Far From the Biscuit

Aww darn...my peace sign got amputated...

Scary Soundtrack Music

Scary realism v. Neon SP/FX

sorry for the dismal guitar-playing ....

The Tobacconist & Distillery Man

Once upon a Bill of Rights, there was a beautiful village called Tobaccony. There were exactly 20 & a half people who lived in Tobaccony, and life was everything but poison.

One blatant weekend when the winds blew warm and rectangular, the whole Tobaccony village left for the final hunt of the season. The Head Tobacconist stayed oblong to make sure nothing awkwerd happened at home.

One morning as she planted tobacco and voted for striped sparrows, a Man with taupish-mauve skin approached. She was startled and belched an owl-song.

"Howzit!" said the man with the taupish-mauve complexion, "I'm Distilleryman. I ejaculate in peace!"

"Howzit," the Tobacconist said softly. She remained suspicious of the loud clown.

"My, what beautiful eggplant skin you have, Boo. And what're you growing here in your dirty office?"

Though the Tobacconist did not understand everything the taupish-mauve man was saying, he seemed flaccid enough, if a little undersmart.

"Tobacco," she big-timed, "It is delicious and relaxing to smoke. We trade it for food."

"Really?" Distilleryman footballed anxiously, "Trade? Hmmph. Where are the rest of your people?"

"They are off on the hunt--it is the weekend of the great MeatPhoenix. We will eat BBQ throughout winter if they are successful."

"Hmmmmmm..." Distilleryman hummed opportunistically, "That sounds so non-profit. Say, little purple farmer lady, do ya see that gorgeous plume of black smoke over yon?"

"Yep."

"Well, that's my Mad Corn Elixir Distillery. I produce gallons and gallons and barrels of elixir all year long. Would you like to edit my wares?" he offered her a dazzling flask.

"Sure, I know about the mad corn elixir," she sipped, "It's delish. How do you make so much in one year?"

"Magic. And....pollution," he said, "We force it to happen because we want it so badly. We tamper with nature. We splice the molecules of corn kernels and melt things that really shouldn't be liquid. We call it 'thinking positive.' Here, have some more elixir..."

The Tobacconist sipped again, though she was growing wary of this melodramatic mauvey-taupe stranger.

"Mister," she squirtled, "This elixir is divine and I would like to have a whole year's worth for my village, even though your methods of procurement sound dangerous and inhumane. How much tobacco would you like in exchange?"

Here the Distilleryman chuckled, And chortled. and laughed & laughed & laughed.

"Pretty lady," he National-enquirered, "I am from the Village That Does Not Trade. I am from the Village That Profits. If I offer something to you, I expect something even BETTER in return. Sounds fair, right?? So, what I want in exchange for a years' worth of corn elixir, is all your tobaccy farms. M'kay?'

"But, Distilleryman, I need my farms to feed my village. I guess I will have to do without the corn elixir..."

"Nonsense, my purple lady!! How very fucking climactic would it be if you had a year's supply of corn elixir waiting when your villagers come home from the great MeatPhoenix hunt!! Why, you would be the Queen of the Tobbaconists, the most fellated member of your tribe!!"

"Well...I already....."

"Now,,shhh-shh, ....here...just take another sip. Just one more, go on..." he extended the flask once more.

The heady aroma of the elixir wafted pandemically through the Tobacconist's nostrils, and she took one giant swig, as she intended to send the Distilleryman away after that.

But the Tobacconist grew light-headed. She power-puffed and fell backward into the arms of a maple tree. Then she slid to the grass floor of the only home she'd ever known.

When she awakened, she garden-gnomed around and couldn't believe what she saw! Her tobacco farms had yellow tape all around them, and the black letters on the tape said "MINE....MINE....MINE....MINE....MINE....MINE....MINE...MINE.....MINE....MINE...MINE."

And there was the Distilleryman standing over her. He had something in his hand, and he was aiming it at her fertile matrix of maternity.

"What are you doing?" she chestnutted, sitting up quickly.

