351 lines
19 KiB
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351 lines
19 KiB
Plaintext
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_____________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ _____________
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| ___________ _/_/ | | \ \ _/_/ ___________ |
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| | c o m m u n i c a t i o n s | |
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| |________________________________________________________________| |
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|____________________________________________________________________|
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...presents... Beautiful Stories for Ugly Children #2
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by Dave Louapre
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>>> a cDc publication.......1989 <<<
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-cDc- CULT OF THE DEAD COW -cDc-
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_______________________________________________________________________________
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"Beautiful Stories For Ugly Children #2 - The Deadjohnson's Big Incredible Day"
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by Dave Louapre
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Prologue: Clyde and Marguritte Deadjohnson. Just average suburbanites who
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enjoy barbecues, lawn darts, and bowling. Good friends, good neighbors, and
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active members of their community.
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Of course, Clyde and Marguritee are dead, but that doesn't keep them
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from enjoying everything life has to offer. THE DEADJOHNSON'S BIG INCREDIBLE
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DAY takes us through an exciting week of non-stop fun for the Deadjohnsons,
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culminating in an appearance by God Himself.
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It seems that God has decided to "destroy the earth by flood as
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punishment for its wealth of violence and complacency." Naturally enough, He
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chooses the Deadjohnsons to survive and repopulate the Earth. Just another
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average, Big Incredible Day for Clyde and Marguritte Deadjohnson.
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End prologue. Begin story:
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______________________________________________________________________________
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------------------------------------------------------------------------------
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It was Friday, and Clyde and Marguritee Deadjohnson were in their
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chairs. They had not gone to their jobs all week, but they stayed home in case
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anything happened.
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Nothing did, but they were prepared just the same. "At the ready," as
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Marguritree liked to put it.
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"You know," Clyde said, "when a man gets up in the morning, the first
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thing he does is go to the bathroom, and one of the first things he sees as
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he's standing there is the reflection of his own face in the toilet water. And
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then he proceeds to piss on it."
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"Guy," said marguritee, "I guess that's true."
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"Yes," Clyde said, "it is. And I'll tell you something else. This
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happens every day of his life. So if he lives to be something like, oh, say
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seventy years old, that means he will have pissed on his own face something
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like..." he made some quick calculations, "I don't know, around eight billion
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times I guess."
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Marguritte thought about this carefully. "That's not a very good way
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to start the day," she concluded.
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"No, it isn't," Clyde agreed.
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"You'd think someone would do something about it," Marguritee said.
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"What can you do?" Clyde said. They thought about it for a second.
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"Well, at least you don't have to worry about it," Marguritee answered.
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"You're dead."
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"Yes," agreed Clyde. "Dead I am."
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They began planning the day, it had already been a long week.
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Monday they'd spent in the front yard looking at Tippy, the dog. Tippy
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wasn't in the mood for playing fetch, as he was dead too. So they watched the
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flies buzz around his body. After a disastrous round of lawn darts, Clyde
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suggested a dip in the pool. The only thing they could seem to do was float
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head-down on the surface. Frustrated, they gave up their swimming and decided
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to watch Tippy's flies the rest of the afternoon. It was a long, hot day.
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Tuesday afternoon was a barbecue with their neighbors, Glenn and Edna
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Catwomb. Glenn drank seventeen longnecks which he opened with his teeth.
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Clyde didn't know any good tricks like that. Edna told Marguritte she "just
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loved a summer 'Q'", even though it was December, and ate most of the antipasto
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salad she'd brought from the deli. The Catwombs were from southern North
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Dakota and had an ancestor on the Mayflower. Glenn threw up on the way home,
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five times.
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Cheese crackers and Gilligan's Island rerurns were the order of the day
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on Wednesday, which found Marguritte in a trance-like state, dabbling in
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psychokinesis. Clyde did not believe in it. "No one can move things by using
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their brains, not even those guys who can bend spoons," he thought to himself,
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though careful not to break his wife's concentration. During a brief respite,
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Marguritte told Clyde to name an object in the room and she'd transport it to
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him. Clyde named the remote control on top of the television set. Around that
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time the telephone began ringing incessantly, and try as she may, Marguritte
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could not seem to muster up the concentration necessary to get the remote to
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her husband.
