Those same pontificators go on and on in books and speeches about How Great It Will Be, What You Will Achieve If You Follow Your Dreams, and another such nonsense which means absolutely nothing. Even Dr. Suess had gotten into this game, but he at least had the sense to say, in his own unique way, things are going to get fucked up, and if you just keep pushing forward, you'll be fine.
Graduation night was unapologetically simmering. Out on the school's football field, under a baking, setting sun, Igor sat next to his friend Josh While Josh kept apologizing for the science fair debacle, along with the fact that he won on account of good looks and tight pants, Igor's friend continued to offer almost unheard statements as Igor was far too focused on Amanda, the class Valedictorian, who was sexy as hell. The words she used sort of connected in Igor's mind, even though she was going on and on about how Jesus was coming back again in a few years to enslave the human race so we might as well get used to it.
* * * * *
Post graduation parties, it seems, exist for one reason: it's the official start of the Coming Attractions of just how fucked up the world is going to be. There's alcoholic beverages, controlled substances, young females with big chest humps of ill repute and, quite possibly the most delectable temptation of all, karaoke.
But Igor was ready to face all of it. Having slapped on a dash of his dad's "Cowboy's Delight" cologne, he felt he was ready for whatever life threw at him. A group of blurry girls with blurrier chest humps rubbed against him and someone in the group slurred the phrase "Hey cowboy" at him.
And then there was the live microphone hooked into the audio equipment. Josh and Sunny Jameson were singing an old Sonny and Cher tune, and when that song came to an end, an idea came into Igor's mind into thinking that, hey, one song won't make you a junkie. You can quit ANY TIME you want. Igor knows what Igor's doing.
The songs shuffled through randomly as Igor stepped up onto the stage, and picked up the microphone. He turned and looked at the machine, which read Escape Club. "Wild, Wild West" was the tune, and by the time Igor had gotten to the bit where the lead singer calls out "...this one's called 'The Outlaw...'" his tongue had twisted back and forth far too much and fell to the floor like a fish slapping itself up against the tiles searching for water to fall back into.
But...someone, someone, was enjoying it. A soft voice called out "Ride 'em cowboy!" and the lips from which came said exclamation were soon up on the stage kissing Igor's.
* * * * *
Outside of the sing a long induced haze, a darkened sky lays across the atmosphere. Out there, somewhere, in a part of the galaxy as yet unknown to NASA's inquisitive technology, there is a planet that, when discovered, humanity will realize is remarkably similar to ours. The dominant species, oddly enough, very closely resembles the human race. Even more similar, and stupefying, is how technological giants of their world pushed forward the bleeding edge of discovery so fast and hard that it was mercilessly tearing the minds of the population from their bodies.
Just five years ago, a simple device called the Ringy-Dingy-Conversation-Makey*
only went ringy-dingy.
*This device, comparable to the Earth's cellular phone, was designed, built, and sold by Generic Electronics, a benevolent company founded on the principle of delivering quality products at fair market value, while also keeping said products simple, affordable, and easy to use.
After a few ringy's and maybe a dingy or two (depending on your own preferences) someone miles away would answer their Conversation-Makey and friends could catch up on old times. Or the interstellar equivalent of pizza could be ordered. Or even obscene Conversation-Makey's would take place.
But that was five years ago. And the march of progress goes forward, even if it really doesn't want to. Sitting in a darkened space under their parental unit's living quarters was a man, let's call him "Steve." Steve, admittedly not his real name, would sit looking at his seventy-five inch Movie-Watchy and think to himself: "You know, Movie-Watchy screens are really huge, which makes a lot of sense. Conversation-Makey's are also useful, which also makes sense. Therefore, combining the two should make so sense at all, which means I'll be rich!"
What was shown on Movie-Watchy's was popular entertainment that only came in two sizes: Huge Ass was for the original presentation in enclosed stadiums, and Damn That's Big for living quarters. Steve believed it was time for Conversation-Makey's to be really, really small version of Movie-Watchy's. Granted you wouldn't be able to see what was going on, and the sound would raise shitty to state of the art, but Steve wouldn't be swayed. It was time to breed Conversation-Makey's and Movie-Watchy's.
And the first banana peel of their society's collective mind power had been laid.
* * * * *
The rest of the night was a blur. There was touching. Lots of touching. There was kissing. Lots, and lots of kissing. And that was just what happened in the karaoke bar. A faint memory of long blond hair, skin soft and delicate as dew covered rose petals, a passing memory of lightly scented perfume...
...and then there was sunrise pouring in through an unfamiliar window as it lit up a young lithe body with a wash of soft hair laying upon naked shoulders, down the small lean back, and across the sleeping figure's chest. A pink cowboy hat obscured the face of Igor's new love. Igor kissed the small frame of this young goddess in the most delicate fashion possible, removed the hat, and found pink kissable lips attached the most sexiest young man Igor had ever slept with.
