THE MAJOR: ah, but they might. in especialito himwith. him’s known for such and sitch, of and with such boys these-as.

THE PROFESSOR: boysem mightbe, these’ems up hills worth, cuttin to & still us too. sayingout ‘mayn’t’ though may n’it be thenthere for spring.

THE MAJOR: nope! nope! thatthey mayn’t! That they doublenot mayn’t! Not for spring. Not themwith. Mebbe himwidth, the spreadth of here to the hills yonder and doubletimes back. You and mebetween, means to say the end. The ends to justifry springworthy means is boys runnin’ uphillsways.

THE PROFESSOR: a Himwith-Point point himmade, thygeoff. he here spring itright out right-ways, ‘nd I see themmay now. themmay notknowing though them up there drive the sping nthere way, jim’sboys there. runnendown,sendinup spring.

THE MAJOR: aye. Truth, now, we bear himwith in speaking. Lettem run, Jimsboys. Lettem run their sprigs to summerdies ‘em dead and hollyleaf gone hid their head.

JIMMY: outrun and roll, awaysup and upaways, boysthemdoug. Outanddown and oftentimes rollaway. Let it register himwith!

SCEPTER: Wow. You can’t imagine the places Boy’s been taking me to out here in Berlin. I don’t think I believe them, at least not completely, but you don’t need to believe in something to have a good time. I thought sig-Me-Ous Prime was wild.—And the horrible memories of the Kentucky drift are almost gone, thank IpThar’s hammer… I think I’ll stay out here in Berlin for a few more days. Boy mentioned something about the Affengeil Burrows being our next destination.—The bagels aren’t half bad out here either.—Commissioner Loy Svane

VANE: Get me the fuck out of here!!!

DAVE: Richie had enough of Berlin? I knew it wouldn’t last, you are too Vane to enjoy anything for too long. I think Jimbo needs to hold someone captive, go to him.

THE MAJOR: How did Boy Vane get out of those shackles? Lance?

SCEPTER: Berlin’s a bit overcast today.—The secret police raided the loft and took all of Boy Vane’s suits. They said it was necessary for all the citizens to maintain an ordered appearance. They’ve got him in red Mervyns’s shorts and a yellow tee and tube socks.—At least they let me keep my codpiece.—Maybe you could send us some food, too. It seems the feast we’ve been enjoying over the past week was our annual food drop. And there are all these strange noises and clanking and the sound of pumps and way, way off, the sound of sweet laughter.—Commissioner Lance Scepter

VANE: Lance. Lance, where are you? Is it time for my bath? I can’t tell what time it is. I feel weak. Where have you gone? Who will help me? Help!! Help!! Lance!! Why have you abandoned me?

SCEPTER: Maybe we should all regroup on the Aloha deck. I think it’s time to get out of Berlin. I think it’s time to stop, take a breath, and have a drink. Sing a song. Rub each others feet. Things are starting to unravel. I miss nutella. The damn krauts confiscated all the little oval jars throughout the province. That’s it. That’s the last draw. Berlin blows, now. Boy’s starting to freak me out, as well. His skin isn’t used to these vulgar fabrics they have him in. He’s starting to take it out on the ones that care. If anyone’s monitoring this channel, send the relief pods. I’ve encrypted our spatial and temporal coordinates.—God Speed, little emperors—Lance Scepter

THE MAJOR: Dave! Dylan! Jimmy! Come with me, quick. We’ve got to get Lance out of the boiler room.

DAVE: Ooh you caught me with my pants down. —Dylan grab the bikini-o-meter.—Jimmy make way for the space cadets.—Captain Major General Scientist Colonel, We are armed and awaiting your orders.

JIMMY: Wait! I’m playing harky sark!

THE MAJOR: Okay, as soon as Jim is done playing hacky sack we advance on the boiler room. There’s no time to lose. Jimmy will approach from the south door (through the corridor from the Naptimes Nap Lounge), Dave and I through the north door at the bottom of the central spiral staircase. Dylan, I’m going to need you to take regular bikini readings from directly below the boiler room. This means you’ll have to crawl through the bilge chamber under the pump room. Sorry - I’ll buy you an extra Cosmopolitan tonight. Jimmy, Dave and I will wait for your “all clear”, then storm the room.—We’re going to see some ugly shit in there, guys, but keep focused on the job at hand. We MUST ignore Boy Vane for now: he’s just not ready to come back up. He’s going to make things unpleasant for us down there, but we’re gonna have to tough it out.—Okay, uh…. how’s that hacky sack comin’, Jim?

