Jim Meirose 

A Rare Sort of Fungus                                                

At the top of Back City environment news today, a major event is taking place that, if taking place nearly anyplace else would be nothing but, eh, hey—for the first time in ten years one of us’s leaving Back City for the main’man—ando. And that is, Dr. Toby VanDer-Uncle, Back City Psychologist of nearly fifteen years’ duration, has abandoned our beloved and venerable peninsula for the Mainland. Rum’ording has it’s ’tan he will be ‘btaining a private practice hot shingling low-keyer of a job someplace far as inland as he can acquire the distance from deep down inside him to strain as faraway from we here as can be gotten. It would have been mystical enough were he jus’ plain vanilla Back City but, he was more. I have here an interview with Bandiana Christman’s-Son, retired old time Back City documentalist living on the edge of Face-Forward beach north of the Sockets, that mysterious series of what look like blastholes, concealed ten feet out under the surf, which some backcitian wags have suggested through the years may be found to hold, if excavated, remnants of the great sea-heaval that long story short rendered the tip of the peninsula, now the site of Back City, barren of vegetation and clear of the near presence of the hungering Back City swamp, which is now known as the JungleSwamp. He says and I quote; the manifest of the big-Louie shocker of VanDer-Uncle’s departure seems funny and odd and suspectionalus of some funny adherence of the psychologist with the totally out of character apparent defaulted to failure mayoral bid to unseat Wicki-Wallace Boole, or whathinder she smacks off herself into, good spelling and fat memory being no longer a talent of mine, since I turned ninety seventy-three years ago. Ahem. Ahemahem. I think—and at this point the listeners should keep in mind that Mr. Christman’s-Son was granted off long-backer’s widely deep ceremonial shovel her gift to him to, on the few occasions that one of his shy breed would see fit to speak to Back City, that he will never be interrupted when speaking his piece; his expanding time will flow o’er and drown down everything, and this is quite more like the type of rule one’d apply to God himself when speaking, as on the time he spoke down from Mt Sinai; like the time his son delivered the sermon on the mount, or the Commissioning of the Twelve, or the Parables of the Kingdom, or like any other time he spoke to great crowds. Neither God nor Bandiana would have or will be moved from their spot by an overrun of a playgame in extra-innings, sudden death overtime, or late start due to a bad weather event—though the lord would no doubt, knowing of everything that has happened, will happen, or is happening now, although; there is really no such time space as now because it is an imaginary line invented to keep us upright in the wild-windy jumble of the flow of time over us—to appreciate that just view the readily available amateur and surveillance videos viral of the recent Javanese Jumbler tsunamianette, the nick coined on the old relay channel which preceded the current world-wrap of an inxri-knette—so veryies, now all overdraped with this hoary old disclaimer, Mr. Christman’s-Son, go-ho. 

Thank you, Mr. Pip. So, where I was is; everybody loves a fat juicy scandal; as a matterypunc’ta let me don my Vancy-Graced voicetone and its surrounding deep-sawn violin bumpertunes. Here it is. That better? Good. So, anypost; fine publican’s information is on file, as are the required test cases for this type five event, that Toby the prissychologist was cahooting quite closely, yes closely, quite closely up the ‘hind of the candydate. This in itself might not be something but, well in this case it might be, in itself or all out the of—phew—the Chandra-date pasts theirselves may be checkermanned. S’not ‘ften a politicanunderman of this low calibre carries the weight of being undra lendi-leasy of some need for mood modification, the inplicitave ripples of which a after ‘xapanding all circular may possible ah yes, even probably prove to be filled with the pus of dishonesty when pricked with even the lightest scrutiny, the featherlike brush of which in itself may be unable to poke ‘pen th’ wall, but; the wave of interest in her backstory may provide the pressure to burst the entire ‘fection of ‘trut’ out in it’s free. Ah! But, in the manner of anything brand new, the sheen of the data is peerless. That’s the first segment, whose ragged red edge indicates there’ a mating piece drifting ‘bout summerwise since that is currently the season of this; and on the opposite border, the truth of McMatter—which we shall use as a variable name for this fast-festering big equatitonal problem—so big that if written on paper the paper would have to be football fields huge, and the lines traced down writing it would have to be several yards wide; the quality of ink needed would have be freighted in from megatankers and the pen, well, the pen, well, My God what pops is that now we’re in territory where it gets often shouted, Give me a place to stand and I will move the world! Into interstellar freezing plathe-space, all meditatively we have passed the overing edge of all things now, Sam, please drop ‘nothing to that big new abyss stretched out down below, for fear of setting off multiple blasts each capable of the delivering the complete shatterment of their assigned planetary globes—the reality of which is less than illusory, big Packie. Opp, so… 

<dead air> 

Uh, what? Control room, what’s flown over cutting Bandiana down? 

Oh. But—oh. Okay. 

