Post Number Six

“Send in the Freaks”

The word “obsession” comes from the same Latin (or Greek. Same thing) word as the word “obscene”– which perfectly sums up my mental state. For I am OBSCENELY OBSESSED with girls getting pulled out of small clothing items (I mean hats). In fact, so deeply has the toxic vapour known as “obsession” (‘though some folks call it more of a {quote} “cologne” than a toxic vapour) gotten into the folds of my brain that I can’t even think of a way to end this fucking sentence! Best if I just pass on by in silence (although in this case, my silence has a commentary) (which is what ya reading now, by the way) until my inability to finish this other sentence (that is, this one) also passes on by.  Or away. From Natural Clauses.

Don’t act as if neither one of us knows what I’m yackin’ about, Reader!

Because you know as well as I do that what I know is more or less the same as what you know. An’ that is this: the miracle I witnessed at the hands of the “man” (if such a word is not a gross understatement) who’s been expertly dubbed the GREAT AUTHENTICO, has troubled my days ever since I witnessed it the other night.

So troubled am I (and was I) that I went questing for the Great One himself– or at the very least, a reasonable facsimile. Because he was a hard cove to find, the Great Authentico. And the finding job was made even harder by the number of cheap imported copies of him out there on the Rissole Club Circuit. There was the GREAT SYNTHETICO, whose main trick was to pull a pink salamander out of his trousings (and a limp, dead-lookin’ thing it was). Then there was TOM THE EXPLODER, whose own particular kink was to pull a safety pin out of a hand grenade. (It was a mind-fuck with audience expectations. The hand grenade, when it exploded,  should’a sent a flock of “live” pigeons into the audience– and he got it… well, half right. But the audience were too busy pulling feathers and bits of bloody pigeon out of their meatball baskets to give Tom a partly-deserved semi-round of applause.)

Nowhere, though, did I see another Magus who– like the Great One– could pull his female assistant (though I prefer the term “Disciple”) out of a top-hat. Or any other sort of hat. And I couldn’t settle for one of those cheap copies. It had to be the original– and (arguably) the best.

Now, it’s funny how– when you stumble across a genuine miracle (as we all do from time to time)– you start thinking about your fellow “freaks” (as a harsh and unforgiving Nanny State calls us) and the gains they too might make from your discovery. So I figure it’s a good idea to let those fellow “freaks” get in the queue before me– not because I want “guinea pigs” to “experiment” with, in case we get some sort of replay of that exploding pigeon trick (See Above), but rather out of niceness and compassion for people even more freaky than me. Luckily, I know (approximately) two such people.

First, the GANOOSH BOYS (I’m counting them as one person because they’re twins). These pitiful creatures– living proof that their “god” (so-called) is not a merciful chap who smiles down on kids born of parents who started their lives as cousins– were spawned with a painful deformity that would bring tears to the eyes of any normal mother (and a few AB-normal ones, too. Prob’ly). For the Ganoosh Boys are (brace yourself) Siamese twins JOINED AT THE NOSE-HAIRS.


Thus far no surgeon has had the plums to separate ’em. “Too risky”, they say. In fact, it’s only been done a few times before, by a specialist in Switzerland who has designed and — I believe– hand-crafted a set of two-way MEGA TWEEZERS for the job. Yet buses to Switzerland (from Australia. Where I live) are not cheap these days, and so my neighbours (the Ganoosh Boys) have been forced into suffering their pain with a stoically heroic silence, broken only by their constant, nasal whining (I can hear it from three houses away).

Imagine, then, their utter delight when I turned up on their mother’s doorstep and informed them that I’d found a miracle-worker (technical name: Thaumaturge) who could fix ’em! Imagine it, Reader! I did! Because I had to! Because they didn’t show any! (“Delight”, I mean.) Nevertheless, I left their doorstep instructing them to stay by the phone awaiting further orders. “Do Not Move,” I said. “STAY.”

The next of the “freaks” I planned on hurling at the Great One’s feet was my very own AUNTY BERYL– she who happens to be the long-suffering wife of my sausage-smugglin’ Uncle, Mike Spilligan. (NOTE: When I call her “long-suffering” it’s not because of her marriage to such a model of manliness as Mike. How could any red-blooded woman suffer from that? No, I’m talkin’ about her disability.)

Here’s what she’s got: Have you ever heard of the painful medical problem called “ingrown toenails”? Well, Aunty Beryl has a far more advanced problem: Ingrown Toes. This affliction has always troubled her in her day job as a Professional Shoe Tester. Often she has to turn up for work at the Shoe-Testing Plant wearing padded socks to hide her lack of qualifications. Then when the Official Toe Squeezer does his (or her) duty, looking up with searching eyes for a facial grimace or whatever, Aunty Beryl says: “Errr… It’s, um… it’s a little tight” (Nervously clears her throat before continuing) “AROUND THE TOES.”

Many a conventional doctor has tried to fix her Ingrown Toes, but they all failed. So Aunty Beryl was on the verge of resigning herself to a “life” (if you can call it that) of wearing padded socks until retirement. “On the verge”, that is, until Nephew Duncan (i.e. me) came galloping to the rescue (over the phone. It was verbal galloping. As in “just the sound effect”. With coconut shells). When I told her about the Miracle Worker for whom I was now acting as (unofficial) agent, she got so excited she did a TAP-DANCE (or so she told me on the phone). Of course, it wouldn’t have been an orthodox tap-dance, because those are usually more “toe-toe-heel” than “heel-heel-nothing”. But, yair. She was chuffed.

So now that I have what I call my “Startup Freaks” for the miracle queue, I need only one more ingredient: the Great Authentico Himself!


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