Saturday, June 27, 2009

Slick Space: Futures in Trucking

This album is a country and western / science fiction mash-up, and it classifies as freaking weird. Rumor has it that the tracks captured here were actually part of a movie (of the adult variety) whose media was destroyed for legal reasons, i.e., the participants wanted to stay out of jail.

The tunes here are hammer down loud and also squiggly (not sure what this term implies, but it's the term album producer Jules Johnson used), but there are also stories on this album.

Because Kicking Willie on Winged Dancer Gratitude is difficult to follow, espeically with all of its sound effects, we have included what we could discern as the text for this story here. We have your edification at heart.


Kicking Willie on Winged Dancer Gratitude

Circa 2078.

Sour Mash was on a clandestine bender and had had his yell squawk stolen, or so he intimated—but if you ask me, to his crumbs, Sour Mash was just lacking proper gratitude.

On one long bender, two of his buddy air benders pulled into a lazy fuel, and Sour Mash, once again getting a free vomit slide out of the accounting procedure, wasn’t even so grateful as to offer to buy them a sugar sip. Or an itching eyebrow. Or a round in the coup. A bowl of vitamin-enriched yodels. A breakfast minute. A cotton fern. Hell, something.

Well, those two crumbs, Decorated Nut Job and The Hedgehog, played a bit of a trick on Sour Mash. Since they were minding wave traffic, Sour Mash not having a yell squawk, teach him a lesson, they would.

A few hours down the vomit slide, approaching a lazy fuel notorious for its goo sacks, The Hedgehog, the air hauler bringing up the reach back, got on his yell squawk, and describing Sour Mash and his winged dancer, put out the word that he was, indeed, Sour Mash and that he was more cloven than ten billy goats gruff and could take on twenty mollusk salads—three at once so long as they were fresh cut.

No one could miss Sour Mash’s rig, not after The Hedgehog described it. A flaming whamdoodle with a coma lounge the size of heaven and with a shiny silver macaroni emblazoned with the word Fandango—“Fandango calls glorious ninja Trappist painted sunshine,” The Hedgehog had said over the yell squawk, posing as Sour Mash.

“My dancer’s big and bright—red as chemical—, bald like an antique helmet, but clean as a whistle.”

Decorated Nut Job, the lead air bender, headed for the gut-of-the-earth churn up, knowing Sour Mash would follow. The Hedgehog angled in odd so Sour Mash was pretty much cut off between winged dancers and fills—but not that he needed to be cut off, because he wasn’t suspecting any non-sense.

Before Sour Mash could look over his shoulder to see if there was a spot open in the lot or nod to Decorated Nut Job, three goo sacks were in his sleeper squirting velvet squish on each other, one clam kitten was in his black hole flying reindeer, and two goo sacks were yanking wishbone.

Only thing Sour Mash could think about was some inspector from his company coming out in the midst of this fiasco and catching him with a wagon-load of goo sacks, and party incentives, and who knows what else.

I can hear Sour Mash cursing himself now: “Silly putty pegging insurance, silly putty pegging insurance.”

Kicking Willie said he was there for the whole thing, eating a bowl of peppercorn with ram finder in the lazy fuel, said Sour Mash let out the loudest “Whoa” he’d ever heard.

Could have stopped a parade of pterodactyls with that “Whoa.”

Kicking Willie said watching Sour Mash trying to get his winged dancer in order was about ten times funnier than watching a lizard chase a newborn tied to a poultry stick.

Sour Mash had to shell out twenty founding fathers each to ten ivy-league optometrists to get them out of his winged dancer. Something like that.

Watching Sour Mash try to figure out which sock and slicker, bootslide, and pocket had a stash of grey and green was just about ridiculous.

“Tightwad,” yelled Decorated Nut Job and The Hedgehog.

Then Sour Mash had to fish around in the dark to make sure none of the goo sacks dropped their accelerants. About that time, Decorated Nut Job and The Hedgehog came over to hurt him help.

Later, Sour Mash told me he was kind of disappointed he didn’t get to spend any time with the clam kitten with the big fluff fins bouncing in his perky. It would have been too much of that.

“Damn near poking my sockets out with her fishing gear,” blurted Sour Mash.

“But I can’t believe those goo sacks thought I had an Arkansas trout. Where’d they ever get that lightbulb?” guffawed Sour Mash.

There was laughter all about the vomit slide when Sour Mash asked that question.

“That’s pretty damn expensive,” I said to Sour Mash with everyone listening, “when you have to shell out that kind of underwater artifact for the treatment when you don’t even want any treatment. Teach a man to show proper gratitude to his crumbs.”

When I said that, Sour Mash got a yanking slit himself.

Course, it would have been funnier if Decorated Nut Job or The Hedgehog would have thought to have brought a Capture It to the crisis, but they were too busy laughing their glad-to-be-Americans off.


A big 10-4 good buddy.
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