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Thursday was bowling and French Dip sandwiches. It was a particularly
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bad game, as neither Clyde nor Marguritte seemed to get anything but gutter
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balls.
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Having survived the week, the Deadjohnsons decided a treat was in
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order. Donning their casual sportswear - what Clyde called their "fun clothes"
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- they made a list on a clean paper towel of things they might do, including a
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picnic and a visit to Antworld.
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In the car they had this conversation:
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Marguritte: "Do you suppose there are a lot of people in Hell?"
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Clyde : "Yes, probably."
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Marguritte: "About how many would you say?"
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Clyde : "I don't know. A bunch, I'd guess."
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Marguritte thought about this.
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Marguritte: "Do you think anyone we know?"
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Clyde thought about this.
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Clyde : "Yes, the Newmans. I bet the Newmans are burning in Hell."
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Marguritte: "I bet you're right. I'd forgotten about the Newmans."
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They were silent for two blocks.
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Marguritte: "Do you suppose people really burn in Hell, honey?"
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Clyde : "Well, if they don't, someone's been spreading some pretty
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scary rumors."
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They had a good laugh at this and proceeded to the market.
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In the meat department, the man ahead of them was caught stealing and
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beaten brutally by wary employees. Since it was a special day, Marguritte
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suggested they buy the most expensive meat they could find, which they did.
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In the parking lot, a near tragedy transpired when Marguritte lost
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control of the cart and sent it careening downhill with Tippy the dog still
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aboard. Down, down it raced, faster and faster through the swerving cars
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before veering off and spilling over the hump of a friendly embarkment directly
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across the street from a burning Christmas tree lot. As luck would have it,
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the embankment was in the very park Clyde and Marguritte would picnic in that
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day. Tippy was shaken, but not stirred.
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So the early afternoon was spent on the grass with nothing to do but
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eat and breathe. There were no barbecue grills, as Clyde had hoped, so they
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had to throw their expensive meat away. Marguritte found an abandoned baby
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bird in a fallen nest. "Don't touch it," Clyde warned, "or its mother will not
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accept it back." But it was too late. Tippy showed no interest in the Frisbee
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they'd brought, so Clyde and Marguritte headed for the nearby riding stables.
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Several riders had been thrown on the path the Deadjohnsons now ambled
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along.
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"Of all the Cartwrights," Clyde said, "I think Little Joe was by far
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the best rider. Good low center of gravity, light build, you know. Much
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better than Hoss."
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"Oh yes," Marguritte agreed. "Hoss was just too big."
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"Yes," Clyde added, "and his head was too round. Like a great big
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orange."
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"Uh-huh," his wife concurred. "A really big orange. But at least he
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was likable. Not like that Adam. I didn't care much for Adam."
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"No, neither did I," said Clyde. "Too brooding."
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"Yeah," said Marguritte, "and sinister looking, like one day he might
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just shoot Ben and Hoss and Little Joe and burn the Ponderosa to the ground."
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"And Hop Sing!" Clyde scowled. "I bet he'd shoot Hop Sing, too, that
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louse. I hate him. I hate Adam Cartwright!"
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"So do I. I hate him, too!" Marguritte shot back. "And I hear he's
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really bald!"
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"Yeah, I heard that, too," Clyde said. "Serves him right."
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"Yeah, serves him right!" Marguritte said.
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The rest of the ride was uneventful, other than the horses being
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periodically spooked by the many flies which seemed to follow the Deadjohnsons
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around.
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Leaving the park, Clyde spied a hang glider plummeting from a
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neighboring cliff, its aluminum frame of the left wing buckled and twisted.
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"Look," he said, "that's something you don't see very often."
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"No, you sure don't," Marguritte agreed. "It's things like that that
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make me glad I can't fly."
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"Yes," Clyde said, "I'm definitely a creature of the earth and not the
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air."
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"Yes," Marguritte said, "so am I."
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By the time they made it to Antworld, news of a skybucket tragedy was
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spreading like wildfire, and the shrieks of the suddenly wounded and lame still
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echoed amidst the festive laughter. The shattered plexiglass skybucket lay in
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shards about the Antworld Information Booth entrance, having fallen from the
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steel cables strung through the air. Though it was more crowded than Clyde had
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anticipated, the lines were relatively short. About half an hour's wait, tops.
