More Than True, A journal of. Published under the auspices of the HiSky* Trust, founded 1957 to promote disorder. (*Hiss-Key)
David Raffin (postHumorist, poet, Metaphysicist)
(*Metaphysics : Branch of philosophy dealing with first principles: abstract concepts such as being, knowing, substance, cause, identity, time, and space.)
Abbott was a straight man. The heavy. The ladies’ man. And he couldn’t take the pressure. In the end, he would become irate when Lou shouted his name at him to get his attention. Somehow he made it work. For him.
Moana Wheeza
Hey, Abbot… Hey, Abbot…
Then Abbott began viciously slapping Lou in the face for saying his name over and over. Lou said Abbo… —slap, Abbo…— slap —repeatedly until Lou was winded and Abbot’s inner rage was appeased. It shouldn’t have been like this. They were like brothers. Or something. Lived in the same flop house. They were having an argument about Betty Grabble. Betty! Both men were just batty about her. And for some reason they had repeated run-ins with America’s sweetheart, confounding all.
But do not bring up baseball to them. They are fans but they don’t understand the strange nicknames the players have these days such as Who or What, or Ida Know.
And the whole thing made many a vaudevillian angry, as the bit had been community property. But now it was identified only with Bud and Lou, who had not originated it, though with it they had made it. Big. That was the curse of radio and film. The question of just who was on first.
“Please don’t hit me anymore Abbot,” said Lou. It was an abusive relationship. It would never fly today. People would not stand for it. And if they did stand, they wouldn’t clap. Certainly. And if they clapped they wouldn’t laugh. Unless everyone else did. In that case all bets were off. Societal pressure.
Bonnie & Clyde. They put her name first. It has a better ring to it. And because they were ahead of their time.
Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey. The position of these names was chosen in a street brawl. A goof off.
Abbott and Costello. Abbott had a gun. He was a straight man. The heavy. The ladies’ man. And he couldn’t take the pressure. In the end, he would become irate when you shouted his own name at him to get his attention. Somehow he made it work. For him.
The mattress queen
Stood resiliently
Her head held high
It was the head
Of a mannequin
The very best one,
Lifted to the sky.
She’d popped it
Right off
As the sun
Did rise
Though this act she did
Despise
But how else
This modern era
We share
Could she
Head
This body
Of state.
There’s been… A terrible accident involving a li’l scientist atomic pile kit. The rec-room has been evacuated. It’s projected not to be safe for 100,000 years. I spilled root beer on the kit even though the instructions clearly stated no food no drink near kit. I have removed the aa battery, but it is too late. There is no use crying over spilt uranium.
The president has come to survey the area. Jesus, he looks like a deer in headlights. One of his handlers proposes we build a concrete wall around the area. To keep out the mutants. And to advertise a casino the president gets kickbacks from. That anti-mutant son of a bitch. He hires them to save money. Luckily he was too close to the pile and he melted down. And sank toward China. Their problem now.
The president has risen from the sea as a weird prehistoric monster. He demands that he is “the real green new deal.” The ACLU complained a giant lizard could not be president, but the supreme court ruled otherwise. Typical.
The loyal opposition came. At the seashore. He came out strongly in favor of appeasement. He says giant mutant Republican presidents are not the problem, there have been very good ones. They are regular Joes. Like lobbyists. He says that only corporate acquiescence could help solve the true problem, which is that wealth distribution doesn’t work. And more prisons will help reduce bankruptcies.
He took some corporate cash. An infusion he shot in his arm like junk. Then he was destroyed by the president, accidentally, as he spoke of the many points of agreement he held with past.
Then the president smashed an insulin factory with his tail. He said he only respected diabetics who were not diabetic. He was given plenty of time on every major network and every minor network, which he ate right up.
Shockingly, he won his reelection bid against the only other viable candidate, viability being judged by the top media conglomerates, beating out in a landslide his opponent, the honorable Spuds McKenzie, corporate dog.
Frito-Lay brought back the Frito Bandito. The people’s attention slowly drifted away.
Tragic Stories (disguised as jokes) is a collection of tales told by a monster to a demanding little girl.