SKIPPER NOLAN: It’s OK, they’ve been semi-conscious for days now but Dave’s been feeding them nutella-danish-fig-wormwood whole-wheat foccacia hoagies to help bring down their temperatures while he conducts his ‘Lomaxian recordings’. Untie the bikini-ropes at once! Boy Vane has completed his warped symphony…Get them out of Berlin, give the room a quick sweep, let the cats and monkeys in, and turn the lights off!

SCEPTER: Hey, I think I’m flashing back to the Kentucky Drift or something. Things are getting weird out here. Better hurry up with those escape pods if your getting this message.—Berlin is starting to morph into a forest of corpses. There are all these trees, how else can I describe them, made of dead, emaciated people; two, three hundred feet high. But they have the most beautiful orange blossoms and leaves. The buildings have all disappeared and cellophane red mountains have replaced them. The streets have turned into rivers of black kidneys. Our flat is a bamboo platform on stilts of sinewy vulture legs. A throne of a fat, crying babies, all stacked and blued together, is in the middle of the platform and Boy Vane’s is sitting atop it with a giant skull-mace resting over his legs. He’s wearing this Dandy Suit, very dapper, but I think it’s made from kitten tongues.—Lance

THE SKIPPER: Alright Dave, I know I said shoot some oxygen and get some more water down there, not ‘lets see what happens on film when Scepter peers through your blue Christmas lights on black light with crabnets and seaweed sculpture while wearing red 3-D goggles with demos of Several Species of… blaring with the cats and monkeys fighting over pasta while Ritchie’s perched on the balance swing.

THE MAJOR: No, I don’t think that’s it. I think I see it too. It’s horrible. It’s beautiful.

SCEPTER: I think I see Major Scientist. Way off. Coming towards us on a pink lizard-squirrel in steel war-mail. He’s Glorious—Jimmy? Jimbo? Is that you? Harkkky Sarkkk, now? Here? Amongst all this insanity? I admire your love for the game. Okay, I’m in. Every successful stall and I’ll buy a round when we get back to the Toledo deck. Your Harkkky serve.

THE MAJOR: What kind of place is this? Lance? Is that you? What is boy doing on that baby throne? What the hell is going on? Did Shaggy slip me one of his electric peanut butter cups? Lance? Are you up there? God, the trees…. they’re singing!

VANE: Lance. Lance!!—Is someone here? It’s not a cat Toungue suit, It’s made from pheasant scrotum’s. It is irritating but I like it. The only thing thats strange around here is you. I think you’re plotting against me. You here that Berlin? He doesn’t like you anymore. Well, Fouie!! You want to leave us? Oh, you’ll want to leave us! You just wait.—Love, Boy Vane

THE MAJOR: Lance, what language is that coming from Richie’s megaphone? Sounds like Spanglish.

SCEPTER: Yes, it is Spanglish, with a splash of Dutch.—The damn Krauts are turning him against me. The first week was quite Wonderful. Brothels and cafes, and evening strolls through the paper lanterned paths of the Schrebergärtens and Kleingartenkoloniens. Altwasser Bier at 11am to stem off the morning sun, followed by steam baths and pedicures. Reinish wines for lunch served by shy, grass clad islanders. And Kinder Eggs. Thousands and thousands of Kinder Eggs and Boy let me put all the little toys together. I’d spend the early evenings watching him compose his song over and over, relishing in each changed note, each altered word, the shift in tempo for a brief moment and the casual slide back, and his barely perceptible grin at the selfknowledge that the existential gloom which moors us to this world would be abated for another day. The late evenings, after such days, led us to ornate parlors of the artist whores and Thai stick rollers with their jovial handshakes and soft chaise lounge and warm bodies. Strolling the early mornings home past the Elite guards on their way to duty, and stopping at Guapto’s, with his usual flare and spin and holding the great glass doors open for me to enter, for steamed milked and coffee.—But, now he’s turning against me. He took my Quest Goggles and used the parts for his Super Mega Phone which he uses somehow to control the corpse trees and flesh flowers, standing on his baby throne in his scrotum suit.—I miss the Boy Vane I used to know.

