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Arnold In Trouble

Arnold’s in trouble again. Only two smokes left in the pack.

And he’s been coughing blood.

“Give it to me straight, doc. What’s happening?” he rasps.

Dr. Benway is perusing x-rays by holding them up to the window behind his desk. He swivels his chair around, sets the x-rays on the desk and clamps the pig with his gaze. “I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

“Gimmie the good news.”

“The good news is this won’t cost you a dime.” He stops and smiles, leaning back in his chair. “That is, if you agree to a few conditions…”

“Conditions! Say, like what?”

Dr. Benway chuckles. “First the bad news. You have lung cancer. Bad. See this?” He’s pointing to what is clearly a dark mass in the pig’s lungs in an x-ray. “Bad.” The pig is squinting at it. “What you need my friend, is a lung transplant.”

Arnold coughs out his cig with a bolt of surprise and fear, then scrambles and lights a fresh one from the pack. “Wa-what?”

“How much do you like breathing? And being alive?”

“Let’s say I’ve gotten used to it, and I have unfinished business to attend to.” With a rude noise he horks up a bloody mass of gunk, right on the floor. Arnold realizes he’s shaking. “Do I get to pick the donor? Don’t fucking need one of those feed-lot jobs. Fucking factory pork.”

“Ah, you see that’s the condition…”

“I just said no factory pork!”

“You didn’t let me finish. No factory pork. No pork products at all, actually.”

“What? Monkey lungs? Dog?”

“Not at all my friend. Human.”

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How We Ruined Portland: Burning Man

M’right. It was 2000-something. You know what? It takes almost the exact amount of hours to drive to That Event In The Desert as it is to fly from Portland and transit to the Spanish desert to participate in European Burning Man.

That sounds crazy, but when you’re traveling by VW Thing it really does take two days. Burning Man is one of the ways we ruined Portland. San Francisco is both the birthplace of many wonderful and interesting things but also ruined. Portland delivered (delivers still?) the number two largest population of “burners”.

Who are these people and why are they running up housing prices? Here in NoPo this structure I reside in would have been maybe $50k to buy when I arrived in the 90’s. Yet in 2023 around the corner a house is listed for $700k.

Thank you morons in the financial industry for creating a bubble in pricing that will take 50+ years to correct.

Portland is ruined. Don’t move here.

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It’s Nice To Be Liked, But It’s Better By Far To Get Paid

The pig has it on repeat.

“It’s nice to be liked
But it’s better by far to get paid” –– Liz Phair

The pig wants to get paid. He’s down to two smokes again.

He’s at the border, staring at the mountains, smoldering under the desert heat.

His driver is El Gordo Hermoso, a sucker if there was ever one seen. However, a sucker who can be counted on to drive a pig to an important meeting to get his cut.

El Gordo stinks of re-fried beans. The pig reeks of tobacco products, though El Gordo can put up with that. They are staring out the windshield.

Where are those fuckers?

about our pig…

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A Pig With A Problem

Arnold Ziffel

Arnold is a pig with a problem.

He’s smoking.

He’s down to two cancer sticks in the pack.

That’s a side problem.

“Get on the bed.” He says. She looks bored.

The lighting overhead flickers in an uncomfortable way. The motel coffee comes “free” with the room, if you consider that free.

“You’re a pig, you know.”

“Yeah, I know I’m a fucking pig. But I’ve got a problem.”

about our pig…

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Let’s Make A Deal

Pig and washed-up TV star Arnold Ziffel stares at the fat man in confused wonder with a big mean streak right down the middle. “How does a junkie like you stay so fucking fat?”

El Gordo Hermoso stuffs another Slim Jim beneath his voluminous and ragged mustachio. “It ain’t easy, puerco.” He leans the creaking chair back against the tobacco stained 70’s wallpaper, some kind of symphony of burnt umber and orange. It’s the kind of “affordably-priced” motel where your shoes stick to the carpet. The smell of strong bleach tells you more than you want to know.