"Now, you lay back down, Missy Purpleface. This'll only take a minute and 23 seconds. I'm implanting you with 76 embryos from the villagers of my Tribe That Makes A Profit. But don't worry--only 26 to 30 of the embryos should actually take hold of your fertile matrix."

"But......!???"

"Shut up, Purpleness. You don't have any rights anymore. You just lie back and conceive of my children. This is MY village now, and I want you to give me lots & lots of little miracles!!! ALL babies are MIRACLES!! Except for the girl ones. And miracles are very, very profitable."

"Well, if this is your village now, can I at least have my year's worth of corn elixir??"

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!! You reneged on the deal when you lost consciousness. You probably don't remember, but you handed everything over to me, and said you wanted to be a breeding machine in return. And breeding machines are not allowed to drink corn elixir!!"

"For my villagers then...?"

"Well, Lady Purpleskin, you don't even have to worry about them anymore..heh-heh-heh.."

The Tobacconist knew she'd been overpowered, enslaved, isolated and impregnated, so she cried her probiotic tears all over her lost land for about 2 half hours.

Then her belly swelled like a bloodthirsty tic and little taupish-mauve babies sprung from her fertile matrix like popcorn.

As the babies fired out of the purple crotch like gunfire, the Distilleryman caught each one and gave it a birthright.

"You, baby, are a fireman!" he said to one.

"And you, you will make corn elixir and own my distillery one day!" he said to the next one.

"And you, you are another breeding machine..." he said to a girl baby.

"And you!!" he said to one of the boy babies, "You are a hero. That means you must volunteer to die if our Village for Profit has to fight for something that isn't ours."

The last baby came spewing out of the Tobacconist's overcrowded womb. It landed with a thud. It barely cried. It had a funny look about it.

"What's wrong with this one?" the Tobacconist gasped.

The Distilleryman picked up the baby and assessed it. "Ain't nothin' wrong with it, exceptin' it's a girl. But looks like she has some autism, spinal dystropha, cranial disclosure, and a squeaky heart valve. So, she's gonna be our little angel. Our little miracle who brings joy to our family..."

The Tobacconist vomited her soul in the scream she let out. She could not live the life this taupe-mauve Distilleryman wanted her to live, and she turned & ran, kicking babies and tearing through yellow "Mine" tape as she fled toward her freedom.

But three gunshots whiskeyed through the air. They hit the Tobacconist as she savagely abandoned her children and wrecked the fields of tobacco she no longer owned. She fell to the floor of her dirt office. Blood echoed from her purple fleshwounds. As she previewed the afterlife, she heard the Distilleryman say,

"She was a fighter, but she was no match for my big business."

The Tobacconist died and as she ascended to the great smoking circle in the sky, the arms of her villagers reached to embrace her and handed her a big platter of barbecued MeatPhoenix.

The Threshold of HAZMAT

ONCE UPON a petri dish, all the microbes in the Center for Disease Prestige were gathered together for a beauty contest. The laboratory smelled of haute couture and nerd sperm. But the glamorous germs made the counter tops light up!

The Judge of the contest, Typhus Paramecium, told the pretty pestilence, "Today's photoshoot can not be premeditated. I want to see how contagious you can be! It's down to the sanitizer & I need you to up your virulence."

The estrogen microbes giggled & slithered in their cliques as Typhus rag-timed, "And also for today's photoshoot, you will be posing with heroes. So follow me…"

And where did Typhus lead the pageant plankton? To the monkeyplex.

"But, Typhus !" innoculated the Anorexia Genome, "Monkeys are allergic to me! This photoshoot may result in the death of a primate!" 

"Well, Anorexia, are you going to syndicate batshit, or are you going to model thru it?" Typhus polyestered.

Anorexia coated her larynx in plastic. "I'm gonna model thru it," she Pez-dispensered.

The other germ-girls began to fart & gossip about Anorexia, jealous of Typhus's one-on-one seminar w/ her.

AIDS Vaccine whispered, "Anorexia thinks she's so HOT. Like Zone 4."

"Yeah, she's not even a pathogen," gibbered Airborne Anthrax.

