ExiStenTiaL NiLhIsT promises adult themes, profanity, drugs and cartoon mayhem ahead
Reposted from November 7th of Aught O Seven with a few additional thoughts from that night so long ago and far away…
Driving is a great motivator of irony for me. I often have my most profound and creative writing moments when I cannot write, so I dialogue it aloud, hoping to recall enough later to transcribe to paper or screen.
Today, that is earlier from right now, I was in my car heading across north and east Alabama, Atlanta and then the Carolinas for a much needed relocation from the mundane reality of West Ala. I slept rather than waste my eyes on the Sunday Night NFL game and dozed until 2:22 ayem.
With a dram of thoroughfare coffee, from the Chevron Station off US 59 E, during wee hours; with enough caffeine, chocolate and sugary products to ensure the enhancement of hyper diaper mentality required for my style of highway driving.
Personally, I would always rather drive between 1 and 5 ayem. Anyone who has been through Atlanta’s labyrinth interstate system would find it easier at 3-4 o’clock in the morning than with rush hour happening in the 6 to 7 range.
Truck drivers are easier to deal with than SUVs, Vans, Pick-ups (the really big ones), RVs and large cars driven by women applying makeup and talking on the cell phone with the steering wheel there for her personal amusement.
Truckers generally drive speeds that are safe and constant; the rednecks in pickups with the gun rack and baseball cap on sideways are not. The later drive also promises my least favorite highway nemesis; sol. The sun irritates my eyes terribly and with migraines always looming it can trigger one. The moon is only there as a friend and a quiet less luminous adversary.
This morning drive was OK except for starting later – regardless of the rush hour consequences I had to get sleep from the last return trip this past Saturday when I left at 4:26 ayem from South Carolina and on a football weekend. The Atlanta traffic was worse from near Six Flags and Exit 49 all the way to the junction of 20 and 85E.
I had wildly vivid stories for every driver, incident or vehicle I passed. One that was hilarious as I verbalized was gone too soon. I somehow was on a riff about how Rocky and Bullwinkle were very similar in less cartoon fashion to John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men!
Rocky is natural for George Milton and they are both of short stature!
Bullwinkle is Lenny Small who only wants to “tend them rabbits” which becomes a euphemism for “…watch me pull a rabbit from my hat!” Naturally, he pulled Bugs Bunny out, who, while munching on a carrot said, dryly, “What’s up dim?”
Bullwinkle needed looking after; he is a large strong, but slow-witted fellow who while meaning well needed a friend, even if it was a sexually androgynous verbose flying squirrel with an IQ of 140.
I had about five minutes of how Rocky was getting too old to care for Bullwinkle and after an incident with a fairy, or perhaps a Sesame Street hooker; the sensitive squirrel had to take drastic measures. No mob of Frostbite Falls denizens would touch his friend. If anyone was going to kill Bullwinkle it was going to be him. Rocky was never much for handguns so he devised a scheme to get the big moose to recount his past, especially his notorious Ménage à trios with Boris and Natasha; Boris in women’s clothing and Natasha a leather-clad dominatrix who did not know the meaning of safety words! Bullwinkle was just himself.
There were times, sipping mushroom tea with Mr. Peabody and changing the past with the Wayback Machine; they made Hannibal’s elephants aimed in the wrong direction, gave the Spartans grenade launchers and tipped off Jesus to the Last Supper machinations before transporting him to Singapore in the 1960s with five hundred bucks American.
Their biggest coup came when spying on Duddly Do-Right of the Mounties wanking off in his bathroom which lead to his dismissal from that fine Canadian law enforcement operation. He was also known to stalk Nell Fenwick, the comely redheaded love interest of Dud, who was more interested in his horse than Dud. He traded knots and ties with Snidely Whiplash and even met the Dali Lama.
Snidely started a grunge band called Whiplash and made a fuckload of money before accidentially getting run over by a streetcar in San Francisco on his way to the opening of his musical, Whipping the Lash.
Nell would later model Victoria Secret lingerie, meet and date hip-hop artist Hip-Hopalong, but she got hooked on crack and died of and overdose. Dud became a transgendered cartoon activist but he was shotgunned to death by Elmer Fudd, on Halloween night, 2000, while wearing a rabbit-in-drag costume. Fudd, who later took his own life, left a suicide note apologizing that he mistook Dud for “that screwy wabbit who took away my pwide, west and rewaxation by teasing me and awakenwing my deswires…”
Boris and Natasha defected to the West with militart secrets and lived happily ever after.
While recounting the dream of what led him into show business, which involved George Cohan and some dance lessons, Rocky stood proudly on a cliff and shot Bullwinkle through the forehead with a high powered rifle. As often the case in cartoon murders, Bullwinkle continued his last sentence before dying: “Rocky, y’know I think these dance lessons will pay off innnnnnnnnnnnnnnn.”
Rocky looked down at the mob that now began dispersing and threw down his rifle and jumped off the cliff, only to be rescued by that imbecilic condor from the Warner Brothers Bugs Bunny toon. Rocky had another care giving job ahead and now wished he had let the mob take him, so he covered the bird’s eyes and both crashed into a mountainside.
Heaven was too good for them, however, and they eventually decided that if the afterlife was going to be a lot of harps and clouds that looked like LA smog perhaps they should enjoy the ethereal existence and began touring with Alvin and the Chipmunks.
Another dram of coffee?
No, I think he has had enough!