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Diet week got off to a very bad start. Godzilla had decided
that since her beloved mascot Milky had no friends, and Killer
and Tank were continually plotting to assassinate him, she
would introduce yet another kitten to Casa Lesbo. That way
Milky would have a new playmate and perhaps cease his repeated
attempts at suicide. Little Patches was her name. Little Patches
had little multicolored patches of fur, little eyes, little
ears, and a very short life span. She survived about 17 hours
before Killer had discovered her little nesting spot in the
caverns below Casa Lesbo. Perhaps it was for the best...Patches
had avoided a slow and agonizing high-pitched death. Godzilla
had felt the need to constantly speak baby-talk to Patches,
which caused severe and undoubtedly irreparable inner ear
damage to the entire cast of Casa Lesbo. All those hours of
Godzilla cooing and singing little lizard lullabies to Patches...it
was a good thing Godzilla had her scales to protect her. Under
normal circumstances someone would've taken an ice pick to
her long ago. All that was left of little Patches was a little
snippet of an ear. Killer and Tank obviously had shared in
the kill. They were all smiles and happy-purrs as they cleaned
the remaining bits of Patches from their paws.
Godzilla was extremely distraught over the loss of Patches.
She immediately forfeited her diet, claiming that she was
under extreme duress. She carefully packed up the remains
of little Patches' ear in a matchbox and decided to take it
to Florida for a proper family burial. (All of Godzilla's
descendants, traceable all the way back to the Pre-Cambrian
era, had been hatched in the Okeechobee swamplands. Florida
in the summertime...Godzilla obviously intended to cremate
the remains. The rest of the cast bid her farewell, and immediately
called a fumigator to remove any lingering rodents that she
may have left behind.
Even with the absence of Godzilla, tempers still flared at
Casa Lesbo. Skipper had been spending entirely too much sofa-time
with Godzilla, and their personalities had begun to meld.
Ken was sure that he saw traces of scale developing along
Skipper's head and shoulders. Barbie too had noticed this
trend, and was not at all pleased. Skipper would snap at Barbie
and Ken for the most trivial matter. To make matters worse,
Skipper suddenly decided, all on her own, that she could live
without Prozac. "Who left the seat up?! Why are we always
out of milk when I want it? Who knocked over my leg?! Are
we out of popcorn AGAIN?!" The constant bickering was
driving Ken quite insane. When the air conditioning blew out,
the girls decided to steam yet another batch of crabs. Ken
went to his room and sealed the airlock to avoid the toxic
fumes.
Ken could hear Barbie and Skipper arguing on the other side
of the airlock. "You bitch! I hate you! You make me sick!"
"It's always about what you want! I never get a say in
anything! You're so bossy!" "Just pass the sauce
and shut up!" Slam! An object shattered against the wall.
"Now pick up the pieces and shove' em up...!" Diet
week had unfortunately coincided with both Barbie and Skipper's
"time of the month". The tide was in and the girls
were riding high. They were in the midst of that most deadly
of all catfights: the dreaded Lebesian Catfight. Diet Week,
PMS, no Prozac, and crabs...there was no cure for such a deadly
combination. Ken had had some pretty nasty encounters himself,
but nothing that "The Big Three": Visine, Listerine,
and RID, couldn't cure in a jiffy.
Ken had to get out. His anxiety level was reaching Jupiterian
proportions. He quickly packed the dream tote with a two-day
supply of ensembles and dollar bills. He didn't know where
he was going or when he'd be back, he just had to get out.
He donned his crab-proof vest and jettisoned down the escape
hatch. He blasted off once again in the escape pod...this
was truly an emergency. The escape pod landed at the Connie
Francis. It would be a lovely spot to cool off and relax.
Except that today the Connie Francis was dry. Apparently a
floater had broken away from little Veronica's Pampers, and
the entire pool had to be drained and sanitized. It would
not reopen for several hours.
Next Ken tried Madame Sashimi. He was trembling and desperate
to regain his composure. The note on her door explained that
Madame Sashimi had gone South for an orbital tune-up. Was
there nowhere he could cool off, regain his composure, and
put a stop to all the madness around him? Of course! Why hadn't
he thought of it earlier? Diet be damned, he was heading straight
to Vodka Land!
It was early at Vodka Land. There was plenty of space to
mingle and consume at a leisurely pace. Ken settled in and
began to sip his medication. Aaaaaah. He could feel his muscles
and all the little corpuscles in his forehead begin to relax.
He had a nagging suspicion that he had forgotten something.
Oh well. He was sure that it would come back to him in time.
