At first it seemed to be a wooden box. Upon further inspection, it turned out to be a wooden box. I had one of those portable Army shovels, and I alternated between digging and smacking Uncle Al in the head with it. Finally we pried the box open. It was full of eggs.
"It's full of eggs," Uncle Al pointed out.
"Shut up, you disgusting old man," I berated him, "what kind of omelettes are we going to have, here on this Godforsaken beach, with no mushrooms, or meat of any kind?"
"Lobster?" he pulled his head out of the sand.
"Don't be stupid, you old Basketweaver, where the hell are we gonna find..." and just then I saw a colony of lobsters, playing chess, backgammon, and Old Maid under a large umbrella. I started running around chasing them, hoping to talk a couple of them into being in our breakfast, thinking of my best ploys. I decided to pretend I was a cable TV installer. This greatly reduced the chances Jim Carey would ever play me in the movie, after that fiasco with Matthew Broderick.
One of the largest of the lobsters was making a moving speech about how they deserved to LIVE, deserved a chance just like any crustacean, when Uncle Al brought the Army shovel down on his head.
Matthew Broderick himself would have been proud of the efficiency with which we killed the entire colony, shelled them, and had made enough lobster and seaweed omelettes to feed an entire boatload of thin, undersexed runway models from Japan, Norway, and East Africa, which is exactly what washed up on the beach with a large hole in the bow.
As Uncle Al and I were serving their breakfast, Cher was trying to strangle one of the girls to death. We tricked her, with a shiny object, and soon had her staring, and singing sea shanties that date back to 1843. 1843? Wasn't I supposed to do something in the year 1843?
"Uncle Al, push my nose," I said, imitating Nixon.
"Pull my finger," said Al, and I took the shovel out of his hand and smacked him with it.
He pushed my nose, and the world turned black around me. Suddenly we were out in the desert.
There, off in the distance, hanging from a cactus, was the first pair of blue jeans ever commercially produced! My first desire was to run right over to them, and get them, but then I remembered the dire importance of my mission. You see, if these jeans don't get to a small church in Little Rock, Arkansas by Wednesday, it would rip a hole in the space-time continuum.
I ran up to the Chief Indian.
"We gotta be in Little Rock by Wednesday, or very bad things will happen."
"Hmmm," he furrowed his brow, "we really need to hurry!"
He looked out at the endless plain, which was turning bright purple, and as refrigerators and cows started dropping from the sky he said, "it's already Thursday!"
The Chief's feather headband melted, turned back into itself, and then flew off, into the sky, apparantly with a mind all it's own.
"White man have mojo for this?" he looked at me solemnly, and cocked one eyebrow, like John Belushi.
"My dear, dear Chief, they never shoulda sent me here via Woodstock. Obviously there's been a huge administrative error, and now, Buffalo can fly, and they have guns!" I observed.
"Typical," he shrugged, and ducked behind a large rock to avoid being skewered by a Canada Snow Goose with a sword.
"Uncle Al! Uncle Al!" I screamed into the howling wind, "Uncle Al!!!"
Perhaps if the old fool would push my nose again, we could go back to Monday. But I really hate Mondays...
The sacrifices we time travellers have to make, goodness knows...
"Uncle Al!" I saw he was engaged in mortal combat with a very literate desert skink, who was armed with salad forks. Uncle Al had three or four of them sticking out of his shoulder and back, and he looked extremely mad. I picked up one of the giant marshmallows that were suddenly growing out of the desert sand, and with a giant "Schwopppp!!!" brought it down on the fiesty lizard, trapping him in sticky goo.
"Uncle Al, push my nose!"
He did, and we were suddenly somewhere VERY dark.
Slowly, dawn broke on Central Park, and we could all celebrate meatloaf.
I was staring at two women when suddenly they turned into a matching set of Samsonite Luggage! This was truly amazing! I was no longer in Central Park, either. I was in Dayton's, the finest overpriced department store in the Midwest, being picked over by small aquatic birds. A small blue Puffin was whispering something about two sailors walking into a bar in my left ear, and I was thoroughly distracted.
Just then, Mr. Lankly, the director of Sales and Mind Control, stopped by to see how I was working out.
"How are you working out, Smith?" he asked, carelessly tossing a cigarette into a mattress, and starting a small blaze.
"Well, I start with twenty pounds and do sets of fifty..." but he wasn't listening, he had already snatched a Cherry Coke from an unsuspecting shopper, and was headed towards lingerie, where he would probably be hitting on Tiffany, the French girl.
Two men in blue maintenance uniforms were frantically trying to put out the inferno that was now raging in Home Furnishings, and I was getting a little hungry. I wondered when my name became Smith, and headed down to the cafeteria for some pancakes, and maple syrup.
