“Who wouldn’t want to watch that?” says Chief Wayne.
“Interesting is good, Brad,” says Doris. “Surprising is good.”
Just then Buddy hops sheepishly off the card table, bearing his own genitals in his mouth.
“Buddy, you’re alive!” says Doris.
“But I see you’re still castrated?” says Chief Wayne.
“Yes, well,” says Buddy, blushing.
“Maybe you could tell us who did it, Buddy,” says Doris.
“Oh Doris,” says Buddy, and starts to cry. “I did it myself.”
“You castrated yourself?” says Doris.
“I guess you could say it was a cry for help,” says Buddy.
“I’ll say,” says Chief Wayne.
“I just get so tired of everyone constantly making jokes about the fact that I need a certain kind of ‘assistance’ in order to move,” Buddy says.
“You mean a hand up your keister?” says Doris.
“A fist up your poop chute?” says Chief Wayne.
“A paw up your exit ramp?” says Doris.
“You’re still doing it!” barks Buddy, and runs out the dog door.
“Somebody’s grumpy,” says Doris.
“He’ll be a lot less grumpy once we get those genitals of his sewed back on,” says Chief Wayne.
Chief Wayne steps outside.
“Uh-oh, guys!” he says. “Looks like, in addition to a persnickety dog, you’ve got yourself another little problem. Your darn backyard has morphed again!”
Then we hear the familiar music that indicates the back yard has morphed again, and see that the familiar Carrigan back yard is now a vast field of charred human remains.
“Carrigan, I’ve about had it with this nonsense!” shouts their neighbor, Mr. Winston. “Last week my grumpy boss, Mr. Taylor, came for dinner, and right in the middle of dessert your yard morphed into ancient Egypt, and a crocodile came over and ate Mr. Taylor’s toupee!”
“And when my elderly parents came to visit?” says Mrs. Winston. “Your yard morphed into some sort of nineteenth-century brothel, and a prostitute insulted my mother over the fence!”
“Oh come on, Brad,” says Doris. “Let’s go find Buddy.”
Brad, Doris, and Chief Wayne set out across the yard.
“Jeez, where is that crazy dog?” says Chief Wayne.
“Look for the one thing not smoldering in this vast expanse of carnage,” says Doris, stepping gingerly over several charred corpses in the former horseshoe pit.
From the abandoned farmhouse comes an agonized scream.
From behind a charred tree darts Buddy.
“Let’s corner him by that contaminated well!” says Doris, and she and Chief Wayne rush off.
“My God,” mumbles Brad. “Who were these people?”
“We’re Belstonians,” says one of the corpses, lying on its back, hands held out defensively, as if it died fending off a series of blows. “Our nation is composed of three main socio-ethnic groups: The religious Arszani of the north, who live in small traditional agrarian communities in the mountainous northern regions; the more secular, worldly Arszani of the south, who mix freely with their Tazdit neighbors; and the Tazdit themselves, who, though superior to the southern Arszani in numbers, have always lagged behind economically. Lately this course of affairs has been exacerbated by several consecutive years of drought.”
“Don’t forget the complicated system of tariffs, designed to favor the southern, secular Arszani, emphasizing, as it does, the industrially driven sectors of the economy, in which the southern Arszani, along with certain more ecumenical Tazdit factions, invested heavily during the post-earthquake years,” says a second corpse, whose chest cavity has been torn open, and who is missing an arm.
“Which spelled doom for us mountainous devout northern Arszani once gold was discovered in a region ostensibly under our control but legally owned by a cartel of military/industrial leaders from the south,” says a third corpse, a woman, legs spread wide, mouth open in an expression of horror.
“That was our group,” says the corpse missing an arm. ” Northern Arszani.”
“Wow,” says Brad. “That’s so complicated.”
“Not that complicated,” says the corpse who died fending off blows.
“It might seem complicated, if the person trying to understand it had lived in total plenty all his life, ignoring the rest of the world,” says the corpse missing an arm, as a butterfly flits from his chest wound to his head wound.
“I agree,” says the corpse who died fending off blows. “We know all about his country. I know who Casey Stengel was. I can quote at length from Thomas Paine.”