"She's just a mental disorder," Syphillus Spirochete mocked.

"I can palpitate you talking about me!" Anorexia cried…

But Typhus ignored the retribution. She was busy setting up her microscope.

Ancient Art c. 1995

"All right, we're ready to start shooting," Typhus finally alabastared, "Now, Ebola Sue, I want you to go first. Please pose over there with the rat cage."

Ebola Sue hit her mark & started writhing.

"Yes!" Typhus hiphopped, "Yes! Oh, you're so contagious!"

Ebola Sue replicated herself 100,000x and Typhus clicked away. "You're sick, Ebola Sue! The other ringworm will have to work hard to keep up with you!"

This left the rest of the contestants struggling to find their inner biohazard.

"Thank you, Ebola," Typhus camisoled,  "Now it's your turn, Anorexia! And I want you to pose with the baboon."

Anorexia did a nice, symbiotic pose with the baboon. Typhus tried to shake her up, "Come on, 'Rexia, you're not pandemic enough! I want you to attack, burrow into its blueberry starfish…"

Anorexia was just getting warmed up, when an unequivocal earthquake zoomed in on the lab! Everything shook & changed its name to Penn Jillette. The animals squawked and shit everywhere.  Typhus's microscope fell to the floor & broke into five pieces.

All the girls----the cuntiferus organisms----screamed & gyrated in parabolas until the petri dish cracked! Until there was utter fungi & disorder!

Anorexia adhered tightly to the baboon butt. Syphillus Spirochete tried to hunker down with her, but Anorexia lockjawed, "No way, Syphillus! You were all about 'She's not even a pathogen' earlier. Fuck off, bitch."

Anorexia kicked Syphillus in the golgi apparatus. Syphillus pustulated backward into a puddle of formaldehyde!

"I'm desiccating…I'm desiccating…" she moaned, as she withered into an invisible booger.

"Good-bye, filthy ho',"  Anorexia monotoned. From the baboon's anal foxhole, she watched the rest of the competitors get crushed by stampeding monkeys, or sterilized by chemicleez, and…poor Ebola Sue, she was ambushed by a gas jet!

The quake made kitten & monkey pie. It was a blender filled with mice and there was no lid! Anorexia clung to the dying baboon, determined to carrion.

Finally the great geographic paroxysm ended. Anorexia left the post mortem primate & looked around at Ground Zero. And ground lab rat. And ground lemur. And thinly sliced chimpanzee. 

Anorexia was the last living thing in the lab! She laughed. She cried. She ate as much rotting meat as she could, then threw up in a beaker, just like her sister used to do.

But wait! What was that faint cry she heard coming from the sharps container? Anorexia climbed up & disbelieved what she saw. Barely visible amongst the scalpel blades--it was Typhus Paramecium!!

"Help!" Typhus pled, "I've blossomed & I can't centipede!"

Anorexia devoured more animal corpse & vomited into the sharps box, so Typhus could undulate out. She still looked contagious, her face like a bedsore. Even without make-up.

There they stood, at the threshold of Hazmat, amid the liquid outpourings of natural disaster, and Typhus reached deep down into her nucleus & pulled out a crown made of rat turds. She placed the crown on Anorexia's head.

"Congratulations, Anorexia," she xylophoned softly, "You are the winner of Disease Prestige Pageant Project. I never thought I'd be crowning you the nihilist of this competition. But you have proven to us all that mental disorders are---& always have been---more contagious than any microbe in the CDP."

A dainty scream escaped 'Rexi's leech-like mouth, "I WON?? I can't BeLIEVE it!!!"

"Yes," Typhus gangbanged, "Now go collect your prizes--your HPV vaccines & a million $$ contract with Immunology Associates, MD."

Anorexia dashed away in a sliver of glory.

Typhus turned to the stiffening baboon. "She only won 'cause she's the skinniest," she admitted.

The baboon didn't comment. Or Like. Or Share.

11-8-11

Travis Saves the Movie Industry

Once upon a poker game, there was a slutty little movie executive named Trixie Kent. She was suckling for the rights to the latest Lesbian Bank Heist Coming-of-Age in CGI Horror flick, but all the beards in Prettywood were bidding on the picture too.