"Are you Jones?" asked the burly, misshapen man sitting at the counter.
"No."
"Are you McCaulkin?" he asked, growing even more misshapen.
"No."
"Then you're just the guy I wanted to talk to."
He looked me up and down.
"Say, you're not working for the Spaniard, are ya?" he looked a little worried.
"The Spaniard?" all the color* went right out of my face. Was it possible? Tito Puente? Here, at Southdale Mall? I was fascinated, and bored, all at the same time.
I backed slowly away from the man with bad skin and swollen larynx, putting sugar packets in my pockets, in case I NEVER did get to eat. What I wouldn't give for one of Uncle Al's lobster ommelettes right now. I walked out into the mall, and there, in Schmidtt Music, was a sight that made my heart begin patterns of reciprocal algorythms, based on the number "2," or any form of Lasagna containing Ricotta. There was a smiling, jolly man, with a mop of grey hair, playing bongos, and talking on a cell phone.
It was Tito Puente, himself!
I figured if I ran into Just Socks he wouldn't see me, but I was too late. As I was hiding behind a rack of dress nylons, I heard an overly friendly voice.
"I've always been fond of the Argyles, myself," his grin was wide enough to drive a truck through.
I was gripped with fear, and couldn't think of an answer.
"Surely, my friend, surely you have tried these wonderful socks, especially with grey pants?" he looked like he wanted to marry me.
It was all I could take. I ran, screaming through the mall, past the Cappucino stand, (and I was so thirsty) past Shoes Shoes Shoes!, (and they were having a sale on Oxfords, too) right into the waiting arms of Mall Security.
"There's no running, or horseplay in here, sir," the robot of a man said in perfect monotone.
Horseplay?
Rossinante!
I took him out, with a left hook, some dinner and a movie, and ran outside, to the parking ramp.
"Hmmm, Camel lot, Partridge lot..." I looked frantically from side to side, "...horse lot! That's it!"
I picked up a copy of USA Today from News and Stuff, outside the mall, and ran as fast as I could to the Horse lot. There, soiling a Mazda Miata, was Rossinante.
What a beautiful horse he was, and so faithful, travelling through time with me as he did, but he was developing an attitude, and tried to avert my gallant mount several times, and I was soooo glad I brought the sugar packets. (You wondered why I picked those up, didn't you? Didn't you? I think you've commented on my weight QUITE enough, thank you dear reader)
"We gotta get back to Central Park!" I told my trusty stallion.
"Why don't we just time-travel there," he asked, which kind of surprised me.
"It's one of those things never explained in the plot," I answered, having my first real conversation with a quadraped,"it just makes the story work better, that's all."
"Hey, watch the labels," he said, obviously reading ahead, "even a four-legged beast such as myself likes to be able to follow a train of logic that makes some degree of sense, unless we're watching one of those stupid French movies, and then we just want skin."
"Well, just keep heading for Central Park!" I admonished the stubborn animal.
"Hey, I'm not kidding about those labels," he just couldn't seem to resist reading the parts outside the quotes, "and if we're going all the way to New York, I hope you brought lots of change!"
Change? What in heaven's name would I need change for?
"Hey, you didn't want me reading the part outside the quotes, remember?" he was mocking me now.
"I am not."
And it was right then that we arrived at our first TOLL BOOTH. I reached in my pocket for some change, and as I pulled it out, I time travelled again, and found myself in a strange motel room.
I dropped a nickel, and it rolled across the room, through the mousehole in the wall, and out into the street. A strange, sweaty glaze was settling into the ragged asphalt, and I got up, carefully skinned and orange, and gazed out the window, thoughtfully sucking on one of the segments, as I am prone to do.
I heard loud German belching in the room next door, and I knew it was the Nazis.
"Damn! I just HATE those guys," I remember thinking to my cat, Zelob, who has very suspicious lineage, "all jackboots, and leather, I mean, how can anybody have such cool stuff, and be such a dick?"
I wondered what year it was, and in what country I was, and what the hell that was I just put in my mouth. I thought it was a Mento.
I opened the door, and stepped out into the chilly air. I walked away from the Nazi's room, and through a crack in the curtains of room 3, I saw several monkeys with typewriters, stern trainers looking over them and looking at their watches.
"So this is the kind of competition I'm up against," I snored, highly impressed, "guess I better sharpen my pencil."
I immediately caught the nearest taxi, driven by Mmmblgz Xxxyxxxxxlxmn. Mmmblgz was a pleasant fellow from a fictional country, which is no easy trick, and nice work if you can get it. He careened slowly along the riverbank, slowly making his way towards the waterfront. I have NO IDEA why.
