower cap. Bits of toilet paper clung to his off-white snout and black triangular ears. “Bad mornin’, Ig.”
I pounded my fist on the round wooden tabletop. SFX: [Table Pound] Gneeecey blinked. I enunciated each word clearly. And loudly. “What…happened…in…the…bathroom?”
“Whaddaya mean, Ig?” he asked, wringing out the front of his sopping wet T-shirt over the dingy concrete floor.
“Don’t ‘Ig’ me. There’s toilet paper all over the walls in there. Must be a whole roll’s worth.”
“Oh, thaaat. Well, on the package, an’ I used the last roll, it said bath tissue.”
“Since when did you ever start taking baths?”
Gneeecey pointed to his stuffed bear Yammicles, huddled in a puddle under the staircase. A crumpled strand of toilet tissue covered the cross-eyed teddy’s dome, like a bad toupée. “Me an’ Yammy didn’t take no stinkin’ bath, ya Ig. How in Bogelthorpe’s name could we? Ya ain’t got no lousy tub.”
I punched the table again, harder, hurting my hand. SFX: [Table Pound] Gneeecey flinched. “Diroctor, you never took a shower in the two months I stayed in your mansion. In fact, you bragged you hadn’t bathed in two years. Said you didn’t even know how to work your complicated faucets.”
Gneeecey ripped the plastic cap off his noodle and hurled it at me.
“You do remember what toilet paper is for,” I ventured, gripped by a sudden migraine.
Eyes narrowed, he began stomping on the shower cap. His deranged little dance was interrupted by a knock on the door—the one that led from my landlord’s kitchen down into my apartment. SFX: [Door Knock]
“Just a minute, Rico,” I called up the stairs, suddenly hyperventilating. As I turned to Gneeecey, my voice morphed into a pleading whisper. “Diroctor Gneeecey, go back into the bedroom and stay there until I tell you it’s okay to come out. Please.”
He kicked my shower cap under the table. “No.”
“Do as I say,” I ordered, shivering and perspiring at the same time.
Gneeecey grinned. “It’s okay, Rico! C’mon down!” SFX: [Door Open]
“Sit—uh—lay down,” I commanded the canine-humanoid. “And whatever you do, don’t speak. You can bark, no, don’t even do that—”
Ignoring me, Gneeecey extended a grubby white mitt. “Heya, Rico! Bad mornin’! Jack Russell’s the name!”
“Rico Rosado,” replied my thin, silver-haired landlord as he flew down the steps SFX: [HumanWalkDownstairs] and grasped Gneeecey’s furry four-fingered hand. “Nice to meet’cha, Jack.”
“I’m—I’m so sorry, Rico,” I stammered as I glanced sideways at a sneering Gneeecey.
Rico’s head tilted as he ripped a loose thread from his paint-splattered denim overalls.
“I mean, I never even asked you if I could keep a pet. Don’t worry, this is just temporary. This dog’s goin’!”
Rico’s olive eyes grew huge. “Dog? Your friend here seems like a nice person.”
“Friend? He’s not—”
“Jack’s cool. He can hang out here as long as he likes.”
“But—”
“Nicki,” continued Rico, pulling a wrench out of his back pocket, “I just wanted to find out when’s a good time to come down an’ fix your shower faucet. Probably jus’ needs a washer to stop that annoyin’ an’ costly drippin’.”
“Uh…uh…maybe later. After I come home from work—”
“Rico,” interrupted Gneeecey, egg-shaped eyes gleaming, “ya can come down an’ fix it anytime. I’ll be here!”
SFX: [Fail Horn] [Magic Spell]
I slammed a dish under Gneeecey’s fuzzy chin. SFX: [Table Pound] “Here. Toast. Butter it yourself. Now, what’s all this Jack Russell nonsense? And how come my usually sensible landlord thinks you’re a regular person?”
The canine-humanoid held up both slices of burnt bread, eyeing them, and me, with disdain. Yammicles sat next to him, propped up on a folding chair, a white napkin tied bib-like around his worn plush neck. “I aaam a regoogular person. Don’t understand what in Bogelthorpe’s name ya stinkin’ mean.”