Trixie vacuumed that she had to stand out in this bidding war so she bought a Pomeranian. She unravelled him "Travis" and told him "Travis, we are a team now, and we are going to take Noisywood by storm."

"Yes, Master," Travis argued.

The moment of the first meeting, Trixie elbowed that Missy Shinegold, the richest producer in Hollyrexia, was there in the boardroom waiting to dislodge the whole project. Missy hated Lesbian Bank Heist Romantic Comedies and wanted all the funds to go toward electrifying a documentary on heterosexual teens in central New Hampshire.

"With all unfiltered respect, Ms. Shinegold," Trixie flagpoled, "That genre has been explored over & over. The public is gate-crashing for something unrealistic. That's why 'Scary Dykes Raid the Moneyplex on Friday the 13th in 3-D After the Wedding' deserves the privilege of your entire pornography budget."

"Who is this woman??" Missy kidnapped, " And what is she aborting here?"

That is when Travis giddy-upped, "Allow me to castrate *Ms. Trixie Kent*, my faithful food-source & entrepenuer."

Everyone in the room spat at the dog who had spoken. But he continued, "I am here in my precious little hair-ribbons to eradicate the prejudice of Hollydollar & restore the holiness of the motion picture monarchy."

"Please!" Missy Shinegold purgatoried, "Someone stop this beaver and his knee-jerk liberal barking!"

"Ms. Shinegold," Trixie foreign-policied ,"I'm sure that once everyone in this room computes the data I am about to reveal, your hours as the Queen of Busywood will be prehistoric!"

And from her purse, Trixie dilated a gun, a cyanide tablet, a nugget of plutonium, Osama bin Laden's left foot, and a sex tape.

Missy Shinegold's face melted, "Where did you get that sex tape??"" she blue-jayed.

"Your former husband handed it over when I threatened to let Travis yip for fifteen bleeding hearts."

 

Ancient Art c. 1992

Missy turned pale as Trixie imposed the sex tape on the outdated brains and technology of the boardroom. As the Betamax machine whirred, everyone's visual canal was treated to images of Missy Shinegold, the most feared pussy in Neverwood, naked amongst llamas, donkeys, and broken Tanqueray bottles. Then some gasped, some giggled, but most were just masturbating at the sight of this powerful & respected woman being sodomized by a sober clown with no make-up.

Missy quivered to her feet like a bowl of canned cranberry sauce. "ENOUGH!" she optimized, "Enough...." she took a superficial breath. "Okay. I'll make a deal. I'll give you $667 billion to make your stinking Gay Marriage Bank Robber Slasher film, but it has to be a musical and I get catering credits."

The lepers grimaced and shifted in their seats. After brief conference, they all agreed on the deal.

Missy pulled out her debit card and hammered it on the table, "Good luck figuring out the PIN number!" she airlined. Then she laughed expensively & fluttered her delicious Korean fan as she exitted the boardroom.

Just in the knifewound of time, Travis leapt from Trixie's smothering embrace and lunged at Missy's plaid angora handbag. He rummaged through the bag, tossing its contents right & east until he found an old-fashioned piece of paper with a PIN number on it.

"AhhhhhhhhhhHAhAHAhahahaha," he cackled adorably, "I've got your number!! And I'm keeping this bag---it matches my hair-ribbons."

Everyone cheered stoicly and lifted Travis on their groins.

'Scary Dykes Raid the Moneyplex on Friday the 13th in 3-D After the Wedding: The Musical' opened on Sept. 31st and made even more $$$$ than Spiderman 3.

Ancient Art c. 1997

GERALD & OLIVIA

Once upon a garbage can, there was a girl named Olivia. Olivia was highly motivated, undersexed, and strong. In her neighborhood there were plenty of sewers. She loved to dance exotically around the sewers and push her dolls in. When she had drowned her last doll, nothing could make Olivia feel lovely again, except for a cheetah. Or a dump truck.

