Friday, September 28, 2012

Happy; Like Rainbows


It was Rabbit Hole day, and I knew there was a lot I had to accomplish within 24 hours, so I got an early start. I woke at 8:40, rather then 8:55. It was a bitch, but some things are more important than, well, than other things.


Once dressed in full wetsuit body armor, I moved the ton of stuff we’d packed into the downstairs closet so I could get at the entrance to the crawl space; the half height, dirt floored, spider ridden pseudo basement directly under the dining room and kitchen. It’s there I keep my enshrinkerator and garden hose accoutrement, and as I would be traveling to Smal’land for the day, I would need to fire up both.

The enshrinkerator and I were old friends. Granted, it was a dangerous machine, even in the hands of an expert, which I fully pretend to be. Yet if one was to speak to the little people without blowing their brains out with the naturally occurring dynamic volume of biggie Speech (Their term, not mine), one would need to have mouths no larger than their listeners ears, and so, shrinkage was a necessary evil. (Luckily I have had only two instances wherein I was injured by the device, one in which my big toe permanently became a little toe, and the other in which the appendage that was miniaturized and never returned to its former size was my pen… well, that’s a sad, sad story for another time.)

I cranked shrinky on and stepped into the disco ball maelstrom, and within seconds I was a tiny version of my former self. I checked all my non previously modified parts, and finding them all intact I set about the business of boarding W.A.S.H; the Water Activated Shuttle Hose.

Stepping into the green tube and then twisting its female end onto the spigot, I readied myself for transit, once again forgetting entirely about my shoes. Of course the GHS (garden hose surfboard) was not equipped to accept shoes but only bare feet, and as I would need my hands with which to snatch the brass rings when I needed to turn in one of the tunnels, I couldn’t very well just hang onto them. I considered starting over, unscrewing, stepping out and resizing, exiting the crawl space just so I could place my silly clogs in the little raised shoe mat my wife had purchased just before insisting that I use it or risk losing my shoes to the goodwill truck. But then I though of an easier way to deal with them.

It took me a few minutes to recall the spell, but after a few poundings of my head against the garden hose wall to jog my memory I conjured up a lovely long tailed monkey, tucked his tail into my belt and handed him my clogs; then slipped my bare feet into the surfboard and twisted the spigot. The rush of water from a newly tapped spigot is breathtaking. That instant acceleration reminds me of drag racing, if one’s car were strapped onto one’s feet. I took aim for the westward tunnel and entered the Stream of Consciousness.

I’m glad you don’t need to be a talented surfer to get around on the water shuttle. The hose wall is pretty tight, you can’t really fall down unless you try, though you do nudge the rubber with your shoulders and forehead now and then, leaving a green stain on your person. I twisted left at the intersection of Burly and Gate, then right at Twiddly and Dee, and before long I’d arrived at my first destination, the Ponzi Greeting Card Company, my part time employer.

Ponzi of course caters to the wealthy exclusively, so my job entailed writing to the rich, or at least writing FOR the rich TO the rich. I only had one card to complete to make my quota and satisfy my contract, so I reached into the grab bag of holidays and pulled out… wouldn’t you know it… Valentine’s Day.

Sympathy cards were easy. The rich don’t have any, unless they were trying to convince themselves that someone cared about them enough to send a note and then they’d have their “people” fill one out on their behalf, using a presumed name naturally. But Valentines; they were the worst. Try to use the words love and rich in the same sentence. They go together like, umm, bacon and ahhh, spider spit! Ok, spider spit is two words, but I’m sure you get my point. Still, once a chore slip is pulled from the great jar of annoyances, it must be fulfilled; so I got to work.

I love your money, I think it’s real keen
If you give me the most I would trade you my spleen…nah, not direct enough. I tried again.

You’re fat and you’re bald and you smell like a seal
But darling my love for you is almost real
I swear if my checkbooks, you keep full of life
I’ll always remain your adored trophy wife

That was the one. I emailed it to Martha Stewart, president of Ponzi, and jumped back on the surfboard to head to my second obligation of the day. This time though, there was a complication.

Once in a while you’ll run into a wide spot in the road, a place where something clogged up the works for a time and caused a malformation of the tunnel. It’s like a human vein full of cholesterol, except the pump isn’t so wimpy and the flow doesn’t stop, it just keeps building and building until the fabric of the hose can’t take anymore and it bubbles out creating this huge cavern. Usually the motion of the expansion breaks the obstruction apart and it ceases to be an issue. But once the cavern is created, various predators vie for the livable space. If you’re lucky, it will be taken over by a colony of amoeba, or a wandering funky chicken. But in my life, the one with all bad luck, what will inhabit the space is the most fearsome beast of all; a Canadian Hoser!

It looks like a shark, but don’t let that fool you. It’s weapons are not sharp teeth and a wily way. It will trap you within it’s domicile, and then talk you into drinking brewskis until you’re quite stupefied. And then… then…. it will BORE you to death by telling you every single detail, mile after mile, of a bicycle trip between Moose Jaw Saskatchewan and Medicine Hat Alberta!

Why did I tell you all this? Because silly, I ran into a wide spot in the tube just before reaching the Teddy Transformer factory! And sure as hell, there it was, the Great Hoser!