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Various ant characters in funny ant regalia sang and danced about the patrons,
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and everyone joked about the "Mr. Ant" exhibit, which wasn't very popular among
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the kids.
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Clyde and Marguritte explored "Ant Island" and went on most of the
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other ant rides. Though the "Ant Boats" proved less than exciting, the visit
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to the "Ant Farm" was most educational. The guide picked Marguritte to help
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demonstrate how ingeniously ants engineer entire colonies in earth by stuffing
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her head-first into a hole in the ground. Marguritte was always happy to use
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her talents as a dead person to help others. Clyde could have kicked himself
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for not bringing a camera.
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In the Antworld Souvenier Silo they bought silly hats with the names
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printed on the back - one for Tippy as well, who had to wait outside.
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"The funny thing about these hats," Clyde remarked, "Is that they make
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you look like an ant. See, they have antennas, just like ants! But look at
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how big we are! We're way too big to be ants!" They laughed.
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"We are," Marguritte observed, "but Tippy will look right at home."
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They laughed again.
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"Yeah," Clyde said, "but he'd still be a pretty big ant." He then
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tried to put the dog's hat on its head, but Tippy kept pawing it off and onto
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the ground. "Stupid dog," muttered Clyde, and they left.
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Night had fallen like a fat cow from a helicopter by the time they
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reached their car, and in the glare of the headlights two rival gangs rumbled
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with zip guns, chains, and broken bottles. The Deadjohnsons stopped for a bite
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at the Wagonwheel, but the waitress was uppity and would not wait on them.
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Clyde counted sixteen items on the menu with the term "super" attached, and
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Marguritte found ten with "deluxe." After an hour they left, the salt and
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pepper shakers safely tucked away in Marguritte's purse.
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Arriving home, they learned that Glenn and Edna Catwomb had been slain
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by maniacs. "It could well have been us," Clyde told Marguritte.
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"But we're already dead. Aren't we dear?" reasoned Marguritte.
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"Yes... you're right. But it's the idea that really irks me,"
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responded Clyde.
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"Ah," said Marguritte.
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To take their minds off the mayhem of police and reporters outside, the
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Monopoly board was dragged out. As usual, the Deadjohnsons were reluctant to
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purchase any property. Marguritte, however, won ten dollars for being
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runner-up in the beauty contest and got both "get out of jail free" cards.
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Clyde saved up over $1100 in pass and go money. He was assessed once for
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building taxes. "Ha!" he remarked, "No houses, no taxes!" The bank eventually
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ran out of money and they stopped playing. Marguritte said, "I really wish
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they had one of those pop-o-mattic deals."
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Late that night they lay in bed, relaxing in the bluish aura of the
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portable TV. A news update showed highlights of the Antworld skybucket mishap.
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"Ha," Clyde yelled, "we were there. We most certainly were there today."
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Marguritte spotted herself and Clyde behind the reporter. "And there
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we are!" she blurted.
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"Yes," Clyde said, "and do we look fat or what?"
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"We sure do," Marguritte answered. "Television does that to you. It's
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the tube. And here's something else: did you ever notice how people having
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their pictures taken don't know what to do with their hands? It's like if you
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don't do something with them right away, they sort of flutter around and make
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you look stupid."
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"This is true," Clyde agreed. "And if you think about it, gloves won't
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help."
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"No," Marguritte said, "I guess they won't at that. Seems to me that
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it would be much simpler if everyone just walked on all fours like a dog. You
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never see a dog look awkward in a picture because he didn't know what to do
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with his paws, do you?"
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"No," Clyde agreed, "you never do."
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"I had a dream last night," said Marguritte. "I dreamed I was
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reincarnated as a maggot eating my own corpse. Do you suppose this means
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something? Do you believe in omens?"
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"No," said Clyde, "I don't. And that's not a very good dream. I had a
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really good dream the other night, but I forget what it was. Something about
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sports." He switched off the TV and settled back. "I woke up and was going to
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write it down, but I didn't. It was a good one though, I'll tell you that."