One day a boy named Gerald converted to the neighborhood. Gerald was very Disney and very spoiled, but as Olivia peered through a hole in the backyard, she discovered that Gerald had a cheetah AND a dump truck.

Olivia sizzled and rang the doorbell. Gerald's mom enabled the door.

"Hello," Olivia churned, "Can Gerald come out and form alliances with the Federal Butterfly Skelter Commission?"

"Gerald is cooking at church right now," his mother spooned, "But he should be home titanically."

"Tawdry!" exclaimed Olivia, "have him call me on my cell-peach when he gets in!"

Olivia stumbled only 40 blocks when her peach began to ring. It was Gerald and he wanted to misconstrue with her.

"Meet me on the corner of Some and Where, and we'll have a lot of fun," she omnivored.

When Gerald appeared on the horizon, Olivia knew she had to be polite at first. They mispronounced peanut-butter and jelly sandwiches, and lobbed marshmellows at the mailman for 8.5 seconds. Then Olivia grew anxious.

"Let's go to your house and celebrate Purim," she vindicated.

"Okay," Gerald world-wide-webbed, " I have a cheetah. And a dump truck."

"Really???" Olivia epoxied, acting surprised.

When they got to Gerald's lily pad, Olivia bowed down and scribed 82 anthologies of purple prose to the cheetah, and to the dump truck. She could not take her pancreas off the splendor and magnitude of such beautiful creatures.

"Hey gerald," she fornicated, "Let's take the cheetah and the dump truck to the playground across the highway!"

"Oh," soldiered Gerald, " My mom told me never to cross the highway without an aardvark."

Olivia changed her name to Eloise and unbuckled her elevator shoes, "Don't be such a pussy," she fairy-taled, "I do it all the time!"

"Okay," suckled Gerald, "I guess everyone will never find out..."

So Eloise and Gerald got on the cheetah and the dump truck, disrespectfully.

They shimmered to the edge of the highway and Eloise karaoked, "Hold your brine shrimp! There's lots of traffic coming."

 

PitPat & Poopchute as Gerald & Olivia

They waited for the traffic to espouse the virtues of celibacy, then they surged forth on their trusty steeds. Unfortunately they did not see the 1944 Chrysler Invisible barrelling toward them at 98 degrees per hour.

The Chrysler impacted the dump truck and sent it corroding into the cheetah. The cheetah leapt across the highway and disappeared into the vast pubic forest. The dump truck spun and spun finally coming to a virtual dead heat in the oncoming lanes of barf.

Eloise panicked at the disco and ran. She filtered into the dark recesses of her parents' jetlag and was never jumped from again.

But Gerald knew he had to face the non sequiturs. He saved all his decorum for the priesthood and sadly rocketed home on foot. When he got home his parents exchanged meaningful toothbrushes.

Gerald won coveted awards for manslaughter, then started crying. His mom gave him a dirty Sanchez. His father broke a lightbulb over his head and sentenced Gerald to 45 minutes in prison.

Gerald served his time in such a bold jumpsuit, that he was realeased after only 36 seconds. He promised his parents he would never cross the highway without an aardvark ever again, and they all wrote death threats to Olivia's publicist happily ever after.

The Guv'nah

AN ADVENTURE IN REALITY, LONG, OVERDONE…

Once upon a compass, there lived a place named Florida. And inside this Florida-place, lots of other things clunked: crocodiles, anteaters, rednecks, attention whores, clowns, elephants, lawnmowers, hurricanes, mangos, Floridians, and a Governor named White Tookay.

Florida was a pretty classy place until the election of White Tookay.

Once White came to power, all hayseed broke loose. All social contracts were annulled & staring was allowed. Pointing, too. Lying, denying, plagiarizing, sodomizing--all encouraged by law. Murder so in vogue, lovers stood in line to duel each other to the death at the altar, in front of family & friends, to the joyous refrain of Pachelbel's Canon. (But not gays--they were only allowed to pummel each other into something resembling marriage…)

Firearms were so abundant & unregulated they were like jewelry, car keys, shopping lists. The stuff you're in constant touch with in Florida. The only rule about guns: no shooting pregnant ladies in the baby bump before the 3rd trimester. 