If this sleeping male angel chose this minute to woke up, he would've sworn men off for good. Igor's uncertain reaction to these events was simply this: What The Hell.
* * * * *
As the years passed on Steve's planet, so came the advances in Conversation-Makey's. Movie-Watchy's had also gotten bigger and now wanted to be overgrown versions of Conversation-Makey's, which wasn't necessary cause everyone already had a Conversation-Makey of some kind. But for the new breed of Conversation-Makey's, made by Adolph Industries, and headed by Steve, the march outwards to conquer other products would seem unstoppable.
Conversation-Makey's now had maps**, allowed you to order pizza in a far more complicated fashion, kept you in touch in many new and frighteningly unnecessary ways, and became increasingly complex while also becoming increasingly simpler to use.
** Feeling the need to distinguish themselves from the albeit useful, but admittedly generic, mapping equipment by Generic Electronics, Adolph Industries devised a marketing plan built on shiny objects and trademarks with grammatically incorrect product names. This latest feature was to be known as the i'mLost.
More banana peels had come loose in the years, and now people could do pretty much anything on their Conversation-Makey's. The population actually forgot to look where they were going simply by looking out in front of them. They had to ask the i'mLost on their Conversation-Makey's where their home was, even though they were just ten feet away from it. They also listened to the Sound-Makey's on their Conversation-Makey's which would only work, and this was important, AS LONG AS IT WAS MARKETED BY ADOLPH INDUSTRIES!
Adolph Industries had Conversation-Makeys, Sound-Makey's, and then came the bigger versions of their Conversation-Makey's which just shook the bananas out of the tree and peeled them for the population. And progress marched forward while sanity was trodden underfoot.
Fifteen years after Steve created his first Conversation-Makey that was the embodiment of jealousy of every other technology, Steve was dead but the beast lived on. The Conversation-Makeys could now redesign and remake themselves. They put out new versions of themselves every six months, and the population kept buying them...until disaster struck.
* * * * *
The lean, taut body of Tristan, as Igor checked the young man's drivers license, was seventeen. In the corner of his bedroom was, predictably, a karaoke setup. As Igor shuffled out of the bed, Tristan slowly rolled over in bed and a flash of bright, sparkling blue gleamed from his perfectly manicured toes. His soft hair continued to lightly cover his physique, as if the setup had been designed for an black and white photo spread for Abercrombie & Fitch.
Igor lightly stepped his way to the available musical selections near the CD player. After some scanning of the scattered discs, Igor found what he was looking for. True it was ambitious, and certainly out of character. But recent events were anything but keeping with normality. Igor would croon the young man awake, like the sweet chirp-chirp-chirping of birds upon his window sill.
At least, that was the plan. But, for those of those who've been there and attempted that, knew the terrible facts: the extended cut of "Crimson and Clover" is not for the vocally challenged. Igor gurgled the first words of the opening verse, and Tristan was shocked into a state of consciousness.
"Who the hell are you?"
"Igor serenading Tristan. Tristan is guy, but soft like girl. It confuse and excite Igor. Tristan rub Igor's hump?"
"Your name is Igor?" Tristan look immensely depressed.
"Yes." This wasn't turning out the way Igor had imagined, so it fit in perfectly with the events from the last twelve hours of his life.
"Shit, I thought you were Mick Jagger! Get the fuck out!"
* * * * *
The circus grounds had been a rather solemn place lately. Only seven exploding apples pie bombs had gone off in the last seventy-three hours. Dr. Flappy's broken body had been wrapped up and sent off to the nearest hospital for medical procedures too gruesome to mention. In addition to the intensive rehabilitation program Flappy would endure for the next seven months, there was the constant lingering smell of bearded woman flesh in his soul. Flappy would never be the same again, despite the prayers of the ever present candlelight vigil and twenty-one selzter salute being held outside every night.
But life must go on, as it always does, and as best it can.
Inside Bertha's tent, an exceptionally stimulating dream sequence was unfolding. I, the chronicler, shall be blurring the more erotic details. Bertha, dressed in a nearly transparent leotard with rhinestones upon her more feminine sections, was riding atop an elephant in the most sensual fashion she could manage. Her right elbow was digging into the left shoulder blade of the pachyderm, and her hairy chin was resting in her hand. The right arm was busy waving to the amassed crowd.
As the elephant train Bertha was part of circled around the center ring, she could see handsome young Victor, wearing his traditional baggy clothing that just seemed to whisper to Bertha "Remove Forcibly."
Bertha then straightened up, uttered a command in German to the beast she was astride, which then stretched its trunk out, wrapped it around Victor, and placed him on its backside facing Bertha.
"Victor look handsome tonight."
"Thank you, Bertha."
Bertha smiled, and her skin blushed, though it was pretty much unseen underneath the furry face of whiskers. Then she grabbed Victor by the neck, nearly breaking it, and planted an unnecessarily juicy kiss upon him. When she broke the kiss, she nearly broke Victor's collar bone, though the smile remained.