There was only one thing I could do. I shoved my clogs into my gaping maw. I’d had plenty of practice, it’s not like I’d never had my foot in my mouth before. And then, I’m embarrassed to say, I threw the monkey to the beast! Listen, I had no choice! I’ve been between Moose Jaw and Medicine Hat before and damn near died of boredom THAT time! Had I been forced to relive the trip, I surely would have been paralyzed within the first few moments and dead before reaching Gull Lake! Besides, I promised the monkey I’d write him a nice miraculous resurrection once the day was over, so he was a willing participant.

Finally I zipped into “Bear’s Transformer Teddies, Toys with Personality Disorders in Mind”. On a normal Rabbit Hole day I might have to sew buttons on bear faces for a few hours, but today I’d only been asked to stop by to make a command decision. I stepped into Bear’s office and asked what was up. He told me there’d been some disagreement as to the placement of certain transformer appendages. So I took a look.

“Listen guys” I said once I’d inspected the product and the engineering diagrams, “while teddy bears are generally ambidextrous, you’ll note that if they are holding anything of any weight, it will be with their right hand. That’s because Teddys prefer to seem right handed, so as to not appear weird on the chance that weirdness might freak the children right out. So when you mount these transformer weapons, make sure you attach the 50 caliber “Fleshshredder” gatling gun on the right arm, and the Hellfire rockets on the left. (Like any third grader wouldn’t have known that!)

I’d not even noticed it was past my lunch time, so I borrowed a company unicycle and rode over to the Fae CafĂ©, Naturally everyone recognized me and wanted to buy my meal, but you have to be careful with mythical creatures, they’re not as benevolent as they seem. No Myther gives out something for nothing. They all have an agenda.

I pulled up a chair to the Fae Queen’s table where they were talking about what shade of green paint they would order for early spring grass blade painting. The Queen was getting all excited, she just couldn’t decide. She’s a bit on the anxious side you know, always fretting about this and that, always making Giant Bunnies out of a little Fairy dust. It was then I made a near fatal mistake.

“C’mon Queenie” I said. You’d think that would have been the error, but in fact the Queen and I were on very good terms. She called me Surfer Dude and I called her Queenie and we got along just swell.

“C’mon Queenie” I said, “Don’t sweat the small stuff!”

I’ve no idea what was going through my mind to have not remembered that little folk HATE hearing the word small, or little, or tiny, or itty bitty, even though that’s really two words. I dunno, it’s a self esteem thing I guess, but I’d always known it and had respected the quirk for years until…. WHOOPS! I threw down a handful of seashells to pay for my sandwich and soda and hightailed it out of there!

I was damn near run out on a rail. Lucky for me I happened to have run into my pal Lars the Leprechaun who made me invisible until the fae bodyguards had given up the search for what they were ordered to find… my corpse. Lars and I share a portion of our heritage you see. We both have Troll in our family trees, and since all Trolls are related, well Lars and I were almost kissin cousins.

Lars looked a little down, even after having totally bamboozled the Fairies, which he so loved to do. I asked him what was wrong, hoping he would say “oh nuthin” like most people do, but he didn’t. He went on and on about how Leprechauns are so misunderstood and how lonely that is for him. How his only friend is that bizarro distant relative of his that does the Magically Delicious commercials, and if it weren’t for his poker game once a month with the Keebler elves and the Six Dwarves (I guess Doc never comes; he’s always “attending” to Snow White), he wouldn’t have any fun at all.

Well I didn’t want to because my time in the Hole is limited, but I coaxed him to make up a poem for me, cuz all Leprechauns are poets and love to create new stuff that they can sing while they’re kickin up their heels in that goofy dance they do. It took hours of himmin and hawin and whining and doing little jigs for luck, but finally he smiled, tapped on his bohdran and started dancing.

Those Humans are all stupid” he began, to which I dearly wanted to argue but I thought the sun was damn near going down and I had to post this before midnight so I’d better let him finish even if it is really insulting to me and mine. Besides, he had this nice oirish lilt I’d written into him and I liked hearing it so much I was almost willing to let him say anything to me he wanted.

“Those humans are all stupid
they’ve got money in their veins
they canna trust in Cupid
cuz the cash drives em insane
they chase me for me golden pot
and quite ignore the elves
who say the real gift is naught
but rainbows, in themselves.”

Well, how could I have argued with that really. Humans are stupid, present company excluded of course.

Naturally by the time he’d finished it was time to exit the fun house, so I ran to my board, dodging the still angry Fae, and squiggled back into the Stream of C. I wrote up a little GPS unit so I could call up a map that would redirect me around the Hoser, and zoomed down the Green Mile as fast as the Lakeville city water pressure would carry me. At last I was home. I unhooked the hose, dealt with the enshrinkerator in reverse, checked my limbs and snuck back through the crawl space opening and into the whine cellar where I’ve spent the last few hours documenting the trip. I assumed I’d been quiet enough I’d not have been caught by my generally unawares wife. But no…

“So, I assume you did the rabbit hole thing again?” I heard her call down from the dining room once she’d returned from volleyball. There was no point in denying it.

“Yes dear, but I’m back now and it’s all packed away for another year.”

“So you used the ahh, whatchacallit again?”

“The enshrinkerator?”

“Yea, the enshrinkerator. Did you use it again?”

“Well, yea, I kinda had to.”

“So, is your penis back to its normal size?”

I may have answered her, I may not have. It’s kinda none of your business, so I’ll stop here.

Oh wait, one more thing…

“The writer waggled his keyboard and said the magic words, ogglump, wooglump, and the previously bored to death monkey made a miraculous recovery and was transported home to the beginning of the Stream Of Consciousness where he waits for the next adventure in shoe transport.

Ok, now I’m really done…

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