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The dot on the TV screen had barely faded away when a blinding flood of
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ethereal light burst through the bedroom window, silhouetting a solitary figure
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outside tapping on the glass. Clyde's eyes were slow to adjust, but he soon
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realized that the figure outside was none other than God.
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"Marguritte," Clyde said, "God's outside tapping on the glass."
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"Oh," Marguritte replied. "Then is this a miracle?"
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Clyde thought carefully about this. "No," he said, "He hasn't done
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anything yet. It's probably just a visitation."
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"Well, we better see what He wants," Marguritte said, and she and Clyde
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went to the window.
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"Hello, Clyde and Marguritte," God said.
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"Hello, God," Clyde and Marguritte said back.
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"I've decided to destroy the Earth by flood as punishment for its
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wealth of violence and complacency." God's manner was grim.
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"Oh," Marguritte exclaimed, "but You did that already and said You'd
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never do it again."
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"Well," God said, "I'm doing it again."
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"That makes You a fibber," Clyde said.
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"Never mind!" said God back, which made the Earth tremble slightly. "I
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am warning you so you may be spared. Your time is short, so ready yourselves."
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The Deadjohnsons were somewhat taken aback by all this, but Marguritte
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regained her poise and asked slyly, "Do people really burn in Hell? I mean,
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are they actually on fire?"
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"That is a vicious rumor!" God boomed, and He was taken up, the light
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disappearing. Then the sky opened up and it started to rain like Clyde and
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Marguritte had never seen before, except once in Montana.
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So, relying solely on cunning and instinct, Clyde and Marguritte
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readied themselves for salvation from the coming apocalypse. Gathering two of
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every household appliance, they fastened down the living room, then began the
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laborious task of sealing the cracks in the walls and the space beneath the
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doors with a huge quantity of tub caulking Clyde kept on hand in the closet for
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just such an eventuality.
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And soon they were tossing and rolling over the giant waves that now
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enveloped the Earth. Since the destruction of all the known world would take
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some time, the Deadjohnsons busied themselves playing Twister and making up
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their own word-search puzzles. Clyde thought up a good one including all the
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Presidents' names, and Marguritte made one dealing exclusively with things you
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might find in a sewing box. Hers included the terms "thimble" and "yarn."
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"Well," Clyde remarked, "this certainly has been anything but boring."
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"Yes," Marguritte agreed, "but I think I'm going to miss television."
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"Oh," Clyde said, "I don't think there'll be enough time to watch it
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anyway. I have a notion God will want us to propagate right away."
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"Ooooo, I don't care for that word at all," Marguritte cringed.
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"Please don't say it again."
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"I'm sorry," Clyde said, "but I have this gut feeling there are strings
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attached here somehow."
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"Well," Marguritte quipped, "we made no promises so we make no
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guarantees."
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"Agreed," Clyde confirmed. Then his face went strangely blank, his
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eyes rolled inside his head and he shouted suddenly, "GOLF!!"
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Marguritte remained in her chair, perplexed. Clyde shouted again,
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"Golf! My dream! The one I forgot! It was about golf! I'd shot a hole in
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one and everybody in the world was applauding. That's what my dream was
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about!"
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"My," Marguritte said, "that was a good dream."
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"Yes," Clyde said back, "it was. Certainly better than your dream of
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being a maggot."
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"Yes," Marguritte agreed, "I'd much rather shoot a hole in one than be
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a maggot."
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"I think most people would" Clyde said, and he laughed. Then
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Marguritte laughed. Then Clyde and Marguritte Deadjohnson laughed together.
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The next morning it stopped raining, and together they made a list on
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the back of a clean paper towel of things they might do.
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_ _ _____________________________________________________________________
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/((___))\|The Convent..........619/475-6187 The Dead Zone.........214/522-5321
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[ x x ] |Demon Roach Undrgrnd.806/794-4362 Greenpeace's IGB......916/673-8412
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\ / |PURE NIHILISM..........new # soon Ripco.................312/528-5020
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(' ') |Tequila Willy's GSC..209/526-3194 The Works.............617/861-8976
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(U) |=====================================================================
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.ooM |1989 cDc communications by Dave Louapre. 09/30/89-#123
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\_______/|All Rights Pissed Away.
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