"This way they won't see us," he was obviously reading and driving at the same time.
"Hey, keep your eyes on the road," I said, deciding to be a less descriptive during this scene.
"Starting when?" he asked.
"Now."
"Now?"
"Yes."
"Won't the reader get confused as to who's talking?"
"Maybe."
"I think so."
"Shoot."
"What's wrong?"
"I don't even know which one of us is talking now."
"No, me neither."
We drove in silence for five or ten hours, and Mmmblgz wept occasionally, probably thinking of pickles (at least I was, and it was starting to make me chuckle involantarily.)
"Stop the cab!" (obviously my dialogue, since he's driving.)
"What is it?" (you're following me right? Well quit following me, I'll have you arrested.)
He stopped the cab and I leapt out, and picked up a cigarette butt.
"We stopped for that?" he asked, incredulous, and with no need to even indent for a new paragraph I answered, "my good dear sir, you fool, you idiot, you moron, you fool! The nature of nonlinear time is such that the single deed of even the most microscopic nature is connected to the whole or macrocosm, or universe, whatever you'd like to call it, and subsequently, when travelling in time, a blade of grass trodden upon in the year 1534 can result in all Frenchmen being arrogant."
He smacked himself in the forehead, looking very guilty.
"This cigarette butt, this is the one that caused the downfall of the human race. You see, it killed the ant that should've infected the bunny caught by the hawk that was shot by the gun of the man who lived in the house that Jack built."
He was cramming cotton in both his ears furiously, turning up the radio and screaming "LALALALALALALA," so I continued.
"Now, this man, should've died, but since some other careless time traveller tossed this butt here, this man grew up to become totally insignificant, and of no consequence whatsoever. This caused him to become so listless and despondent, that he ordered a $500 leopard skin print couch from the Home Shopping Network, at the exact moment they were about to go bankrupt, causing a positive cash flow, and giving hope to the stockholders, causing HSN to close out high that day. This caused a Postman in Hampshire to be late for work, leaving his sandwich next to the toaster, which had an electrical short."
His eyes had glazed over like a honey and garlic donut, and he was speaking in a new language, a language that will be shared by all Carbon or Polyester life forms 10,000 years from now, shortly after Dick Clark dies. I was about to launch into a description of the blueprints for the Taj Mahal, when I felt myself being sucked into the void, yet again.
I was hanging on to a speeding train with one hand. With the other, I was checking to see if I had any Pez left. I found the dispenser, a very rare Richard Nixon Pez dispenser, lifted up Nixon's head by the nose, and carefully tapped one small candy into my mouth, ducking to avoid the tunnel. When we came out on the other side, I was sitting in the smoking car, in a fine velvet jacket, with a gorgeous blonde on each arm. And playing poker with a sultry redhead!
I was holding a full house, Kings over 3's, and feeling pretty good about life, but when I saw Ned Beatty running through the train, I knew all was not right here.
"They're after me," he sweated profusely.
"Who's they?" I asked, surprised that I now had a British accent.
"No time to talk," he said hurriedly, and then ran panting towards the back of the train, where he jumped off. He aimed himself towards a small pond, but he never saw the telephone pole coming. Smaller and smaller he grew, halfway up the pole, and I waved goodbye to one of my favorite actors.
"Ante up," said the redhead. Her name was Who Mi.
I put $50 in gold coins and rutabaga on the table, along with a gun, a picture of the Queen, and one of those Viewmaster things, with 3D slides of Mount Rushmore. Someone had altered the slides to include Ronald Reagan, Andrew Jackson, and all Three Stooges on the mountains face. I thought it looked a little "busy," but I didn't think anyone could beat my hand.
"I'll call," she said, giving me the eye.
"Gross," I said, "where'd you get that?"
"I'll take that," said a man with one eye, tapping his foot impatiently.
"Can you beat a full house?" I asked, showing my hand.
"Who me?" asked Who Mi.
She showed me a flush. She showed me a straight. She showed me a straight flush.
"That's pretty good," I yodeled, obviously impressed. I decided to let her keep the pot, even though she won it fair and square, and asked her if she'd like me to throw in a toaster.
"A toaster?" she asked, now the one to be impressed.
"Well, you have to open a checking account, but it's interest-free!" I laughed, and then got all serious.
No one had ever offered Who Mi an interest-free checking account before, and it sent her back, far back in her mind to long before she was born, in yet another fictional country, which is no mean feat, and nice work if you can get it.
Her great grandmother was out standing in her field. She saw that one of the cows was looking sick. She ran towards the cow at full speed, and then suddenly plunged headlong into a hay bale.