Some transmission from Berlin was lost here. What follows is an educated reconstruction from Skipper Nolan

VANE: I’ve got nothing to sing to you today! You smell…please pour the lavender juice on your head if you insist on staying in my flat…haven’t you got you’re own home? You’d be happier with the others out at sea.

SCEPTER: Silence Narcissus! Away with your perfectly sharp tongue and magic-mirrors! I hear the violent strings of Count Zelig and his servants piercing like the sickle of Cronus ! Do you hear them? They could be of use to you you know…in the architecture of your immaculate vision.

VANE: Why must you speak like that? Please pass me my labtop, and go take a nap. Could you help me put my other stiletto on?

SCEPTER: Bootstraps must be pulled by those magicians whose minds we cannot yet see. Do not ask me to assist you with something my vast powers can’t provide near these dark mountain ranges. Greater comfort will you find with the aid of my flippers, and questing-goggles given to me by my late uncle Jaspochlid…why don’t you sing, son of Bavaria?

An actual transmission from berlin:

SCEPTER: Hey, do you guys think you could take me back to the boat now? It looks like Boy Vane have all fallen under the sleep spell of Jimbo’s pendulous Snarrrrrrrrky kicks. As much fun as I’ve had and as much as I care for Boy Vane I think I’ve overstayed my welcome in Berlin. It’s also getting a little crowded in the flat now with all these other entities of power.—I think we could slip past them and not stop until we get to the Aloha deck’s oversized coconut papa-san chairs and Deputy Bienvenu’s Bloody Mary’s.—Commissioner Lance Scepter, ready for duty

THE MAJOR: Dearest Commander—After our failed rescue attempt last week, I set out in a specially designed psychodinghy in hopes of penetrating your delusion and helping you awaken to your conventinally real environment (which is, in this case, the barge’s boiler room). As you know, I made it far enough to meet up with you at the foot of Boy Vane’s throne of babies, but after our short exchange I experienced a malfunction in my dinghy’s dashboard clock. Somehow its shorted circuit untied the “knot” in the psychic fabric upon which I’d surfed to reach you, spilling me rather abruptly into the reflection pool next to the Egyptian tomb exhibit at the Met. I hope to have the dinghy fixed and to set out on the next rescue attempt within the next 24 hours.—Yours, etc, Major Scientist

Further reconstruction from the skipper:-

VANE: why don’t you drink some water before your silent nap, snoring son of charred melba cloud. and stop eating all of those sandwiches! lord knows where they come from…i paid the chambermaid her wages a year ago and begged her never to return. she changes the linen on my hammock-swing every morning. i can’t compose with her scrubbing…and now i have you interrupting me constantly. scepter. the magnificent lance sceptor. i love and despise you. sceptor my critic, sceptor my yogi, sceptor the daemon, sceptor the shaman. had I known you would be staying here indefinitely, or as you say ‘always’, i’d have left the cave of berlin for vacation in frankfurt with my beautiful arian mistress sipping on riesling in a clean, partially sunny bed and breakfast with a fountain and statues of eros. instead i am dehydrated in the dunkelsands of berlin, encased in damp and mold, with nothing but a dirty bathtub, an ancient furnace, a festering toilet, my guitar, my labtop, my books, and my bowie and wagner. the art of the berliner…rats bite my legs. the shower burns me. the prokrastinator is driving me beyond maddness and still i sip and compose and listen to your banter. what am i doing here? why do you keep following me to the brauhaus at lunch when you know that’s my most reflective hour. why are you always questioning my most inspired notes. what have you done with my purple blouse? how do you always have cigarettes? speaking of cigarettes, could you lend me one old Lancelot? Scepter?

SCEPTER: Shhh, quiet.

VANE: what do you hear sceptor? you’re always hearing something, and i nothing but the sound of smoke exhilation, bathtub and nose drippings and the growling of our stomachs deteriorating from illegal streusel and apfelpfannkuchen. pass me my stein.

SCEPTER: Yes, I’m quite sure it’s him.

VANE: who? the chambermaid? the pawnbroker? lucky? pozzo?

SCEPTER: no one else can play the divine vulcanic pezguiharplyre so sweetly.