Monsters are unlucky in love. Cupid explains. Some monsters are closer than others. There is a monster who only dines on one half of any available loving couple, A specialty. You can judge a person by their hat. If you want to protect your children (and see them less) you send them back in time. Hungry lions. The suicide machine built with love. Hate mail. Oscar Wilde judges the beauty pageant.
A bouquet of thorns. Falsely called the black book.
The Rabbit needed a place to rest. And the safety in the open was a matter, as usual, of grave importance. So he claimed the right of the land and began to dig. Down. Sloping down. Into the cool and welcoming Earth. Some creatures were displaced, with as much grace as could be administered in the circumstance, and a network of tunnels joined the network of tunnels that formed the local underground. A refuge of perpetual night.
Idle Rabbit, Rabbit Idol
One digs to escape, dig it?
There were Moles in the underground.
It was to be expected. As the rabbit was relaxing after a cool dig, in the cool splendor of his new digs, one of the moles literally tripped over him.
“I say, who’s there?” shouted the Mole in a horse whisper.
“I am just an adventurer,” said the Rabbit. “I am not a fighter.”
One digs to escape, dig it?
“Well, sir,” said the Mole, “You are a malingerer! Hiding away from the troubles of the world! A shirker. What do you say for yourself?”
“At the moment,” said Rabbit, “Nothing.”
The accusation was not without some merit.
“Deadly silence,” said the Mole.
And there were dim eyes all around. The underground. Moles in the underground. Suspicious. For good reason.
One digs to escape.
“We are the consolidated underground,” said the Mole. “We are what is left of those who came before. Scraps. Bits and pieces.”
“Where will you go from here?” asked Rabbit.
“Onward,” said the Mole. “To the inevitable ending. We fight no longer to win, no longer is it personal survival which drives us. We fight especially hard when we cannot win, for then our actions matter even more. For then it is a matter of righteous history.” He shrugged his slight shoulders. “We travel the underground. It provides escape routes and comfort. Comfort is, you know, fleeting in this world.”
Among the Moles were scattered others. To the far side was a Shrew. Her eyes illuminated and flickered reflecting the Rabbit’s light.
Dig it?
“Now,” said the Mole, “We construct the story of our glory. Battling against great odds we keep true to our ethics. And hope that our ideals emerge victorious. You see young Vanja. She joined us after her village was destroyed. We have scattered into cells and travel the tunnels. We emerge one at a time and tell our story at random locations, to random listeners. Then we retreat back underground. It is the only way. Vanja is particularly adept at this kind of warfare. It is like starting a thousand fires. It is uncontrollable. It is unconquerable.”
“Have you heard,” said Vanja, “The song of the traveler? It is reverberating everywhere. The traveler landed in a field. Fell out of the sky. And arose. It was a celebratory feast the traveler had landed on the outskirts of. There were park benches and food. Flowers. And merriment. But the traveler saw above the festivities hung the body of a man, dangling over the events. Still. And no one else gazed toward the sight. Instead children played and lovers fraternized, even quarreled over trifles, while above the man twisted in the happy breeze. And the traveler said, ‘Who is that man? Why does he hang around here?’ And the crowd turned ugly. For it was not a topic for polite conversation. And words were minced. And there were misunderstandings and malice. And the traveler left, for it was not the destination, you see, but afterward people kept looking at the hanging man, who they had previously forgotten. And they were ashamed. But they did not know what to do about it. And that is how the picnic was spoiled, but there were disagreements about why.”
Scene from a pornographic film in 8 millimeter, silent:
A title card read: “Oh, Eros! God of Love! Forgive me!” There are street scenes of people of all ages walking alone in the city. At the park. Eating alone in a restaurant, an act Rain considered the impetus for the creation of drive-through windows, and then, as she thought this, a shot of cars lined up at a drive through window, each car with one passenger. A shot of exhaust spilling out of the tail of an idle car, ready to go but confined in line, waiting for full satisfaction, only to be thwarted by industrialized processed food from which most nutrients were removed, prompting a drive to continue consumption in order to fill the resulting void which was bottomless. Top off. Always.
David Raffin
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