Part 45 of the Ishmael Gradsdovic papers isn't written in Danish
When Marilyn Monroe came up to me, wearing an elephant shaft subtly nailed to her shoulder, I was about to explain that the Jews had nothing to do with the otherwise inexplicable explosion of feline leukemia but my zipper was stuck. "Don't worry, Your Highness," she wrote and her lipstick gleamed in the blue flaming neon lights that lined the modernity ward, "we've been on to you for a long time."
I suspected at once that someone had spiked my drink. "It's not for me," I said, "it's for a friend of mine. She loves your work." That put her off for a while, but I saw the flashbulb go off in the corner of my mind and I knew Richard Leakey cum Leakey, my nemesis and as yet unforgiven since his poor cast -- using one of my own Royal Coachmen -- led directly to the removal of the Elizabeth Taylor wig (tm) from the family shrine (no mere accident, oversight, peer review panel politicking that) yet had yet beat me to it once yet again.
Yes, this was a deep fix, indeed, and not even Salman Rushdie can teach proper use of a dental dam to the apostles. Marilyn was still hanging on, but it looked like her dentures would give way any minute. I don't want to (not available in stores) be around when that hits. Nonetheless, it wouldn't matter in the least, considering the coming coronation and attendant media coverage a la a la a la a la.
Swattered gum covers drooped over the landscape, where only the previous three Sundays there had stood emaciated pheasants, richly embroidered, as far as the eye could see. I fought the urge to improvise. Leakey cum Leakey, I thought, could still be on the ward, and it is after all, more to the point, sweeps week. Fucking Milli Vanilli ruined it for all of us.
** And Negro Democrats All ** wrote Poe in the rafters.
The rafters! I shot and that. A worser omen than this could hardly be planned. Do you suppose it could be in my contract? Between the dental floss? Leave it to the legal staff, you should have been informed. You don't have to put up with to do put up to with this do.
I can only assume Marilyn will miss the recitation of Babe Ruth's culture. All for the pest, I suppose. Last time, she had to be wheeled home in a furnace. In three-part harmony. It was a mess? And the budget surpus -- with which food was to be purchased for orphans -- well, you can guess.
"If only you had a hairpin," said Richard Leakey cum Leakey. And then I remembered Richard Leakey cum Leakey. Oh the treacherous Poe? "Les poissons rouges," I crept, in my best Arabic, but he was not deterred. Let this be a lesson to us all Sirens left the ward, through the windows if necessary. Take my wife, please. "Marilyn, darling, I need you after all," I sang, until you almost wept. Just wait. You won't get off easy this time.
Would the critics drown in salty tears? Or had they taken refuge with Poe in the attic? And where, oh where, was the King? And why was he bald? I suspected Leakey cum Leakey at once.
"I promised not to kill you," I said, for he was not yet on stage. "No matter," I replied greasily and with a trace of contemporaries, "the Cardinal has yet to arrive -- did you remember to set the clocks back?" Marilyn set the table for three. I cursed outwardly, and folded. "Look, the Loch Ness Monster," I cried in mock distraction.
Marilyn giggled and exposed her neck after puncturing Richard's hand with a salad fork. Her dress was caught on a snag in the astroturf. But if it was just a ploy, those outside of the front row never told a soul. Or the pope. Or the cardinal. The Cardinal! I almost forgot!
I shook open my box of cream jelly, embarassed but feigning dignity. My understudy snorted audibly and Marilyn took on an expression of disgust. Leakey cum Leakey was still bandaging his arm. Funny thing, that. And immediately suspect. They don't call me long distance for nothing.
Yes, there's nothing sadder in May than a town without a mascot and that's doubly true in the Spring and this town had just about as little mascot as they come. But in the midst of this desolation, and as joy-ridden as a concession speech sat the Constapig, drunk and naked in the town whore which was just about as good. For the King was coming, and a Constapig in a poke needs no Chamber of Commerce. That was a joke.
Ever since I was a child I have longed for a glass of water and today the King will come, and the Cardinal will evolve from cream jelly into what you are today. And what a sight that will be. I hear there are still tickets in the ashtray.
Marilyn was trying to convince me that the plague of feline leukemia was just a mental plant given to UFO abductees. She said these people had never owned cats at all. How'd she know? No cat toys, she said. No cat food. "Maybe they threw out the cat food," I said, "or gave it to neighborhood cats until it ran out." "And the cat toys?" she asked. "Threw 'em out; part of the grieving process," I deployed. Besides, I had already risked a lot checking out the Jews, and I wasn't about to get into the bakery business again. Not with Richard injured, and half the audience gone.
The Dalai Lama gave a yelp and wound up leading the band in "Ode to a Rutting Walrus" while Yoko played the violator. I feared for the diplomatic staff. The press corpse would not take this well. "Princess... princess..." I heard Marilyn mourn. "Not for very much longer if this keeps up," she corroborated.
Maybe this is just some sort of joke. His majesty is bigger than my father's. Could he be hidden in the Cardinal's robes? We'll cross that picket line when we come hither dither dickory dock isn't vary from patient to patient. Or from patient to himself. It was only then you saw the shadow of Burroughs croaking, "The myth of California you uttered" slowly.
"Chinese junk yacht sailboat. Titanic. Iceberg. Only a modicum of civilization remaindering around them. You just can't wait, can you? Can you? Can You? Can You? Can You Can You? Can Can? You You? You Can Can You? Can Can Can. a.
"Ciao! I'm dancing the fiasco in the St. Vitus burn unit. You can't count on my help! Sure I could make this all simple for you, I could straighten it all out, even the straight, but what's in it for you?" And just as quickly as that he was born. Marilyn, too.
Oh shit, not a new Cardinal, I thoughed. "Don't worry, your grace," Marilyn cooed off, "I've tied a bell around my husbank's neck." "Wasn't that clever," Burroughs tubercularly repudiated, "It's all lies, deliberately and systematically cultivated by the governing party. Octopodes have sharp beaks, which you would know, or will. The teatacles, vast and bloated with the sweat of our labor, will inevitably sweep your way and the suckers on your flesh will leave concentric circles of scars which can be interpreted as the mark of the beast.
It was going to be a long ceremony, post mortem, that was for sure. I giggled and ran in sight until I was righteous. Leakey cum Leakey had shrunk to the size of a pea scooper. Contraband. The King was coming and so was I, and so I wept for the love of Marilyn. He wore a crown of thongs, each one entrusted with the legend "this side up" in god denim and pairs of Jews
Oh where were the days of Davey Lopes and the cardinal excreting on the living room again. What happenstance! Marilyn could just as soon throw away her raconteur as take away another penniless soul from the rapes of hardwood.
What's that strange smell?
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