“Watch your mouth fat stuff.” Arnold’s voice sounds like he’s been gargling with gravel and crusty old charcoal. “Us wild boars are known to eat humans when you give us shit, cabrón.” Arnold worries the smoldering cig about in his maw and glances at the clock. “Save it for Weight Watchers and get that junk cut. We’ve got a deadline. People to meet. Got it?”

“Yeah? You inna hurry? Why don’t you cut it?”

What a snark. Arnold spits. “No opposable thumbs, jackass. You want the money or what?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah….” Gordo turns back to the baby powder. The things a pig has to do for money.

“Hey pig, maybe just a little snort of this first…”

“Golden rule, fathead. ‘Don’t get high on your own supply.'” snorts Arnold. Gordo looks sad, but then gets down to work. Arnold softens a touch. “After. Then you can nod out.”

Sigh. “Ok. You’re the boss, pig.”

Arnold is staring at the glocks on the coffee table; cleaned, loaded and ready and thinks to himself: “After, if you survive.

Postscript

Unfamiliar with former TV Star Arnold Ziffel? About our pig.

Then there’s the time Arnold needed smokes…

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The Banana Man Holiday Special

Who is Banana Man, you ask?

Scene: The Justice League of Justice hideout, the dingy office underneath the bowling alley. Behind the K-Tel tunes warbling from the battered juke-box in the corner we hear the occasional strike knocking down the pins overhead. In the other corner the old TV is playing The Trailer Park Boys Xmas Special. Time Hog is riding in the car with Ricky. The mood is festive, the punch = spiked. There’s cookies. Someone’s drawn a Christmas tree on the whiteboard. The gang’s all here.

Black Rhumba to Hungry Man Dinner: “Whatchoo want from Santa this year, HMD? Other than extra gravy?”

The big man thinks for a minute, “Wouldn’t mind a better parking space and a Home Depot gift card. What about you, Rhumba?”

“Me? I just wanna dance the New Year away!” He does a quick twirl and finishes with some karate chops.

He-Wonder Woman is just covered in glitter. “What about you, Cat Squirrel?”

“You know me, I’m nutty about nuts. What’s Live Zombie want?”

“Me?” He stares off into the distance, toys with his black bow-tie for a moment, squinting through his thick glasses. “What I’d do for a mouse with a working right button at work…”

“Cheesus, you are a living zombie, aren’t you?”

“Did someone call for Cheesus?” Quite without preamble it’s clear someone new has joined the room. A tall skinny man, apparently wearing a bathrobe, slippers and tighty-whities peeking from underneath. A big wedge of swiss cheese sits where the rest of us keep our heads. “Yep, it’s true, I’m Cheesus. I’ve been living on the moon but I thought I’d drop in on y’all!” The man in the robe with the head made of cheese strides to the head of the room where Banana Man and Dr. Tomorrow are fooling with some sound equipment.

It’s a Zarkmas miracle! The audio gear suddenly starts working. Cheesus coughs into the microphone. “One two, one two. Am I on? Why yes I am.” He has everyone’s attention, jaws are being picked up off the floor at this most unusual sight. Cheesus is striding back and forth confidently, flicking the microphone cord. “Oh yeah, first off I want to wish everyone a Happy Festivus, a Festivus for the Rest of Us, amiright?” Still somewhat shocked silence.

Mr. Know-It-All leans over to Broccoli Man and whispers into his ear. “How is he doing that? Do you see a mouth?” BM shakes his broccoli head with a big “nope”.

Cheesus continues, “Alright I want you all know know I kicked Satan’s ass today, yeee-haw! Then I kissed a kitten, and gave it wings.” He mimes a bird flying with his hands. “And it’s almost my birthday, wooo–oh!” He’s pumping his fist.

“Now don’t get me wrong, my Big Daddio and The Great Spook want me to urge you to seek redemption through The Big Cheese here” he’s indicating himself “but His High Awesomeness the Dalai Lama says, ‘All religions same-same’. So just pick a tradition that works for you and just don’t be a dick about it, amiright people?” General nods and agreement.