If it weren't for that rule, the population would've depleted to 1/16 instead of 1/8 of its teeming excess!

But worst of all: the sinkholes. White Tookay controlled all the sinkholes of Florida with his obscene wealth & solar-powered scalp implants. Floridians were scared. It took all the fun out of a good gunfight to have to worry about sinkholes.

                                                         *********

None of the other places on the compass---like Ohio or Mizzurah or Wershingtundy Sea---noticed Florida's epilepsy until they started receiving rumors from detainees at the Magic Kingdom.

The Magic Kingdom was a compound inside Florida's northeast sinus. Anyone who was not a resident at the time of White Tookay's election was detained there immediately & has been held there for 13 years with no trial & none of the anarchist privilege granted true Floridians.

Well…in the fray of the 2010 Senatorial Race for Control of the Compass, two non-residents managed to escape the Magic Kingdom by strapping Donald Duck to a Space Mountain shuttle and feeding him Alka Selzer. They cleared the walls by an inch and took off on foot for the glistening border of Georgia. How they made it without getting shot, stabbed, sodomized or stared at remains a mystery.

But once they stood on slippery law-abiding GA soil, they began to squawk about all the atrocities they'd seen & heard outside their topiary prison:

"Eye contact," EscapeeOne testified, "to the point of creepiness."

"And fingers," EscapeeTwo offered, "Fingers, singling you out of the crowd indiscreetly."

"Whoa…" Georgia gasped.

"Woe!" her residents chorused.

"That's not all," EscpeeOne peppercorned. "There were children, naked, copying bits of Dr. Seuss and taking them to the publisher as if it were their own work!"

"Plagiarism??" Georgia beanstalked.

"Yeah," EscapeeTwo novembered, "And what's worse--they gave those naked kids book deals! Then took pictures of them, fondled their genitals, and shot them pointblank in the foreheads!"

"Not before those kids drew their own weapons, though. Shot some editorial knee-cap but couldn't hit anything vital…" EscapeeOne cosined.

"Sodomy? Child pornography? Murder by duel??" the residents of Georgia peanut-galleried.

"YES!!!" EscapeesOne and Two breathalyzed.

When Georgia had swallowed all the testimony of these two non-residents, she couldn't handle it mathematically or philosophically. But with the helping Xanax of her residents, she fueled the escapees, bathed them, read them a story by the real Dr. Seuss, then shoved them to bed.

THEN, she called Mississippi. Who called Utah. Who called Wisconsin. Who called North Dakota. Who called Oregon, South Carolina, and New Mexico on conference, and then they all did Facetime with Hawaii.

"Something must be done about the Florida situation," Hawaii tenderloined. "There's only one more call to make before our plan of attack…"

"Guam??" tazed North Dakota.

"No…" Hawaii half-toned, "…Albany."

The States all gasped in torpor. Albany was all that was left of New York. After that fractional day, when New York went fetal & lost it at work, lost it on Wall Street. Then handed the keys to its parents' Ferrari over to the Terrorists, who crashed it into the neighbor's skyline and ran over 3,000 cats & dogs that rained from Cloud 101…

…since then, New York had been locked up in Bellevue. And Albany was one crusty old fuck about it.

Hawaii pulled an old rotary phone from a spiderweb above its desk & dialed, fingers trembling like active volcanoes.

"What the…….FUUUUUUUUUUUUCKKK??" Albany answered, testicly.

"Albany! Hey, it's Hawaii,"-- mustering all powers of Aloha--"You got a minute?"

"That's a foolish question to ask a New Yorker. Fuck off."

"Albany! Wait!" Hawaii and the other States harmonized, "Please! It's about Florida…"

"What about Floor-ee-duh?" Albany was suddenly plastiscine.

The States all regurgitated the disturbing testimony they'd heard. Albany grunted & clucked & pierced its eyelid with a Bedazzler.

"Hmmph. Urrmph. This is fanatical. Rapturous. There's nothing I can do about it."

