Born to be Wilted

By: Samwell Rockhouse

I wrote this in the summer of 2009. I thought it was funny.

 

It wasn’t long before Captain Dichotemus started dreaming about the first time he fought off an entire horde of Louisville sluggers with his bare hands. It was nine in the morning. The ship smelt rancid with the stench of frothy chocolate chips and melted Louisville sluggers hanging pragmatically on the fellowship of rings. The captain hadn’t come across any life for quite some time. He had spent his days chewing gumballs and spacing out to the nearest decimal of Protozoa. The captain’s co-pilot, Connor Boyle was a finely tuned athletic machine back in his schooling days, but now; he was as worthless as the Brockian Empire of Tyson Yuma’s Fifth Protestant Movement. He usually would stand in the corner, eyeing a random object and stare at it until his eye’s teared up like a flower with too much ecstasy in its riblets. Captain Dichotomous believed he’d find life, in fact he could smell it with not only his nostrils but his ovaries as well. Captain Dichotomous grew up with too much saliva in his rectus abmagalias, therefore he grew a tree of chastity on his brothers Grimm, and ever since then ovaries have been sitting quietly on the left side of his medulla oblongata. Connor sat there that morning humping desk chairs and practicing an ancient form of finger painting with his jowls. The captain was worried for the safety of his good friend, but nonetheless had a mission to complete.

Earlier in the flight, the Captain and Connor had encountered a problem with the ships trans-fat debobulator. They had to send in a pro, a mechanic so advanced in his ideas that Marilyn Manson the Great was turned to shame and dime bags. His name was Zach Cook. Zach was a mechanic of many ships. Including the SS Shinedown, the Rusty Two-timer, the Fraptacious Tenderloin and the SS Yom Kippur. Zach would usually take a toke from his five-foot bong before beginning work on the ship. He’d be fed graciously with cupcakes and necromancers. Zach felt it would be easier to work to the sound of the Overland Trail Middle School band playing rugby on a fall afternoon, so it was provided with much difficulty in finding. Upon completion, Zach let out a rectifying scream of Bob Dylan toward the star sequence of Consuelo Hogwash. He met the Captain and Connor in the cafeteria to chow on some grindage. Connor had been feeling really bloated that day so he put beer goggles on for better vision and clarity. Zach had the chance to meet our cook, a Miss Daggett of Weimaraner. She carried around a basket of magical kit kat bars and jousted ever Sunday with Ivan Stupopaloppavich, a rebel born of metal and macaroni in aisle nine of Hen House.  She was reading a book about this week’s best graphing calculators while preparing a tasty delicacy. That night’s special had been: guilty egg omelet’s with a side of hibernating grass tots, all served in a license plate wrap. They all sat down, including Miss Daggett and ate till their stomachs were the sizes of file cabinets then went about their ways. It was a timeless journey ending with a bottle of Jack Daniels fine malt whiskey and some high-grade battery acid.

The captain had been driving for several months now across the plains of Mississippi. Connor steered the ship for a little while but developed rashes on his corneas preventing him from further duty in operating the ship. With one swift toke of the pipe, Connor took hold of the Macedonian Chocolates that were sent from Space Station 12 and slammed them down his throat. Captain Dichotomous, sick of Connor hogging the sheets, took him by surprise with a dropkick to his favorite DVD; Thomas the tooth goes to Hell. Connor cried into the air conditioning unit, clogging it with his hairballs and non-recyclable McDonald’s containers.  The movie had been directed by Jeff Kaplan of Carrolton. Miss Daggett had already finished all 9 seasons of the Yoga Warriors. She had started to wonder when she’d be able to see her baby alligator again. She spoke of the gator’s love for lesbian lover’s backyard getaways and its intelligent mapping system of routing out a pair of Levi Strauss jeans to give to the local shrubberies.  She had given it a name that both scared the Captain and Connor whenever they heard it through her quite mesmerizing vocal chords, Vindication.  Miss Daggett had a husband once before turning her time to serving food on a loading ship with a couple of burnt out mountain bike degenerates but now she only was known for cooking and great electric shock therapy.  It was rumored she was once the most beautiful woman in the galaxy.

Connor had never seemed to remember that after eating the Macedonian chocolates, his stomach and lower bowel area became a haven of fiery passion for the bathroom and him to share, together until the end of time. He rushed his ass to the back of the ship, a good five mile run and usually stopped a quarter mile to take a giant Shasta in the pop-tart maker they stole from Greer Gaddie’s steak garden. Captain Dichotomous would sit in the cock-pit and laugh with a smirk end-to-end. There, suddenly in the distance, the captain could make out an asteroid belt clashing with the force of a great game of Crossfire, brought to you by Milton Bradley. The captain hadn’t remembered the last time he came into contact with a space show like this. He sat back and closed his eyes, trying to make peace with the five mullet-rocking Brits he punched back in 75’, for he would need some sort of forgiveness trying to make it out alive in the midst of these space hemorrhoids. Connor came back with a cat named Magnolia, shining with the contemporary design of a dinette set at Copenhagen furnishings. The captain told Connor to leave it outside; it smelled of pickled beets and Algernon. Miss Daggett was in the corner of the cock-pit flailing upside down from the ceiling, taking this all in while smoking a cig. In all her years of teaching math to the local Pogs collecter of China, Missouri had she never seen something so beautiful. The captain reassured her that there would be even more beautiful displays of cosmic wish-wash along the basin of Tammy Titus. She suddenly did a cartwheel, leaving a trail of multi-colored gummies that grew from her long locks of hair. As the captain made his way through the asteroid belt, he grew weary he would never get to drink a glass of Red Bull with his ghost of a good thing, so his man tits let out a roar of hardened Hennessy and gyrated a bowl of cocoa crisp for all to enjoy. The captain poured a canister of instant gravy into his eyes and brought the ship to mach 4–shaving off clean into the speckled space. This, the captain was truly grateful for. It was another day in the life of an American gangster.