VANE: what the hell are you talking about?

SCEPTER: the master

VANE: what master? master who?

SCEPTER: silence young prodigy of fugue minor electric. count zelig the master, enchanter of spacechics, at one with the children, maestro of phaedrics, zelig magician both alpha and megma, great-uncle of hermes, gorgo and bella. zelig technician and teacher of bowie, sperm god of hendrix and coltrane the holy. zelig the cunning, lord of all sirens, spanker of space nymphs, and unblemished fairies.

VANE: you’re mad. but if he’s really all those things maybe he can help me privatize love, or at least spankings. wait a minute. maybe he’s hit a dry spell-thief! he wants to steal my song! he wants to collaborate! i hate collaborations! i must copyright my piece at once! pass me my laptop!

up next: the trap!

BOY VANE: My Dear Fruity Friends—I have decided not come on your little left-wing voyage. Instead I’m moving to a cold dark apartment in east berlin where I will compose infinite versions of my only love “isn’t there enough love in the world already” and pray for the return of the cold war as I think about you thinking about me—GoodBye, Vane

SKIPPER NOLAN: I’m quite sure we’ll forget about you when we have to take over your infinite duties as Engineroom Brewremastering, Administer of Prokrastinator Chalices and Absinthe Goblets, Grand Hallucinogenic Pastry Chef and Whipper of Narcotic Pancrepe Batter, Minister of Mirror Hanging and Hangings In Front of Mirrors, Tennisfishing Umpire, Galley Crustacian Races on Butter Coated Twister Map Netwizard, and Purple Velvet Cloak Inspectailor.

VANE: Fine, have it your way. I’ll come then … No, I’m not coming!! Why won’t you leave me alone?—Tennis Fishing Umpire? Tell me more!!!

Vane isn’t heard from for days, and so the Barge ships off without him. Then, on our second day at sea, a strange message from one of the holds below:

VANE: Friends—It’s good to hear from everyone, I’m glad your voyage is going well. It’s good you left-wingers got out when you did, you deserve to live a long and happy life at sea. I’m making a lot of progress here in Berlin on my 13 versions of “Isn’t there enough love in the world already.” Today, fighting erupted in eastern western europe, and the fuel supply lines are severely strained. It’s cold and damp in this apartment and I don’t have enough to eat except for one peace of vermin a day. A rat has chewed off my calf mussel on my left leg as I did not have enough energy to beat him off. I’m also struggling with a bout of sisyphus. Oh I feel inspired , again!! What a sight it is to behold, The Beauty of The End!! Wish you guys were here!!—Love, Vane

THE MAJOR: Poor Boy Vane. He has no idea we have him tied up in the boiler room of the Escape Barge.

SKIPPER: yeah, when he dropped the tea kettle on his leg and Dr. Flanger and Dougie poured two of Jimbo’s iced Chopin bottles on it, they also anesthetized him with the Halloween candy (which apparently gets stronger with increased humidity) and ducktaped him to the jellybed in the boiler room with an iPod that only had six outtakes of the german version of ‘Heroes’ and 4 takes of his own ‘Isn’t there Enough Love in the World Already.’—The wood and beer are both dark and strong down there too, so it’s an easy mistake.

VANE: Great things are happening for me in Berlin. Last night some neo-fascist youth broke into my apartment and beat me. The air is filled with the most wonderfull smell of rotting flesh. I feel more alive then I have ever before, now that I’m quite sure of the coming end of human civilization. Oh God haow great is the pain. How alive am I right now. Here comes version 8.—Love Always, VANE

It is during this time that the Barge, in yuletide bliss, slips off the written record, and we are left only with the solo adventures of Lance Scepter as he navigated the Mescaline Seas, as documented here. When we finally awoke, fixed some nutmeg daiquiris, and read over what had happened, we found the following:

SCEPTER: Thank, Zeus. Everything is okay. How, I don’t know. But I’m alive. In Berlin, which is odd, sitting here watching Boy Vane compose, and compose and compose, over and over and over. But, the terrors have already begun to vanish from my memories. Those poor souls left within the flames of Kentucky.—I can’t wait for Karaoke Bingo, whenever I get out of this Bavarian Paradise.—Lance

THE MAJOR: Somebody has to enter Boy Vane’s dream and rescue Lance!! Who dares volunteer for the Escape Barge Psychic SWAT Team?