“Who?” says Brad.
“Now, Bliorg, be fair,” says the woman corpse. “Their nation occupies a larger place on the world stage. English is the lingua franca of most of the world.”
“The what?” says Brad.
“I’m just saying that occupying oneself with the genitals of a puppet, given the brutal, nightmarish things going on around the world this very instant, I find that unacceptably trivial,” says the one-armed corpse.
“I miss life,” says the woman corpse.
“Remember our farm?” says the corpse who died fending off blows. “Remember how delicious vorella tasted eaten directly from the traditional heated cubern?”
“How the air smelled in the Kizhdan Pass after a rain?” says the woman corpse.
“How hard we worked in the garden that final spring?” says the corpse who died fending off blows. “How suddenly it all came upon us? How unprepared we were when suddenly the militia, including some of our southern Arszani brethren, swept into our village-“
“With what violence they rended you, dear, while you were still alive,” the woman corpse says, looking tenderly at the corpse who died fending off blows.
“How the men encircled you, taunting you as they…” The corpse who died fending off blows trails off, remembering the day the secular Arszani/southern Tazdit militia dragged his wife into the muddy yard of their shack, then held him down, forcing him to watch what followed for what might have been ten minutes and might have been three hours, after which they encircled him, bayonets mounted, and he attempted, briefly, to fend off their blows, before they eviscerated him while he was still alive, as his wife, also still alive, lifted and dropped her left arm repeatedly, for what might have been ten thousand years.
Just then Doris rushes by, bearing the re-genitaled and softly whimpering Buddy in her arms.
“Brad, honestly,” she hisses. “Thanks for the help.”
“Not!” says Chief Wayne.
We see from the way the corpses, devastated by memory, collapse back into the dust of the familiar Carrigan back yard, and from the sad tragic Eastern European swell of the music, that it’s time for a commercial.
Back at the Carrigans’, Doris and Chief Wayne come back inside to find hundreds of ears of corn growing out of the furniture, floors, and ceiling.
“What the-?” says Doris, setting Buddy down.
“I believe this is what’s called a ‘bumper crop,’” says Chief Wayne.
“I’ll say,” says Doris. “It’s going to ‘bump’ us right out of this room if it keeps up!”
“My balls hurt so much,” says Buddy.
Brad comes in, eyes moist with tears, and sits on the couch. “What gives, Mr. Gloomy?” says Doris.
“Still moping about the corpses in the yard?” says Chief Wayne.
“Give it time, hon,” says Doris. “It’ll morph into something more cheerful.”
“It always does,” says Chief Wayne.
“Things always comes out right in the end, don’t they?” says Doris. “As long as you believe in your dreams?”
“And accentuate the positive,” says Chief Wayne.
Just then from the TV comes the brash martial music that indicates an UrgentUpdateNewsMinute.
In California, a fad has broken out of regular people having facial sur
gery to look like their favorite celebrities. Sometimes they end up looking like hideous monsters. Celebrities have taken to paying surprise compassionate visits to the hideous monsters. One hideous monster, whose face looks like the face of a lion roasted in a fire, says the surprise celebrity visit made the whole ordeal worthwhile. In the Philippines, a garbage dump has exploded due to buildup of natural gas emitted by rotting garbage, killing dozens of children digging in the dump for food.
“Wait a minute,” says Brad. “That gives me an idea.”
“Uh-oh,” says Chief Wayne. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
“I hope it’s better than your idea about installing heat sensors in old people’s underwear,” says Doris.
“I also hope it’s better than your idea about putting a radio transmitter on Buddy while you guys were away on vacation, which then short-circuited, causing Buddy to be continually electrocuted for two straight weeks,” says Chief Wayne.
“And the Winstons thought Buddy had been taking tap lessons?” says Doris. “Oh gosh.”
“So what’s your idea, pal?” says Chief Wayne.
“Never mind,” says Brad, blushing.
“Come on, Mr. Mopey!” says Doris. “Share it! I’m sure it’s terrific.”