"This sort of thing happens all the time," thought Ordway Brownstocking, a pudgy Englishman who'd come to plunder this fictional country. He got back to the business of writing a letter.
Dear Mr. Stovelblatt:
Many solicitations to you, and good at that. May I hope this finds you well, and is that a question. These are a quaint people, hardly sophisticated like you and I, but I feel with a little encouragement, and by giving up the beliefs they hold so dear, I think they could someday be good enough to be servants for us. Let me know what you think, dear boy, maybe I'll have one or two of them sent back home, just for a laugh.
Interminably preoccumpied,
Sir Ordway Brownstocking,
Nobleman and Proud Plunderer
Sir Ordway neatly folded the letter, carefully putting it into his coat pocket, and walked slowly over towards Who Mi's great grandmother, whose name was Amy.
"I say, good woman, let's round up the family, and get them in the wagon, so I can ruin your lives, and have a jolly good time while doing it, eh?" he said, though she didn't speak English, and she smiled and nodded, and led him back to the house. Both her and Sir Ordway should've paid alot more attention to the cow, whose name was Michaelangelo.
As Sir Ordway began loading the various cousins and relatives into the cramped wagon, all of them smiling and patting him on the shoulder as they trustingly squished in, Michaelangelo did something I've only seen one other time:
He got up on his hind legs, ran over to Sir Ordway, and began boxing him, (19th century rules) quickly opening a cut beneath Sir Ordway's left eye.
This was my chance. I had been somehow turned into a squirrel, so I scurried over to the wagon, and explained Sir Ordway's evil plan, but they didn't believe me, and chased me away, and I didn't change time that day.
Who Mi looked at me, a tear in her eye.
"You let my great grandmother Amy down." she pouted.
"Who, me?"
"Yes?" she looked up, hopeful.
"Uh, I couldn't help it, I got turned into a squirrel."
"Oh, THAT excuse again. How many times have I heard THAT one?" she poured her jello down her blouse.
"Waiter, I'd like a ham sandwich," I said, thinking he looked familiar.
"And something for the ladies?" he asked, sounding familiar.
"I'll have a steak sandwich, fries, an apple, a peach, two eggs, a pear, no make that a cheeseburger, and some coffee with extra cinnamon," said one of the blondes.
"I'll have what she's having," said the other, and my head began to swirl.
"Who Mi?" I asked.
"Who you, sir?" asked the waiter.
"I'll just have a chef salad, with light dressing, no ham, and 3 orders of waffles." she said flatly, staring out the window, at the fictional countryside going by.
I motioned to the waiter to bring her the check when it came time. He smiled, jumped up, and hit his head on the hat rack, and as he got up off the floor, gave me a thumbs up.
Just then, a priest walked up, and handed me a telephone. I answered it, then passed out, and awoke at a conference table.
"This meeting will come to order."
Robert Reed, who played Mike Brady on TV, banged the gavel on the oversized conference table. It was so long, that I couldn't see the other end of it. The most amazing people were seated there.
At the head of the table was Robert Reed. To his left, Tito Puente. To his right was my Uncle Al. Next to Tito, was Cher, Bette Midler, with three lawyers, Greg Allman, Jim Carey, Bob Denver, Matthew Broderick, and six of his lawyers, John Brown, Flat Eric, several Indians, and an assortment of cartoon characters. On the left of my Uncle Al sat Andy Warhol, Ronald Reagan, a small lizard, and the entire cast and crew of "Cats." (Both original Broadway, and touring companies)
"Some of us are fictional characters," continued Robert Reed, "some of us are dead, and some of us are actual living people."
A murmer went up and down the table.
"But I think we all know who we are, and why we're here." he was playing with a yo-yo.
A murmer of approval went up and down the table.
"Now, some of you are a little upset with the way you've been portrayed in this story."
Cher stood up, but then sat back down, glaring, steely-eyed at Greg Allman, who had seen better days.
Sherlock Holmes came in, and sat down while Watson frantically apologized for being late.
"I think you'll all be surprised by my solution to this, shall we say situation."
A murmer of confusion went up and down the table.
A group of drunk nazis was leading some monkeys and their trainers towards the back of the room.
"You see, this story suffers from a common problem, -too many characters." he began jogging in place.
"So I'm going to have to ask that the main character, who doesn't necessarily have a name, although he was 'Smith' at the department store, to step out of the room for just a moment."
I stepped out into the hallway, and walked down the stairs, out into the street. The building exploded, throwing me against a parked car, and as I sat dazed in the street, and looked back, the whole building was gone! I was alone in a silent street, the echoes of the blast fading away into the stir of the city.
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