VANE: Regulations, Smegulations. I only regulate. I cannot be regulated.

THE MAJOR: Ah, but Richie, it’s largely your smegulations that offend. Perhaps a little more regulation and a lot less smegulation, and it would hardly matter which bikini you chose.

VANE: You can’t regulate Love.—I want you all to think about that.—Here’s my new slogan for rallying against the Conservative ant-gay campaign: “Deregulate Love”

The story of art qua art, lilies as accessories, and Boy Vane in Berlin continues with the Rescue AttemptRescue Attempt

note: these are the first of two entries by Commissioner Lance Scepter chronicling his fearful days adrift on the Mescaline Seas - Prof. Boy

Log Update: November 26, 2004, 9:16pm: First night adrift.

Complete darkness, expect for a blue flicker far off the port bow. I fear it is the Alexis flames of Kentucky. We grow closer to her hypnotic burn with each swell. The dark gallows of America, again, agleam with persecution. Emergency flares have all been fired in futility. Ho-ho’s all eaten. No one else on deck. I have not the courage to venture below. A constant gurgle beneath the planks, a mechanized swallowing against bone. Please forgive me, Zeus, for my cowardice. We’ve crested phase 46.

Log Update: November 27, 2004 11:51pm: Day 2

The tunnel of night has ended. My will to survive was pillared on the knowledge that light would come. It has brought little consolation, for now I see the fear that in darkness I only imagined. The barge has drifted into an inner-costal seaway, approximately 30 meters wide, slow gray current, but a constant dragging towards the Blue Flames. The shores are sheared cliffs and thin beaches clogged in the green sheen of razor bramble that plagues this portion of the country. I have no doubt now that we’ve entered the inner water ways of Kentucky. Alexis toys with my fear. Her blueness, sweet flicker, an unremitting beacon. Her fatal blueness. The Alexis Flames of Kentucky, the tomb of the brave, the hopeless, and adrift. Legend says that in her bosom of fire reside an eternity of southern existence.

Supplies are running low. I’ve found Major Scientist’s burlap sack of dried yellow split pea soup. Water from the river is vile, but drinkable. Of more concern is the coffee cache. It is empty. I’m sucking the spent grounds like tobacco, though it lacerates my intestines like shards of shale.

I pace the decks endlessly. My beard grows thick with the passing of hope. Below deck, still the incessant gurgling and grind. My fear of the Blue flicker horizon is only surpassed with what I suspect lies below deck. I’ve descended only far enough to activate the bilge, for the barge has slowly been taking in water. The coal bin runs low. Soon I’ll have to pump by hand.

I don’t know how much longer I can hold out.

Your faithful Commissioner, Lance Scepter, Rudder Boy, Acting Captain, Bilge Pumper,

The last of the entries of Commissioner Scepter on his voyage through the Mescaline Seas. -P.B.

Log Update: November 28th, 2004

6:00 am: Day 3

Phase 188.

Day light again. As horrific as the night was, and as thankful as I am for the sun to dissolve the aberrations of terror, the day is little comfort. The cycle will repeat, and again, darkness will descend upon the barge and this wasteland of middle of America.

Before night fell, the waterway had began a serpentine course. From what I could gather during the reign of the despot that is blackness was that we continued in this manner. We’ve also begun to circle the Blue Flames, moving in an inward spiral: snaked curves and circling in. We grow closer to the Alexis Flames, but always out side her reach. She’s taunting us.

My body is withering from lack of food and the foul water from the river. Shaggy’s candy stash has been eaten so long ago I can barely remember the delicate treats melting on my tongue. Oh, Zeus, what have I down to deserve this fate? Who on Olympus have I offended?

…

10:35am

I have made a disturbing discovery on the east side of the barge. I am not alone on this forsaken, floating island. Footprints. Wet, human footprints along the length of the deck. Who’s are they? Do they mean me harm? If they were friendly why do they insist on this clandestinity? Are they after the corn I just planted on Aloha deck?

I’ve convinced myself that I must begin constructing a defendable position. A fort at the aft of the ship. I fear these footprints will bring my destruction. If starvation and madness do not claim me first.

Commissioner Lance Scepter

..

..