Mr. Know-It-All mutters under his breath though clearly hoping everyone can hear, “Christmas was invented by the church to cover up Saturnalia, GUH!”

“We all know my real competition is Santa, amiright!” Cheesus shouts and does a split right there on the carpet. Impressive! Another strike rolls by overhead. “Now I’m not here to steal your evening, just to remind y’all to be good to each other, alright?” He pauses, pointing at each person one at a time. “Even though they be turkeys, okay?” He takes a bow. “And now I understand Dr. Tomorrow has a special holiday performance for you.” He bows, places the mic on the folding banquet table quickly leaves the room.

“What the cluck just happened, BAWK?” from Elvis Chicken.

Dr. Tomorrow has the mic. He’s got his blonde flip-top hair, the usual dark goggle-like glasses but tonight he is sporting a garish green holiday sweater with a big glitter kitty wearing a Santa hat. He shrugs. “Well, give it up for Cheesus, everybuddy!” Applause follows, and not just because Banana Man is holding up a sign behind him which reads “APPLAUSE”. “Ok partee-people with the double ‘E’, me and the B-Man here are going to lay down some holiday tunes for yaas.”

Banana Man is brandishing his battered acoustic gee-tar. He’s in his usual all-yellow get-up, only the banana is strapped to a limp Santa hat on top of his yellow mask. Dr. Tomorrow turns away from the group, starts limbering up in a rhythmic sort of way and as Banana Man begins to bang on the strings the Doc starts a beat-box then spins around holding an ice cream cone and lets it loose.

I’ve got an ice cream cone for a microphone and I’m bound to get funky
Listen to me and jump for glee because we’re all about to get spunky!

It’s holiday time so gather round the Hanukkah Tree
and light those Kwanzaa candles!
Grab your partner, spin ‘m round
and grab those love handles!

Saturday Night Live, Let’s jump and jive
Krampus on the run
Let’s throw presents at the pheasants
Duck and run, we’re gonna have some fun!

Smoke ‘m if you got ‘m!
Smoke ‘m if you got ‘m!
Just start at the bottom!

< more beatboxing… then a pause… and he sings out: >

5 Golden Rings!
4 Pre-Paid Cards
3 Olive Loaf
2 – for – 1 Special
And a banana in a monkey tree!

And now everybody, join me in our traditional Christmas carol, I know you know the words! (And they do, indeed. The whole group joins in.)

Jingle Bells
Batman smells
Robin laid an egg
The Batmobile lost a wheel
and the Joker got away, hey!

And the whole group laughs and claps…

Happy Holidays Everyone, Cheesus Loves You!

Thanks to Amanda Peters for Cheesus!

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Banana Man vs. Beer

It’s hot in the Banana Cave. Welcome to August. Our hero cools off by putting his head in his freezer.

He takes a Hamm’s out of the fridge. Sets it on the table, eyeing the condensation on the can.

He knows he’s not going to just drink that beer, he’s going to drink the fuck out of it.

When you stare into the bear, the bear stares back into you.

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The Fate of Mars One

You may remember the effort called Mars One: “Mars One was a small private Dutch organization that received money from investors by claiming it would use it to land the first humans on Mars and leave them there to establish a permanent human colony.”

A bold idea, to put a colony on Mars funded as a “reality show”. Started in 2012 it was all over by 2019. The project attracted many dreamers, but not so many dollars. It also attracted significant criticism to the extreme that it boarded on derision for the Mars One vision being so far from reality as to be a scam.

In fact, sitting around thinking about what it would be like for these colonists is what provided the inspiration to write this whole business here.

I recently stumbled across this 2015 article from National Geographic discussing an approach to taking people to Mars and bringing them back. It includes a short video interviewing four regular Earthlings hoping to get the chance to go to Mars and never come back. I get the urge to go, but anyone seriously considering this should lock themselves in their bedroom with three strangers for a week before deciding to climb into the space capsule.

Mars One still maintains a one-page web site and an email address.

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