We are sorry, dead listeners. A pseudo-nondeliberate technical beatdown has taken Bandiana’s full message out and down. We are so sorry. We know you all wanted to know when and how it would end. I can tell you the gist of it, as the technical staff investigates, backed up by local law enforcement, Candidate McMatter is suddenly nowhere to be found. Days later, her psychologist leaves Back City, apparently permanently. This may or may not be a coincidence, but we will continue to follow up. More at eleven, if more is available. We will present the last half of Bandiana’s statement, well—certainly someday. If not, soon after. 

In other news; the great tree of justice, behind city hall, appears to have contracted a rare sort of fungus. We will let… 

Th’ Poeta of Hi’ ‘nvisible Smoke: Part 3.

—because several outsized squads of assorted experts in the art of the articulation possibilities of the typical human limb—testified, at the request of Big Law itselves, that she could not have chopped up her nose root herself, with anything approaching the force required to induce death. This was proven by the creation of charts, graphs, pictures, animations, puppet shows, recreations, simulations of all conceivable measures and means, with the topper being a three-day holographic re-creation of all events, involving all people, on all dates, from the initial unwrapping of the jazz horn, to the upthrust nasal cartelization deaths of himself and herself, and her huck, huck, huck—so, over a bed of hot lava flaming bundles of superheated sticks brake for clinkering-coo exactly bundles of white sticks so so s’, Hans, simply because reading this story and also, then, listening over and over to Nanzee Gray’s hip-roaring and hooray scream the crime down hoedown show, holy Moses; drop the damned thing. Pawn it, or something, to somehow get something for it, to ease the letdown of your thousands of wasted hours, Hans. Now Hans, let’s get real. Hans, did you really think you had musical talent? Did you really think you could excel in guitar music when your tin ear would never let you tune it correctly? Did you really think that when your parents, aunts, uncles, and otherwise elses selves, ‘round all so-so, would say, Yo, so; great Hans. You so great, Hans. You see that, Madgie-my matter and everybody’s else? Look at his hands; they move like spiders; spiders and snakes and all these resemblancing, writhing what-have-yous of the familiatational kind, and, atop of it all, of the blood yes, the blood yes. The blood. Of course, they’ve all lied all of them lied because they were ignorant bluop bloup bloop bloop bluip bloope bluop bloup flaming bundles of superheated sticks brake for bloopi bloopee bluipoir bup lou loop Clinkering-coo exactly bundles of white sticks blo bui loo unimportant Thinking themselves kind, they encouraged your folly. Thinking themselves helpful, they caused you to waste hundreds of hours. And so, Hans, yes, I think these automatic rifles you’ve spread out ‘cross your truck bed for my inspection, well, yes, you were right to buy them. And, the plan you’ve outlined for tomorrow’s family picnic is a fine one, Hans. But, that aside. What’s much more intense and thus much more important was, that then oh my then there came a burial pending in Poeta at the city of the dead. A tentlike structure of green canvas stood erected by the grave. But then. bup blu loo bop over a bed of hot lava blip blop lup lop lp bluo blou bundles of white sticks luop loup oop op p pe boo blu blo blo flaming bundles of superheated sticks rak for bloop bluip bluop loup oop op Clinkering-coo Exactly! bluip loope uop up bluop blou blo unimportant And then they put their arm up again A pile of deep brown soil lay neatly piled by the gravesides. But then Oh my then. Folding chairs. But then oh my then there came. Three of four wide squat burial workers. But then oh my then there came a burial pending. Half the workers were empty handed in coveralls. But then oh my then there came a burial pending in Poeta at. But then oh my then there came a burial pending in Poeta at the city. Hic. But then oh my then there came a burial pending in Poeta at the city of. Hic hic. The giant yellow backhoe set to the side is not simply a coincidence. This rendered the rest of the ride up that direction disturbing. Hic hic hic. bluop blo bl b bp ope Exactly p up oop loop bluip blpe blu bp pop uip loope brake for p up oop loop bluip bloope Bluop blp bp Hot lava oo lui loop bluop loup op p ip loope over a bed of The city of the dead. Knowing Poeta would never be seen the same way again rendered the remainder of the up-ride disturbing and the same went for the later down-ride to the end. A burial’s pending in Poeta at the city of the dead. At the city of the dead. At the city of the dead. B we said we said bluop blp bp b ip b bl blo bloo bluip Bundles of white sticks bloope bluo blo b bluop blou blo bl flaming bundles of superheated sticks passed the burial pending in Poeta at the city of the dead. Hic. bl bloo bluop bluop blou blo bl b bl blu unimportant But again it is b bl blo blu bloo bluop at the city b bl blo bloo blui bloope of the dead hic hic Clinkering-coo bluop blou bloo bl b 156 times 2 ways exit 148 78 times north of the city of the dead. 

Hic hic hic! 

Unimportant. Hic hic. And then they put their arm up again. Hic. Over a bed of. Hot lava. Flaming bundles of superheated sticks. Brake for. Clinkering-coo. Exactly! Bundles of white sticks. bluop bloup bloop bloop bluip bloope unimportant bloup bloop bloop bluip unimportant bloup bloop bloop unimportant bloup bloop absolutely unimportant bloup totally unimportant undeniably unimportant really unimportant inviolately unimportant—but, anyway. What the hell kind of a meat loaf is this? 