Log Update: November 28th, 11:00pm, Night 3

I fear this will be my last entry, for I do not believe I have the constitution required to survive another night on this barge of death. My fortification on the aft deck is completed. I’ve retreated deep into its walls, but I hear them. Pattering. Young corn ripped from its stalks. Lumber beasts. Rattling. My poor goat’s whelps. Clanging. They mock my fear with their bellow cries. Their badminton joviality. What manner of creature that has assaulted this barge I cannot say. But, if it’s a death by their vile hands or a death by ants, I choose ants.

I’ve eaten my left calf.

No water.

If there is an ant amongst the shores of choppily minstrel’s morning chores, I’ll seek this chief beneath the hill of milking, mowing, sewing and lore. About his lair of tunnels and drones, and ladybug wenches and grasshoppers trolls, I’ll trudge and trudge and trudge and trudge until I find this insect judge. Pikes the swords and shields the bucklers, the gauntlet faced and gloved complexion, antennae, chirps, and chitinoid seams he points at me, the basilisk breakfast. But, no, I’m not, I say and plead, the meal of a lizardsnake on my knees, but a man in dread and trying to flee the Kentucky drift towards the Alexis seas. The seas of flames that burns the will of everyone trapped beneath the swill of complacent life in the middle country where tutors teach backwards to the magic bean, which brought about the glorious leaves, the mortal tongue, and English teas, the crow and camel, the ocelot’s nose, the left foot, finger and index toe, shale and stones and stalagmite chairs, the rings of Neptune and the green solar flares. This bean of power and almighty truth, the construct of constructs between two towers, the tight rope walker and an over jump jester. The Ant King listens to the terrible fate I’m destined to live for the rest of my life, an existence in chains, and ogre debates, and endless orations from the self-righteous states. He opens his mandible all juicy and raw, this royal ant king who’s left me in awe, and with one quick flick, and a remorseful humph, he licks the dirt from the crease of my eye.

Commissioner Lance Scepter, your loving companion through out this life.

COMMISIONER SCEPTER: Sophia, did you get the boat back?

SOPHIA: Got the boat back, but the pirates insisted that I take their Udo Kier blow up doll. Weird, right? He’s in the breaking the waves cabin… beware bargateers, I think he’s a bit seasick.

SCEPTER: I don’t think he’s seasick, just a bit deflated. I’ll blow him up a bit. Better mount Eric Dolphin on him and scan his electrical nubs, just to be on the safe side.

MAJOR SCIENTIST: Holy katz, these nubs are off the charts!!

COORDINATOR MATHEWS: Hang on, Geoff. I’ve got a chart for those nubs.

THE MAJOR: Hairy Christendom! That chart is off the hook!

SCEPTER: Alright, hold on, I’m unmounting Eric Dolphin from Udo Kier blow up doll. Someone grab those nubs and pull, he doesn’t want to release Eric Dolphin. Shit, Shaggy will have my hide if we can’t release Eric Dolphin.

THE MAJOR: Shaggy’s still sleeping on the roof. We’ve probably got about four hours before he’s awake and the green tea kicks in. We’ve got to somehow distract Udo Keir Blowup Dahl. Quick, Dave! Show him your tits!

OFFICER DAVE CHO: them nubs are strong … Udo look at these….want a feel??? Yeah that’s it, that’s it right here. Damn, what’s that sound? sshzz, ssh, shhtzz Oh no I think Shaggy is waking up!!

SCEPTER: Watch it! Dave! He’s making a nub to nub lock with your nipples! Don’t. Let. Them. Touch.

THE MAJOR: Oh Sweet Baby Gandhi. Look at that. I’ve never seen that happen before.—Dave? Can you hear me? Are you alive?—What is this… pod made out of? Is Dave even in there? Ew. It’s slimy. And that smell. Like cat spray fried with liver and oranges. Dave?—Dave??

DAVE: mmmfmmfffph hmmphmm mmmhphmph

MATHEWS: Somebody should poke it with a stick.

THE MAJOR: Not it.

SCEPTER: Oh, this is bad. Udo Kier blow up doll has podded Dave and Eric Dolphin into his nubs.—Oh, god, you’re right about that smell. Maybe we should just leave them?

DAVE: i’m mmm not hmmpmh hmmpp

Inside the Nub

SKIPPER NOLAN: Why is it so dark in here…is that you Dave?