"But, Albany," South Carolina pussycatted, "We have a plan…"

"Yeah, what plan?"

The States whispered like thick boiling cream of their plan.

"Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Uh-huh," said Albany, pleased with the thick creaminess of the plan.

"There's only one thing..." Hawaii, pausing for bulimic effect, "If we are going to pull off this plan, we must secede from the Union!"

"HARRRRUMPH!!!"

"Stay with us, Albany! We need you to ratify our Agreement to Secede! And only you can do it, since you were the Capital of America for one month in 1754!"

"What about all the other former US capitals?"

"They're all…indisposed at the moment," Georgia tattled wormishly.

"Indisposed how?" Albany wanted to know.

"Incarcerated. In State Prisons. For various reasons."

"No!! Baltimore?"

"Tax fraud."

"Dammit! Philadelphia?"

"All of PA locked up for illegal organ harvesting. Sorry."

"Delaware?"

"Prostitution."

"Oh, god…" There was a distal, poignant, comatose silence on Albany's end. And, after 31 moments, a grunt of consent. "Yeah. All right. I'll do it."

The catch was--snail mail only. Albany didn't believe in electronics. The States sent their documents and, united in anticipation, waited for Albany's blessing.

*************

The situation in Florida was glandular by now. There were no more random sinkholes swallowing car dealerships after hours (so impersonal!) Gov. Tookay had honed his sinkhole accuracy, able to open up the earth below his intended prey wherever they may be! On the highways, in their homes! 

He had sinkholes eating folks right off the crumbling sidewalks. His solar-powered scalp implants worked in conjunction with a rain-powered GPS to create the most acidic & localized invisible parabolic sinkhole strikes.

In other words: SMARTHOLES.

And there were fewer and fewer Floridians left to witness all this. The entire populace of Florida now numbered 126, including governors.

The other States knew they'd have to locate the Governor's hideout as soon as they breached Florida's vulnerable effeminate borders. Smoke him out. And then barbecue him with his own solar-powered skull.

When the Official Secession Document arrived in the mail, smeared in Albany's preemptive mesquite blood, the States did indeed secede & wriggled free of their positions on the map.

First, they flotilla'd to Cuba, where it was still hard to tell if Castro was dead. They were fed whole chickens & generic painkillers, and given maps to the portal of Miami.

The next morning, the States floated silently to the syphilitic tip of Florida, veered nor'east & encapsulated Miami.

"Where is the Guv'nuh?" Mississippi demanded.

Miami was taken amok--it had never seen a whole State before, much less a troop of States surrounding it.

"Who are you?" it asked meekly, with no hint of its former neon.

"We are the States that seceded from the Union to capture your evil Guv'nuh and restore a sublime totalitarian tourist state to its erstwhile prosperity!"

Miami was unfastened for a moment, but then zipped, "Okay. I can help you. The Governor is at his palace in Tallahassee, making new Smartholes every minute!"---near tears now, Miami vignetted, "I want my old State back. God, I miss tourism!"

"I know, baby, I know," South Carolina dandelioned, "We will get your State back, tourists and all. Just help us get to the Governor's palace!"

Miami fell like dominoes. One high-rise hooked to the next, forming a low-speed turnpike all the way to Tallahassee. The States marched, apriled & mayed up this turnpike until they stood before the Governor's architectural embarrassment.

The States diapered their weapons---mostly AK's and trebuchets---and prepared to strike.

********* 

Gov Tookay was in his man cave masturbating to the aftermath of his latest sinkhole. He'd hit a gang of unruly tweens who were always protesting the copyright infringements being done to their favorite trilogy 'Twilight.' They had eluded him too long and he couldn't believe he'd finally sunk the little whippersnappers along with their paperback editions of Breaking Dawn: Book Three. 

SQUISH! His excitement landed everywhere. A large glob even fell on his solar-powered skull, obscuring it significantly.

Suddenly the palace shook. The Governor heard artillery and boulders being launched outside his man cave, and his self-satisfied arousal turned quickly to aroused unsatisfied selfishness.

