(an ode to 1995)

by Dan Neid & Eric Schwartz


     “The campus seems crispy tonight,” I said.


     “Yes,” she said and used her tongue as a shoe horn.


     Then, in a flash-in-the-pan, flipped-up counter attack, I reupholstered her wood cushion. She looked up at me with her shoe-horn tongue and rattled my Wickey.


     “Oh my,” I said. “My Wickey has never tingled so subtly yet so violently.”


     She wiped the funk off her tongue and giggled, saying, “Flash! Bam! Alakazam!”


     ‘This is it,’ I thought. My next move would be the most crucial. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a picture of Meredith Baxter-Birney. I said, “Have you seen her new show?!”


     She belched a pungent cloud as I had a sinking nausea. It reminded me of the time I was drinking Dad’d Root Been at the edge of the Caspian Sea. My grandma was making gingersnaps in the background. You know, the kind with the walnuts on top. Suddenly fourteen hot pink nuclear warheads streaked across the sky above us.


     Grandpa tossed his cookies into the black water and screamed, “Well, that about does it for Madagascar!”


     I was furious. I bitch-slapped his 95-year-old ass and in a high pitched Gaelic accent shrieked, “I don’t think I can love you anymore!!”


     Then there I was, standing with Lisa at my pad. She just stared at me with a bag of silver polish dangling from her nips. She reached over and licked the quarter I was tempting her with.


     “What’s with the tongues tonight?!”


She blinked coldly and addressed me in my proper Navajo name “Mudbutter...”


“Look,” I said. “Don’t tempt me with that pseudo-American smack!” She was shocked.


Mudbutter, I have something important to bring you from the fifth wonder of the world.”




I lost my fudge, right there at the luau. The entire cast of Magnum P.I. ejected milk outta d’ere náse. I wiped my socks and turned to T.C..


“Well flap my jacks,” he said.


At that point the only thing I could think to do was grab my bottle of Sinex and spray her in the cud. She dropped to the floor and flopped around like a hockey tooth.


She screamed, “Don’t buy cats! They lick the butter!”


At this point I thought, ‘What the hell does this all mean?’ On the grand scale of things we are but tears on the face of giants. A fleeting flash of Promethean nothing. There must be a truth... Uh.. um.. see if you inhaul my heelakay? You’ll have to spoon feed me Gerber carrots and peas.




And Peas.


I almost forgot. That’s why we were all here.


Then I calmed down. A gentle breeze stroked my cheek. I reached down and patted the head of my pet dingo, Thelonious.


“You ready for the big road, friend?”


He whimpered, because dingoes can’t bark.


Then we waltzed the Sun Waltz.