DAVE: Dave? Who is that?

On Deck

JIMMY: Will it be allergic to this fill-to-the brim milkpail?

DAVE: no, hmph no jim ,hjjommpmmmm.

THE MAJOR: It seems to be lactose tolerant. Do we have any weed killer? Or just weed?

DAVE: get me out…hmmmo, shhagmmm ee, shaggy is in hmmmmphsss.

YEOMAN SCHWARTZ: Udo no diddily. But do he no yawn? Jan? Jan? Jaaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnnnnnn!!!

THE MAJOR: My god. The Jan Hammer robot has Schwartz. Quick! Unplug his keytar!!

SCEPTER: This is serious! Maybe a drastic idea, but I think we should release Rene Zellweggagar from Core Base.

DAVE: yes yes Rene, mmmhmm, mmmpfphffphffff

THE MAJOR: Great Scott Baio’s Girdle, you can’t be serious.

DAVE: mmmhmmm serious.

THE MAJOR: May I remind you just what it is you’re suggesting?

SCEPTER: You can bet your Chachi I’m serious. I’ve got the Core Base Game’s Keeper on the horn right now. All I need is one more ranking Barger to okay the plan.—Hold on Dave and Eric Dolphin, help is on the way.—I know it’s risky, Major, but do you want Dave and Erie Dolphin living the rest of their lives like this? Just look at that discharge.

SCHWARTZ: wait! who’s jack white in this scenario? or am I kenny chesney?

THE MAJOR: Shhh. Calm down, Brian, or you’ll awaken the Jan Hammer. You’re still only partially disconnected.—Okay, fine. LET’S DO IT.

PROFESSOR BOY: This is a scenario? Then i’m playing me but with nicer pants

SCEPTER: We got to move quickly, he’s got Shaggy too. Fred, Release the creature!!!—Oh, God, it’s hideous!

THE MAJOR: It’s coming for me! OH GOD NO NO NO AAAAaaphlllphffffffffppptttthhhhtttttt.

PROFESSOR: MY PANTS!!!!!! nooooooOO!!!!

sputter

THE MAJOR: Give us the brain receptacle. Zelweger COMMANDS IT.

DAVE: Hello Children be not afraid, for I’ve traveled beyond the beyond and beyond. Step inside the pod. Nub nub It’s warm and soothing nubby nub nub nub—Shhhzzz—make yourself comfortable. This won’t hurt a bit nub.—Behold Seany see how quietly he sleeps. Zellewegger and Chesney are being prepared as we speak. And duggies pants are well fitted.—Come, nub nub nub nubby nubby

SCEPTER: Mother of sweetness, what have we done? nubby nub nub There’s no stopping them.—Evacuate the barge! Forgive me friends, I’ve failed you all.

JIMMY: Ye of the Pod, eat this bun. bun. It is tasty. bun. Like the most new ever bun bun

PROFESSSOR: I’m priming the electro-genital-pocket-tickle and throwing it against the metal on the hull. It’s our last chance. Everyone touch someone you hate and poot something or someone between your teeth.

SCEPTER: Wait, wait, help, what, oh I’ve forgotten how to poot, oh shit, grab something!

PROFESSOR: Put and Poo! Put and Poo, Lance! ARRRGghhghGHHGHHHhhHH!!!

DAVE: my nub my nub my nub my lovely nubby nubs

THE MAJOR: RENE COMMANDS YOU— POOT YOUR NUBS IN THE POD— POOT YOUR PIBB IN SOMEONE YOU HATE— RENE COMMANDS YOU

JIMMY: I will poot to boot

SCEPTER: Duggie, give it another blast of the E.G.P.T.! I’ve set a Kevin Costner trap. That’s should lure it out into open. I’m pooting it in right now. Go!

PROFESSOR: ok, lemme just … hey! who has the genito-tickler?—Dylan, a bikini check if you please, ASAP

SCEPTER: Looks like we may be in this pickle until tomorrow. Better set up camp and wait out the night. Someone pass the veggie marshmallows. And the schnapps.

The log ends here. How the nubs were destroyed and Udo Kier thwarted is recorded only in the scarred memories of the crew, who will never tell me what occurred after I took refuge to sew up my pants.