I sat down beside him, lifted my ugly, coffee-filled WUGG-FM mug, and took a sip. This morning, the java smelled better than it tasted.
“Y’know, that’s a real ugly coffee mug, Ig. I mean that certaincerely.”
“Diroctor, don’t play games with me or try to change the subject. I don’t have time. I have to go to work. Like I said last night, some of us have to earn a living. Now, how come Rico sees you as a regular person, and not a, you know—”
“A stinkin’ whaaat?”
My jaw tightened. “A dog. A walking, talking dog.”
Gneeecey dropped both pieces of toast back onto the apricot-colored plate and shoved it in front of Yammicles. “First, ya lousy Ig, I am not a dog. My dog Spot, back home, now he’s a dog. But I am difooferent than you, uh, humans—thank Bogelthorpe for that.” He paused. “I’m more, y’know, advanced.”
Clearing my throat, I glanced at my watch.
“An’ by the way, Ig, me an’ Yammy ain’t eatin’ this here lousy bread. It’s on a cold plate, an’ I saw on the package, it says gluten-free. I can afford gluten!”
“Found out a couple months ago that I have gluten sensitivity.”
“Always knew you were weird, Ig.”
“You’re supposed to be a doctor, and I have to explain that having gluten sensitivity means I get sick if I ingest anything with wheat, barley, or rye?”
“Uh, us diroctors are busier than regoogular doctors. We’re doctors an’ directors. We ain’t got time to worry ’bout stuff that life forms like yooou might ingesticate.”
I shook my head, remembering the mostly inedible items offered at his Gneeezle’s Restaurant, back when I was stranded in his dimension of Perswayssick County. Boiled athletic socks, fried nuts and bolts, and sauteed, algae-covered tire gauges…. “And I’ll have you know, Diroctor, just my luck, gluten-free foods cost more.”
“I can stinkin’ afford that, too!” He dug a knife into my non-dairy butter substitute and began gobbling it up, right out of the yellow plastic tub. SFX: [Dog Eating Noises]
“Ugh—stop that! Gross! And stop always changing the subject. How come Rico thinks you’re, uh, one of us?”
“I am one of us.” He dipped a spoon into my new jar of marmalade, then jammed the overloaded utensil into his big pie hole. “I mean,” he continued between annoying slurps, SFX: [Dog Eating Noises] “you an’ me, we’re both here, so that makes us us.” He licked his shiny black lips.
I grabbed the bottle and placed it out of his reach. “You know what I mean.”
He lunged forward, seized the container, and plunged a nearby fork into it. “Ya lousy Ig—”
“Nicki would be the name. And drop the ‘lousy’.”
“Stinkin’ whatever, ya lousy Ig.”
I tore the marmalade out of his hands again.
“Ain’t polite to snatch stuff, Ig.”
“Then don’t take stuff. Now I asked you a question. And I expect an answer.”
He belched. SFX: [Belch]
“Not polite to belch, either.”
“I’ll stinkin’ be right back, Ig.”
SFX: [Door open] [Toilet Flush] [Door Slam]
“I’m baaack.” He began drinking from my thankfully almost empty carton of almond milk. “Well, Ig, seems I, Diroctor B.Z.Z. Gneeecey, also known as The Grate One, got the magical power to hypoopnotize youse Earth people.” He smiled.
“Not me. You never did. And you never will.”
He looked up thoughtfully, a milk mustache making his white fur look even grimier. “Not yooou, ’cause ya met me on my turf when ya invaded my beaudiful an’ superior dimension. Ya stinkin’ invaded my lousy Perswayssick County.”
“Yeah, right….”
“See? Even you stinkin’ agree! An’ your milk sucks!”
“Don’t change the subject again, Diroctor Gneeecey.”
“I’m not. It does. Tastes real funny. But for some reason, I ain’t laughin’.”
I smashed my mug down on the table. SFX: [Table Pound] [Shattering Ceramic] [Splash] The cup had crashed to the concrete floor, shattering and spilling coffee.
“Looky, Ig, ya busted your ugly cup. An’ your lousy coffee’s spilt! Don’t cry over spilt coffee! Heh hah, heh haah!”
“I’m gonna ask you one more time. Why did you tell Rico your name’s Jack Russell?”