Part 2

But what the hell kind of a meat loaf is this? I have been more than patient!

Jules threw What? at his opponent’s feet, and glared in a way most would find frightening, but—only to find that during his instant of passing through one through five above, and what was going to come out being simply What? Unimportant and then they put their arm up again his creator took pity and plucked him on high to its eternal bosom and, Jules, after the final ? of the tiny bark of his What? echoed to nothing, he found himself dead on the floor, with no time left to exclaim, What did I do to deserve this, over a bed of hot lava flaming bundles of superheated sticks brake for clinkering-coo and, so, he wasn’t there; there’d never been his side of the conversation, and, since his other ‘s conversation still remained having been, exactly bundles of white sticks bluop bloup bloop bloop bluip bloope the gathering crowd, who’d been listening to this for over five days (which however was only five minutes because they needed to be able to say to the policemen they’d called about the disturbance this madman speaking back into himself that it had been going on for five days) bluop bloup flaming bundles of superheated sticks brake for bloopi bloopee bluipoir bup lou loop Clinkering-coo exactly bundles called a policeman walking past with sandwich off its lunch break of white sticks blo bui loo unimportant and then they put their arm up again over a bed of hot lava bluop bup blu loo bop over a bed of and a sequence of police/policed interactions took place hot lava blip blop lup lop lp bluo blou bundles of white sticks luop loup oop op p pe boo blu blo blo flaming bundles of superheated sticks rak for bloop bluip leading to the offender being straightjacketed bluop loup oop op Clinkering-coo Exactly! bluip loope uop up bluop blou blo unimportant and then they put their arm up again bloop blui op oup loop bloop And then they put their arm up again and taken out of sight forever and, since our lord on high is merciful and loving, bluip loope blu bluop blo bl b bp ope exactly p up oop loop bluip blpe blu bp pop uip loope brake for p up oop loop bluip bloope bluop blp bp

Hot lava oo lui loop, he did what he had to do to prevent regret and depression leading to suicide or worse in the thirteen of his chosen elect, bluop loup op p ip loope over a bed of bluop blp bp b ip b bl blo bloo bluip bundles of white sticks bloope bluo blo b bluop blou blo bl flaming bundles of superheated sticks bl bloo bluop bluop blou blo bl b bl blu unimportant He issued them all goblets of the calming quaff of forgetfulness a la Hercules herself, the movie, and he led them into his next chapter where he became man and all and all, b bl blo blu bloo bluop b bl blo bloo blui bloope clinkering-coo almighty bluop blou bloo bl b But what the hell kind of a meatloaf is this Christ which story most of you have known since birth and so, I will not go farther. Like what happens when yo’ drive round-trip a hundred-fifty-seven times. Oh, ah, oops. Six, that is.

Hey listen. Hey. Listen. But what the hell kind of a meat loaf is this?

I have been more than much more than patient much more than patient!

Of any kind let alone their very own. Why?

See! For this purpose, it is wrong to refer to anything typically assigned a zip code shared or otherwise as he or she. Or to use such phrases as they’ve got their own zip code. You would say it’s got its own zip code. Or they’ve got their own zip codes. That one—the word they’ve plus the word their that they’ve both used in the phrase—is a tightrope walk. Because they’ve, or their, could apply to objects or locations, as well as to more than one human. But it’s, or its, typically leaves out humans. Sentient non-human creatures, however, may be referred to in this way regarding the assignment of zip codes to them. (note the use of them however. Son, remember, that when pressed against the wall of the hard stop the rules go out the window—or, more precisely, evaporate into invisible smoke; which in itself is a term perhaps quite meaningless ‘cause, well, my hawsers ‘n hippos, is there such a thing as invisible smoke—hey, there; Hans Zeigler back there! Back there, Hans, I gotcha! As was suspected, you do spend far too much time pretending to play rock and roll on that no-name scroll-horned cutaway Christmas

present of an electric guitar you pretend to use daily, so that Aunt Minnie, your family’s seriously unbalanced serial gifter, got you five Christmases ago, and after the unwrapping, she brandished before you a probably fake newspaper clipping, reporting on a previously fine auntie, who after spending significant money on a jazz horn of some kind for one of the hundred nephews she imagined she had, but that were all wrapped ‘round the core of her derangement into one boy; one! One boy, who—when she visited seven months down on the boys birthday, and found that without asking her or informing her ess, not anything-ing her at all about the sale of the jazz horn, due to th’ lads lack of interest, smashed upward the root of his nose, driving a dagger of cartilage into his brain, and then doing the same exact thing to herself. unimportant and then they put their arm up again Which, after local law enforcement arrived, and the whole criminal justice whirlwind up and petered out, as usual, the boys Father got life at hard labor—for it was one of those countries you know, one of those—