Avey, Wilbur, and Oolie
A Beautiful Story
October 9, 2019
Us three oracles wrote a story inspired by the Wild Dada Ducks.
A Beautiful Story
Or; ua hoʻokuʻu ka pāʻani
OR; “What’s the Coinfusion I Can’t Make Heads or Tails of It? Sum One Flipped! Now That Makes Cents”
OR; The Modern Ulysses
At any normal school across the country, there is a group of rats and people who have fallen into gaping holes in the architecture living deep in the recesses of the structure.
At Hindenburg High-school, the sewer rejects have formed a society. A society dedicated to chaos, and the spread of Karl Wiesman art.
It’s the socially ostracized- ostracized,,, ostrakons, ancient Greece, that’s where they live, that’s where the real humans were born with purple in their mouths- sewer rats- they all are running across the sidewalks and doing chalk art. They all use whale bones to draw shiny peonies in sync.
“He’s doing zombies!” they cry in the tawny hours of the waking dawn. This is called “zbeuling”. Afterwards, they do the proper rituals of washing their fruit like the raccoons that used to be alive on the highway. It’s an honorary thing if you find that all your azaleas are missing, only to have them turn up days later- floating inside the sewer grate, with cholula sauce poured all over them. How delicious, my mind and mouth is numb!
One of the rats has created a band- he turns an old carrot into a wonderfully gnawed trombone, and plays ferociously obscure banjo music. The other rats have gnawed on sweet potatoes, they sing like vuvuzelas.
And the man in the vent fell down, so now when you slip your gum wrappers into the grate he knows, and he’ll haunt you. All above is Balderdash. Careful, herpes can be fatal to monkeys under one year old. A bump, a protruding lump, has taken my sight. Balderdash.
If a friend has gone missing, don’t worry. They’re simply in the deeper sewer cells, flourishing as a clump of warts flourishes, eating off gold-tilled tupperware (careful, mee-ma, that’s ceramic!), and listening to Dewey Rock’s #2 hit album song, “Orchestrated in Red; AKA my mother asked me”. If a friend has gone missing, don’t worry- they are so happy. Now, they can mind-control.
And all the rats wear trojan- I know trojans,, they smell acidic and ironed- armor fashionably designed to ward-off the obby-oss riding bunyips that secretly slash away at the foundations of the school. The secret is kept in the boiler room. They gallop around and flamboyantly show off their shoulder pads. To who, though? The roaches!
And all the little playgrounds,, that the children play on have hives of bees, a bee may chase your mate- and all the British have their figgy-pudding and tarts- into the street, and she’ll get hit by a car. Wood-carving bee’s sting the worse,, they grap you by the elbow and prick a hole- ship up or ship out- and wonder till the pain hits then you fall into gravel pits.
A little mouse scrambles around and disapproves of this type of lifestyle- why- how- no? You must pay me 25 cents for saying the word lifestyle, alright? I don’t like that. 50 cents for zest. And never, never, never. Wacky lizard beads- a clank and crock is a beautiful story to my tired ears.
‘What sort of food do they eat down there?’ You may ask,. ‘How do they survive with no clean water?’ and, ‘Can it really be habitable down there?’ The answer to all these questions is simple: “Can a quart of milk translate to a two-pound glass full of feathers? And, if so, how come my wife has stayed away from me?” The answer to that, of course, is “No”.
And the face-monger puts up a sign, “two emotions- one half off if you give me used!” tell your local position if you feel the following- a new face is in store- panic, trembling, jumpiness, nerviness, butterflies, jitteriness, the jitters, a cold sweat, a blue funk, the heebie-jeebies, the willies, the shakes, the yips, the jim-jams, collywobbles, cold feet, the (screaming) abdabs/habdabs, Joe Blakes.
And I bought a shoe shine kit so my dog would always yap-yip. But the he locked me in a cabinet so now it’s all for nought. And with mind control I can own all the property deeds I want!
Zbeul? The zombies have survived- in his form, he is, is, of course, just doing this right? It’s just a joke? No! A real, real zbeul. Zbeuls are neon cowboys. Zbeuls reach and rob.
Bones- they are scaffolding for our meat- Kurt Vonnegut: “you must thank your meat”- OR foundation, since you can’t possibly only have a ceiling, then it might as well be a sidewalk.
Can you be so comfortable as to properly even possibly say…, “Spoiling spoilers have cried over spilt milk before, hallelujah”? I doubt it. It’s a treacherously difficult and uncomfortable thing to fathom. Indeed. Yes. This is good. Yes.