A checkpoint was coming up. Here, Captain Dichotomous knew he would find his friend Mason Stickler. Mason had been a freelance writer for Enron since he was two years old. There he lived with his sister Ellyn and their house maid Lady Burton.  The captain yelled for Connor to come to the front of the ship. With a leather jacket and a pair of Velcro shoes on, Connor sat passenger side preparing the landing gear.

It wasn’t long before the captain started having a relapse of his days as a rollerblading centaur. Standing at the docking door of the ship, looking out about the city, he clutched his chest, trying to come to terms with his involvement with the horses of Tudas. These haunting steeds had soapy hooves and stood upright with talking shafts after listening to Matthew Broderick for over 2 minutes. The captain couldn’t take the intensity any longer. He read a soliloquy in the nearest 7/11 he could find and solved a polynomial with the local grocer. Going back and forth with this grocer you could tell he was wise in all levels of French decaffe mochachino geometry but quite elementary in algebraic poppy bread. The captain feeling rather pissed with his inability to go back and forth with finishing the derivatives of the Star Spangled banner with the grocer, and decided to buy a magazine on chopped liver and pixie sticks. The captain walked outside and found a tree hugger asking for change from Connor. Not understanding the language of the Foreclosing Sequoia, Connor told him in the language of the Poignant Japanese Elm to shove off or he’d stick an entire grapevine up his audio device. The captain didn’t even need to look very hard to find Mason’s home. There next to the griddle-station was Mason’s house. It was shaped like a vase and its walls were made of Ohio’s taxes. The captain, Conner, and Miss Daggett all walked over to the house. Knocking three times with the ending verse of Until the Day I die by Story of the Year, he suddenly heard a voice inside. After much rummaging, the door swung open and Mason was there with the divinity of the Evian drinking babies of Switzerland. His sister, Ellyn was in the background. She finished setting the table and then ran off with a skateboard into the vert ramp to perfect her air Japan.  The captain was impressed. Mason asked the captain to come inside and at what a great time, just in time for a meal. Miss Daggett was looking off into the distance admiring the art of Sir Eisenhower. The captain had to put a wrench to her nostrils in order to get her out of this drug-like trance. They all walked inside and there Mason lit up a Bunsen burner and turned on a laserdisc of cats. Miss Burton, the daughter of Kaiser Roll Simmons, a rock’n’roller from Star Cluster 833, sat in complete silence. She stared at Ellyn as she did a grind off their cabinet of seasonings, eating a cheese stick.  Ellyn came up to the captain and his crew. Meredith followed with the caution of a saimese twin, swinging from beam to beam with a grappling hook. They greeted the captain and his crew. Ellyn was particularly fond of Miss Daggett. She had seen her satchel stocked full with manuals on how to disengage simulators and the tiny briefcase she had loaded with her collection of marmalades. Meredith tidied up the chairs and requested that they all sit down. That evening Mason put on a show for us all. It was an entire magic show sponsored by Dick Van Dyke. He wore a blue cape and performed such golden oldies as the Belt-buckling tiger of K2, My mother’s a botanist, and even Ludwig Van Beethoven’s breakfast at Shawshank Redemption. He had actually managed to get stuck in a Pittsburgh Steelers hat. Meredith had to blast him out with 4 tons of M-80’s.

After this show, they all sat around the carpet. The captain looked deep into his fibers then looked up confusedly at Mason. Mason had actually shot a giant vulture in the closet of his sister’s cupboard. It was eighty two inches wide and 30 feet long. Miss Daggett was tired from designing curb stomps with Ellyn and Meredith. She sprawled out on the ottoman. Ellyn tying dried apricots to her tennis shoes started dancing the dance of her elders then passed out from inhaling too much house dust. Mason sat in the light of an owl’s ass telling me of his run-in with Charles Jenkins. Conner wasn’t really doing much of anything besides eating a tuba. Meredith drummed on the pots and pans, trying to call to the lover’s of her Bermuda Triangle. This all was very relaxing to the captain as he stood in the purple light of the four moons of planet Tridoor. The captain stood up and realized it was time to be heading back to port. Mason shook his hand and walked them to the door. Miss Daggett hugged her new friends and then scampered off like a tiny doe, leaving her satchel behind for Meredith and Ellyn to read on lonely nights ending in “Y”. When the captain and the crew made their way to the ship they gave one look back to Mason’s house. The captain squinted out Mason on the top of his house, shooting flying pigs out of the sky with a toaster. The captain laughed and carried Miss Daggett to her quarters. She spoke in her sleep of her favorite Jungle Book scenes. Connor walked zombie-like to the on-deck vending machine and pushed A-4. It was a baked bean burrito. He fell asleep mid bite, curling up like a crane after carrying too many babies. The captain back at the cock-pit waved goodbye to the direction of Mason’s house and flipped the switch for ignition. The shipped zoomed off and into the black void. Off the crew went through space drifting. Forever drifting….

 

 

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