“Folks always whisper that name whenever I visit your mudball plaaanet. I figure I must resembooble this Jack Russell guy. So, I use his name whenever I travel, y’know, incognizant to your dimension, which is quite frequent.”
A chill ran down my spine.
“An’ your coffee stinks, too,” he added, admiring his reflection in a nearby glass. “Can’t even eat it wit’ a knife an’ fork like I usually do—gotta drink it—like soup! Disgustipatin’!” He adjusted his ears and smoothed down the hair on his head.
“Sorry. We don’t have your Merk Perk in our dimension. Us earthlings aren’t into, uh, solid, bitter coffee. Oh, and when you have a chance, please pick up that, uh, propeller beanie civil defense hat of yours—or whatever it is. Put it in the closet. By the bedroom.”
“Yeah. Stinkin’ whatever. Later.”
“Almost broke my freakin’ neck on it this morning. And why’s that black letter ‘F’ painted on the front of it?”
“Well, Ig, I calcooculated mathemetratically that if every snitizen in Perswayssick County flushes their high-tech terlits at the same exact time, it’ll create enough force to catapult us stranded Planet Eccchsers back to our own plaaanet.”
My eyes rolled up to the ceiling, then down to my cat-with-the-wagging-tail clock ticking on the brick wall. If I didn’t leave soon, I’d end up being late, despite having gotten up an hour earlier.
“So, ya Ig, the ‘F’ stands for Flush Day, the other plan I got in place ’cause I know I can’t count on yooou to come through wit’ them secret codes.” Picking his teeth, he shot me an icy glare.
I exhaled slowly. The night before, he had insisted that I decipher some secret codes he believed I had hidden away in a manuscript. I had no idea what he was talking about.
“I’ll tell ya more, Ig.”
“Name’s Nicki. Nicki Rodriguez.”
“Yeah. Okay, Ig. Ya rememboober my very igspensive terlit that only us rich people can afford—my Electronic Water Cyclone 3000? Y’know, three-thousand cyclones per flush an’ it can also do your taxes, plus ya can even vote from it?”
Glancing at the clock, I rose. “Gotta go to work.”
Gneeecey’s face lit up.
“You lay low,” I warned.
“Yeah. Stinkin’ whatever.” He removed an orange comb from his bulgy light blue T-shirt pocket and began to style the short inky black fuzz that covered both sides of his head and dipped over his right eye. He ignored the crooked white channel of fur that ran from the top of his noggin and down the middle to his bulbous honker.
Seized by a sudden burst of panic, I gasped. “Diroctor, do you have your, uh, meds with you? Hopefully, they’re somewhere in your, uh, big T-shirt pocket there!”
He shrugged. “Hah?”
“Oh crap, you know, your Bumpex and Repulsid, for your Redecoritis disorder and your, uh, other health issues?”
“Don’t think I got ’em, Ig,” he replied, groping around inside his lumpy T-shirt pocket. “But that’s okay. Ain’t seen no dancin’ trees or walkin’ furniture since I been here. Although your dopey curtains were kinda starin’ at me all funny a coupla minutes ago. Didn’t rip ’em down, though.”
The knot in my stomach tightened. “What about your Millvill and your, uh, Health Cigars, for your, uh, you know, problem?”
The corners of his mouth turned upward.
“What about them, Diroctor?” My right foot began tapping, all by itself.
He shrugged. “Ain’t got them neitherwise.”
Acid rose up into my esophagus. “I’ll call you at lunchtime. On my landline over there on the desk.”
“Stinkin’ whatever.”
“And like I said, just stay quiet and lay low. And don’t think you’re calling the shots around here. This is my dimension.”
Gneeecey grinned. SFX: [ Atmosphere] [Cartoon 2]
I kicked his purple rubber briefcase up against the wall. It bounced. Twice.
SFX: [Boing x 2]
Gneeecey chuckled.
I started up the stairs, glaring at him, back over my shoulder. “I expect to find you here, alone, when I return. And I expect to find this place exactly as it is.”
“Heh hah, heh haah, heh haaah!”
SFX: [Cartoon 1] [Fail Horn] [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] ###
