Our Trip to Kongomadu

by Dingo, Dr. Hexar le Saipe, Mu-Chao, Maenad and Ambrose Bierce

We were getting ready to go to the Congo, but then Erisian Pigmies (we knew they were Erisian because they had five eyes) attacked us and our boat sunk near Hershey.

Barely making it out of the piranha-infested chocolate, we rushed to Grannies Grit Shack up in Ontario and had us some catfish, but they were out of hushpuppies, the goddamn communists! Two-thousand miles across some of the worst terrain on the planet and no hushpuppies… If the Xanex and Jack Daniels hadn’t been kicking in just about then I would have strangled that good-for-nothing waitress myself.

My esteemed lawyer was sitting there watching her walk away and smiling… hazards of mixing mood-altering drugs. The woman had the allure of a yak and the poor bastard was about to ask her to marry him. I had to get him out of there before the tide came back in. If those pigmies caught up, we were goners for sure.

In the meantime the young man was rather a loose fish, anyhow. Between him and his mother was the most perfect sympathy, for secretly the lady was herself a devout disciple of the late great Myron Bayne, though with the tact so generally and justly admired in her sex (despite the hardy calumniators who insist that it is essentially the same thing as cunning) she had always taken care to conceal her weakness from all eyes but those of him who shared it. Their common guilt in respect of that was an added tie between them.

If in Halpin’s youth his mother had ‘spoiled’ him, he had assuredly done his part toward being spoiled. As he grew to such manhood as is attainable by a Southerner who does not care which way elections go, the attachment between him and his beautiful mother — whom from early childhood he had called Katy — became yearly stronger and more tender. In these two romantic natures was manifest in a signal way that neglected phenomenon, the dominance of the sexual element in all the relations of life, strengthening, softening, and beautifying even those of consanguinity. The two were nearly inseparable, and by strangers observing their manners were not infrequently mistaken for lovers.

Shortly thereafter, a group of lost Michigan rednecks screaming, “We will kill the President!” came crashing in. To escape, we jumped on a cheese perogi and flew to the moon. The strip clubs there sucked, so we came back to Earth.

We stopped to have an 8-way with some polygamous folks in Utah. We couldn’t get any caffeine, so we killed the lot of ’em and scattered their ashes in a wide, open urinal. When the urinal began to speak, we knew we had overdone the hallucinogenic drinks at the intergalactic space club.

“I need a fresh mint,” the urinal complained loudly as we flushed it to clean out the ashes.

“A talking urinal? In Utah?” I questioned, being a bit suspect that we were not in Utah at all but had somehow found our way back to Titan.

“I’m not a urinal!” The urinal said with great indignation. “I’m a cuisinart! Quickly, take me to the Playboy Mansion! That’s where the last living sample of Bubonic Syphilis is!”

So we went to Texas for chocolate malts.

Then we boarded two trains. The train stations were 16 light years apart. Both trains left their stations when they got around to it. One was traveling at 600 km/per hour, and the other traveled with a Visa card as they did not take American Express.

I still can’t figure out when the fuck we got to Katmandu!

Afterwards, we had tea with some velociraptors; then kicked Michael Jackson in the jimmy.

“Blah, blah, blah…(fill with your favorite commercial)…or my name isn’t Maenad H. Christ!”

“By the where can we find some lawn gnomes? I’m getting horny and nothing satisfies a Wayward Girl like a lawn gnome!”

“Sorry, we’re sold out. We have got some Pink Flamingos. Oh, and a shipment of blue hedge-hogs came in fresh today!”

“Are they friendly?”

“If you are asking whether they would be buggerable or not, I would have to say no.”

“I guess I’ll just take a couple of Pink Flamingos then…”

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