"Handsome clown give Bertha babies now?"
Noted psychologists, distinguished thinkers, and the more reputable psychics have discussed the theory of the collective unconscious. Basically it says everyone has access to the same amount of information, be it in conscious, unconscious, or in an altered state of mind. It was Victor's great misfortune to not only have finally grasped this cosmic resource of knowledge, but somehow selected the library of Bertha's thoughts as his choice reading at this very moment. The scream from across the circus grounds rattled tents and shook Dr. Flappy's bandaged body in the local ICU. It only stopped as Victor had attempted to drown himself in the vegetarian lion's watering trough.
* * * * *
That night, in his bedroom, Igor contemplated the events of his first failed relationship. Tristan was absolutely horrified that he'd left a horrendously disfigured guy into his bed that wasn't a famous rock star. After all, the general theory about groupies is they'll bang their idols, no matter how horribly grotesque and wrinkled they are. A perfectly example of this is when Kid Rock found himself to be surrounded by exceptionally beautiful women performing sexual acts upon his person in an internet leaked video some years ago. But when you took away the money and notoriety, Igor and Kid Rock are just ugly bastards no self respecting woman or man would touch.
* * * * *
The often wondrous thing about disaster is, when it's going to attack, it comes quicker than lightning and you can't purchase a metal rod to deflect or channel it to another victim.
Disaster came when the Conversation-Makey's had predicted the end of Steve's world, and the gadgets had been right. This wasn't a flood to end all floods, huge chunks of sky falling onto the planet, or even the always stated, but never happened rise, of a clean, energy efficient, industrialized society. This was far worse -- an organization called the Jhew Alliance, which thrived on its complete and total lack of any product put forwards by Adolph Industries, had utilized the common sense it maintained and found the way to scuttle the mind poisoning onslaught of the Conversation-Makeys and shut down the world wide link ups, which would coincidentally bring about a million years of peace, prosperity, and happiness on their planet. This golden age was followed by more peace.
As the shutdown was collapsing, the brain dead believers in Conversation-Makey's were led to an intergalactic cruiser that had been constructed by what remained of Adolph Industries research and development department. The latest advance had been galactic temporal scanners, which pointed to both a time and a place where this generation of Conversation-Makey's users could live in harmony with the current population.
And, best of all, all the advances the Conversation-Makey's had made in the last decade could, very slowly, be incorporated into this new planet's population. As the final seals closed on the star cruiser, and the calculations were finalized, the people were put into Extended-Sleepy's and headed for that blue green marble which, in its time, would be known as Earth.
As those locked in the Extended-Sleepy's, being not of Earth, would find comfort in the temples constructed by A-List Movie-Watchy celebrities. And they would eventually refer to themselves as Scienceologists.
* * * * *
Twenty years ago, they had landed, and not a moment too soon.
The evolution of the native Conversation-Makeys had seen their leaving the primordial soup of residential areas and were now available in the native four wheeled Get-Aroundy's. At least in the country to the north of the landing site they had. In this odd country, with its sporadic grand temples, rich history and tantalizing coast lines, Conversation-Makey's were mostly operated in immobile boxes with something called "pesos." Talk about starting at the level below the barrel. Even the natives had thought so, which is possibly why there was a constant exodus north to the country with the more accessible Conversation-Makey's.
According to the analysis conducted by the ship's Conversation-Makey's, the population was not indigenous to this planet. At least not the big, dirty looking ones that wore rain catching hats and went around saying "See Seenyore."
What follows is a brief history of the Before Time as uncovered by the invading ship's Conversation-Makey with the new collective unconsciousness probing application:
First there were Mayans, which although a bit violent and had odd gods and wonderful architectural techniques. The Mayans did all they could with this litterbox country, packed up, offered a final prayer*** to the lands they were vacating, and headed for greener climates.
*** Screw It. Let's Get The Hell Out Of Here!
Then there was the race of Cheewahwahs. They came in a multitude of tiny spacecraft and landed in this deserted waste of inland country.
Then came a group of highly advanced, staggering intelligent race of beings known as The Investigators. They likewise landed in this dusty, barren land and found the Cheewahwah invading force. A representative of The Investigator's and the Cheewahaha's decided to meet in Cancun on a starlit evening to discuss plans on becoming the dominant, colonizing race.
"Listen," the Investigator's representative said, "you're just a tiny, shaking thing on spindly legs. My pet Chupacabra would eat you in a second...and possibly will if I can't find the little bastard to bring it home. So how about we put the best among you into rapid evolution and then you can keep this shit hole wasteland and we'll just move onto a nice place. That sound good to you?"
"Arf!" said the Cheewahwah representative.
"Thus it is agreed." And with that the meeting was settled.
Today the descendents of the original Cheewahwah settlers keep tabs on the Evolved Ones. Though the procedure was highly complicated and astonishingly replete with scientific words and procedures, it can't be proclaimed loudly that it was a success.
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