“Well,” says Brad. “My idea is, why do we need all this corn? Isn’t it sort of wasteful? My idea is, let’s pick this corn and send it to that village in the Philippines where the kids have to eat garbage to live. Our house gets back to normal, the kids don’t have to eat trash, everybody’s happy.”
There is an awkward silence.
“Brad, have you finally gone totally insane?” Doris says.
“I have to say, the heat-sensor-in-the-underwear-of-theelderly idea is starting to look pretty viable,” says Chief Wayne.
“I just want to do something,” says Brad, blushing again. “There’s so much suffering. We have so much, and others have so little. So I was just thinking that, you know, if we took a tiny portion of what we have, which we don’t really need, and sent it to the people who need it…”
Doris has tears in her eyes.
“Doris, what is it?” says Chief Wayne. “Tell Brad what you’re feeling.”
“I don’t see why you always have to be such a downer, Brad,” she says. “First you start weeping in our yard, then you start disparaging our indoor corn?”
“Brad, to tell the truth, there are plenty of houses with lots more indoor corn than this,” says Chief Wayne. “This, relative to a lot of houses I’ve seen, is some very modest indoor vegetable growth.”
“You probably see it as you make your rounds,” says Doris. “Some people probably even have tomatoes and zucchini growing out of their furniture.”
“Oh sure,” says Chief Wayne. “Even watermelons.”
“So this very modest amount of corn that we have, in your opinion, is nothing to feel guilty about?” says Doris.
“His ‘rounds’?” says Brad. “What do you mean his ‘rounds’?”
“His raids, his rounds, whatever,” says Doris. “Please don’t change the subject, Brad. I think we’ve been very fortunate, but not so fortunate that we can afford to start giving away everything we’ve worked so hard for. Why can’t our stuff, such as corn, be our stuff? Why do you have to make everything so complicated? We aren’t exactly made out of money, Brad!”
“Look Brad,” says Chief Wayne. “Maybe you should start thinking about Doris instead of some Philippians you don’t even know.”
“You really get me, Wayne,” says Doris.
“You’re easy to get, Doris,” says Chief Wayne.
Just then the doorbell rings.
On the lawn stands a delegation of deathly-pale Filipino children dressed in bloodstained white smocks.
“We’ve come for the corn?” says the tallest child, who has a large growth above one eyebrow.
“Brad,” Doris says in a pitiful voice. “I can’t believe you called these people.”
“I didn’t,” Brad says.
And he didn’t. Although he can’t say he’s unhappy they’re here.
“Look, what’s the big deal?” says Brad. “We pick the corn, give it to these kids, problem solved. If you guys would help me out, we could have all this corn picked in ten minutes.”
“Brad, I’ve suddenly got a terrible headache,” says Doris. “Would you go get me a Tylenol?”
“Brad, jeez, nice,” says Chief Wayne. “Don’t just stand there with your mouth hanging open when your wife is in pain.”
Brad goes into the kitchen, gets Doris a Tylenol.
Buddy follows him in, hops up on a kitchen chair.
“Uh, Brad?” Buddy whispers. “I want you to know something. I’ve always liked you. I’ve consistently advocated for you. To me, you seem extremely workable, and I’ve said so many-“
“Buddy, no, bad dog!” Doris shouts from the living room.
“Yikes,” says Buddy, and hops down from the chair, and skids out of the kitchen.
What the heck is up with Buddy? Brad wonders. He’s “advocated” for Brad? He finds Brad “workable”?
Possibly the self-castration has made Buddy a little mental.
Brad returns to the living room. Doris, on the love seat, wearing the black lace bustier Brad bought her last Christmas, is straddling Chief Wayne, who, pants around his ankles, is kissing Doris’s neck.
“Doris, my God!” shouts Brad.
Doris and Chief Wayne? It makes no sense. Chief Wayne is at least ten years older than they are, and is overweight and has red hair all over his back and growing out of his ears.
“Doris,” Brad says. “I don’t understand.”
“I can explain, Bradster!” Chief Wayne says. “You’ve just been TotallyFukked!”
“And so have I!” says Doris. “No, just kidding! Brad, lighten up! See, look here! We kept a thin layer of protective cellophane between us at all times!”