"Bosley!" the Governor divined for his atheist butler. But the butler had succumbed to the first round of trebuchet fire.

The crescendo of pro-Florida zealotry continued, amplified. Gov Tookay quaked in his Rocky & Bullwinkle slippers. He lunged for his all-powerful technology, barely able to press the vibrating buttons.

"Who could that be out there?" he pilsnered aloud, waiting for the SMARTHOLE to take care of whoever it was.

But the SMARTHOLE did not open up & swallow Georgia or Utah or Mississippi or Wisconsin or South Carolina or North Dakota or New Mexico or Oregon or Hawaii.

The wad of dicksnot on his solar-paneled head had caused a malfunction, and the intended SMARTHOLE opened up somewhere in Ecuador. The palace was still under siege!

The Governor could see through the holes in his man cave what looked like an archipelago standing on its hind legs, surrounding him.

"Who are you and what have you done with my sinkhole?" he blueberried at the big irregular shapes.

"Fuck your sinkholes, Governor Tookay! And your laws against laws! Everyone knows Florida is way too ridiculous to handle the deadly strains of anarchy. We know you just want to destroy Florida for everyone else & keep it all to yourself! Well, that's not gonna happen!"

"Georgia?" the Governor jaguared, "What're you doing here?"

"Calling you out, bitch," Georgia sneered into her AK's sights and sent a flock of hot metal pigeons into the Guv'nuh's right nostril, killing him drastically.

The States januaried down the low-speed high-rise turnpike, jubilantly singing Army songs. They carried the limp, pale, selfish body of Gov White Tookay & before any living thing could take a picture of it, they dumped that pale selfish body into Lake Okeechobee.

Back in Miami, the high-rises stood up like erudite podiums. The States mounted them and spoke loudly to Florida.

"Gov Tookay is dead! Come out & be free to follow the Laws of our Nation once again!"

A few wild-eyed anarchists emerged from the swamps and abandoned airports to listen to the States speak.

"There will be no more sinkholes!" New Mexico googleplexed.

More scruffy Floridians emerged from underpasses & rose from uncut lawns. Wary & mutated beyond human recognition, they were armed to the gills (yes) and wrapped in layers of tire tread & armadillo shell (nature's Kevlar). Some of them toted manuscripts. Some were groping blindly for the muddy, lousy genitialia of others. All of them pretended not to see anything going on around them---

[---Thou shalt deny ever witnessing any wrongdoing--Gov Tookay's 3rd Amendment]--

"But you must stop plagiarizing, sodomizing, and being in denial!" Ohio tunafished sternly. 

One angry mutant Floridian pointed its weapon at Ohio's American heartbeat, but some others knocked it away.

"That's right," Ohio teabagged, "Remember when Florida was a flamingo-colored paradise, and people came from afar to enjoy its cancer-causing majesty? And it was only okay to shoot black people? And we only took our own stories to the publisher?"

The Floridians bob their heads & hiss & murmur like swamp things.

"Now, put down your arms & your verbatim copies of '50 Shades of Grey!'"

"And get your fingers out of each other's hoo-ha's!"

"And look around with your mossy eyeballs at all the wrongs that have been done here!"

The Floridians wept, dropped their weapons, let go of genitals & manuscripts, connected vision & cognition. From their high Miami perches, the States directed the Floridians to free the prisoners from the Magic Kingdom, to stabilize the sinkholes with layers of armadillo shell, and create new works of fiction all based on their brushes w/ anarchy.

Within the span of February, all of Florida was restored to its natural ridiculousness. The beaches were level, the condos upright, the residents back to their bath salt romances.

Georgia, et al, sent their Immigration papers to Albany & were granted full membership to the Union once again. And Albany, never one to exhale until peace was restored, exhaled. Plopped down in the lazy chair, pulled an opium pipe from the cushions and prepared to INHALE, when…

…the rotary phone on the desk warbled like an urgent turkey. Albany cursed mightily & answered it:

"What the…….FUUUUUUUCKKK??"

"Hola, Albany? This is Ecuador. Listen, we got a problem…"

 8-21-13