He noticed a poster on the wall. Linda Tripp? What could that
be about? Was she on the FBI's top ten wanted list now? Ken
moved in closer to read the poster. "Linda Tripp look-alike
contest, Tuesday August ...Good God! I'll be sure and stay
away that night!" Ken said to himself. Linda Tripp in
man-drag was bad enough. Linda Tripp in man-drag impersonating
Linda Tripp would be beyond hideous. The audience was sure
to have their retinas scarred for life. Ken complimented Vodka
Land's promoters...vodka sales would surely hit an all-time
high that night. It was the only way that the audience would
be able to withstand the damaging rays of the Trippettes.
Ken would steer very clear of Vodka Land on that night.
Several fashion tips and vodka-tonics later, Ken realized
what it was that he had forgotten. He had promised Miss Pretoria
that he would stop by and water her plants while she was away
sunning in the islands. Miss Pretoria had left 9 days ago.
Perhaps it was time he stopped by and checked in on her flora.
He finished his drink, wrote one last fashion violation, and
departed.
Ken arrived at Miss Pretoria's loft to find all of the houseplants
intact-they were fine. The outdoor plants were another story.
When he spied the balcony his heart sank. He had remembered
many happy days spent on the balcony with Miss Pretoria, sharing
mint juleps in the lush green foliage of her elevated oasis.
Before him now stood nothing short of the Sahara in July.
Twigs and spindly little remnants tossed about in the dry
summer wind. Ken was horrified. It was all his fault. He went
out for a closer inspection. Ken had seen Rescue 911. He knew
that one should never give up hope...there was always that
one in a million chance that William Shatner would appear
on the balcony and revive the little carcasses. He prayed
and began emergency hydration procedures immediately.
As Ken was hydrating the carcasses, he happened to glance
across the alley. There before him, in all of his glory, was
Mr. Hercules. The air conditioning had obviously failed in
Mr. Hercules' abode, since he was fanning himself while lying
nude upon the sofa. Ken couldn't help but notice his flawless
complexion. Mr. Hercules nodded to acknowledge Ken's presence.
He was obviously quite proud of his complexion, and welcomed
all opportunities to show it off. Mr. Hercules disappeared
briefly and returned with a bottle of lotion. He began his
own hydration ritual. Ken decided to pull up a seat on the
balcony and take notes. One could never have too many tips
on proper moisturization techniques.
Mr. Hercules smoothed the lotion over every square inch of
his most perfect complexion. Up and down his bulging biceps,
across the mountains and valleys of his massive pectorals,
across his enormous thighs. Judging from the size of his thighs
Ken deduced that Mr. Hercules was a speed skater by profession.
Mr. Hercules paid particular attention to the region between
his tan lines. He began applying lotion in long...smooth...slow...firm
strokes to this area. The gravitational pull of his equator
caused him to linger here, taking care to thoroughly moisturize
all surfaces. Approximately 45 minutes later Mr. Hercules
finished his moisturizing regimen, and Miss Pretoria's balcony
was flooded. Literally. Mr. Hercules turned off the lights
and disappeared. Ken turned off the water and secured the
balcony for the night.
Ken simply had to meet Mr. Hercules in person-he was obsessed.
How would he manage the feat? He thought about it all the
way home. Finally it hit him. He would paint his cell phone
number on a large sheet. Then when he encountered Mr. Hercules
moisturizing again, he would unfurl the banner from Miss Pretoria's
balcony, blazing his number high and wide-that would surely
get his message across. Mr. Hercules would know how to reach
Ken immediately. Ken was quite proud of his idea, and decided
to start work on the banner immediately. He called his dear
friend Twirlina, a.k.a. Mrs. Butch, for any suggestions that
she may have to offer. Twirlina was an old pro...she had been
waving flags and trying to hail aliens for several decades.
"Just make sure the fabric doesn't flow too much. It
could disguise some of the numbers. You might want to weight
down the corners...that'll keep it from blowing around in
the wind. Oh yes, most importantly, make sure it's really
well secured. You wouldn't want your banner getting caught
in the wind and swept away like a giant kite. God knows how
many people would be calling your number asking if you offered
an Early Bird dinner special!" They were all good points
and Ken kept them in mind.
The next night Ken returned to Miss Pretoria's balcony, armed
with his cell phone and banner. Much to Ken's surprise many
of the carcasses had revitalized, and were quite normal in
appearance. He said a prayer to himself thanking God and William
Shatner for the miracle. Then it began to rain. In order to
appear inconspicuous, Ken decided to pretend to water the
plants. What else would someone be doing on their balcony
in the driving rain? Ken was simply evening out the hydration.
Mr. Hercules materialized briefly, but then disappeared when
his pizza arrived. He never returned that night. The following
night, Ken again returned but was distracted by the mambo
lessons going on in 7b. Night after night, Ken returned to
the balcony in vain. But someday, somehow, he knew that he
would make contact with Mr. Hercules. It was destiny...he
could feel it. |