“Come on, pal, what did you think?” says Chief Wayne. “Did you honestly think I’d let your beautiful wife straddle and pump me right here, in your living room, wearing the bustier you bought her last Christmas, without using a thin layer of protective cellophane?”
It’s true. There’s a thin layer of protective cellophane draped over Chief Wayne’s legs, chest, and huge swollen member. A TotallyFukked cameraman steps out from behind a potted plant, with a release form, which Doris signs on Brad’s behalf.
“Gosh, honey, the look on your face!” Doris says.
“He sure takes things serious,” says Chief Wayne.
“Too serious,” says Doris.
“Is he crying?” says Chief Wayne.
“Brad, honestly, lighten up!” says Doris. “Things are finally starting to get fun around here.”
“Brad, please don’t go all earnest on us,” says Chief Wayne.
“Yes, don’t go all earnest on us, Brad,” says Doris. “Or next time we TotallyFukk you, we’ll remove that thin sheet of protective cellophane.”
“And wouldn’t that be a relief,” says Chief Wayne.
“Well yes and no,” says Doris. “I love Brad.”
“You love Brad but you’re hot for me,” says Chief Wayne.
“Well, I’m hot for Brad too,” says Doris. “If only he wasn’t so earnest all the time.”
Brad looks at Doris. All he’s ever wanted is to make her happy. But he never really has, not yet. Not when he bought her six hats, not when he covered the bedroom floor with rose petals, not when he tried to cook her favorite dish and nearly burned the house down.
What right does he have to be worrying about the problems of the world when he can’t even make his own wife happy? How arrogant is that? Maybe a man’s first responsibility is to make a viable home. If everybody made a viable home, the world would be a connected network of viable homes. Maybe he’s been mistaken, worrying about the Belstonians and the Filipinos, when he should have been worrying about his own wife.
He thinks he knows what he has to do.
The tallest Filipino child graciously accepts Brad’s apology, then leads the rest of the Filipinos away, down Eiderdown Path, across Leaping Fawn Way, Bullfrog Terrace, and Waddling Gosling Place.
Brad asks Chief Wayne to leave.
Chief Wayne leaves.
Doris stands in the middle of the corn-filled living room, looking gorgeous.
“Oh, you really do love me, don’t you?” she says, and kisses Brad while sliding his hands up to her full hot breasts.
We see from the way Doris tosses her bustier over Buddy, so Buddy won’t see what she and Brad are about to do, and the way Buddy winces, because the bustier has landed on his genital stitches, that Buddy is in for a very long night, as is Brad, and also, that it’s time for a commercial.
Back at the Carrigans’, Doris’s family is over for the usual Sunday dinner of prime rib, Carolina ham, roast beef, Alaskan salmon, mashed potatoes, fresh-baked rolls, and asparagus à la Monterey.
“What a meal,” says Grandpa Kirk, Doris’s father.
“We are so lucky,” says Grandma Sally, Doris’s mother.
Brad feels incredibly lucky. Last night they did it in the living room, then in the bathroom, then twice more in the bedroom. Doris admitted she wasn’t hot for Chief Wayne, exactly, just bored, plus she admired Wayne’s direct and positive way of dealing with life, so untainted by neurotic doubts and fears.
“I guess I just want some fun,” she’d said. “Maybe that’s how I’d put it.”
“I know,” Brad had said. “I get that now.”
“I just want to take life as we find it and enjoy its richness,” Doris had said. “I don’t want to waste my life worrying worrying worrying.”
“I totally agree with you,” Brad had said.
Then Doris disappeared beneath the covers and took him in her mouth for the third time that night. Remembering last night, Brad starts to get what Doris calls a Twinkie, and to counteract his mild growing Twinkie, imagines the Winstons’ boxer, Mr. Maggs, being hit by a car.
“This meal we just ate?” says Aunt Lydia. “In many countries, this sort of meal would only be eaten by royalty.”
“There are countries where people could live one year on what we throw out in one week,” says Grandpa Kirk.
In Persuasion Nation Page 10
