Chapter 8
| The Story | The Authors |
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Then Mr Tickles broke off his reverie. It would have solved his dilemna, but such was not his choice. In calm answer to L'il Debbie's song Donavan let loose a gentle rain of carob chips to rain down upon the water, smiling softly to himself as fat iridescent carp rose to the surface to greedily snap them up. Mr Tickles began to hyperventilate. Panic began to swell in his heart as he gently bobbed in the still waters as the giant carp nibbled at his toe tips. Love in both extremes was beckoning to him from either direction. The full panapoly of sensual pleasure and pain was within reach of his tiny fists but he could only have one or the other. Good Vibes or Wicked Pleasure. But which one? Which One? | |
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At that moment a pair of dolphins rose up, one beneath either of the dwarf's feet, and raised him above the surface of the water. A lone cherub handed the microphone to Mr. Tickles with a giggle, and (while the orchestra rose up behind him in the most zephyrous of accompaniments) the dwarf began, in earnest, to sing a song of his predicament:
You might not think
But just because | |
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At these solemn pronouncements, Donovan and Li'l Debbie began to advance upon the dwarf, the former atop a giant solar-powered Mung bean, and the latter (having shed her clothes for the more appropriate garb of a rising Venus) on the half-shell of a giant clam, attended to by a small swarm of cupids who, though gigglingly inept, did mostly manage to keep the mischievous ocean breezes from exposing Debbie's radiantly mossy pudenda to the eyes of the sailors. Then Donovan began to pluck upon a sitar and sing: | |
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any Love is good love if you'll take what you can get And I'll look at you with my big brown eyes And say you ain't seen nothin' yet... | |
| "Eeeeee ee ee eeeeee!" said one dolphin to the other. "Ee ee ee ee ee ee ee." the other dolphin agreed. The dolphin pair carrying Mr. Tickles on their backs swam away, much to the dwarf's chagrin. He was just about to propose a threesome with Li'l Debbie and Donovan but now he was a captive of the dolphins. Looking back over his shoulder he could see Li'l Debbie inviting Donovan into her clam shell and the rode off into the sunset together. "Damn!" Mr. Tickles grumbled. He hadn't seen any action since the Meredith affair and he was feeling mighty frustrated. | |
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"Turn that goldarned radio down!" screamed Cap'n Cupcake at an impertinent sailor who'd climbed the mizzenmast with a transistor radio and was searching through the multitude of Classic Rock stations, trying to tune in to a Brooklyn Dodgers game from his father's boyhood. The sailor leapt up, forgetting where he was, losing his grip on both the radio and the rigging, and immediately plummeted to his dismemberment, death and ingestion in the shark-infested waters. The radio descended deckwards and bopped Cap'n Cupcake right on his spongey, chocolatey noggin. "Shiver me timbers and dip me chafd john-thomas in brine, if that sailor weren't already in Davey Jones' locker, upon me mother's dorsal fin I declare I'd 'ave 'im keel-'auled!" | |
| After several hours of riding on the dolphins' backs, Mr. Tickles needed to sit down. The dolphins sensed this and carried the little man to a small desert island where they dropped him off and left him. "Hey!" Mr. Tickles called after them. "Don't leave me here alone!" "Eeeeee eeee ee eeeee!" the dolphins called back to him as they swam away but Mr. Tickles couldn't understand dolphinese. He fell to his knees and sobbed pitiously. | |
| Not to be outdone by mere cetaceans, however, Donovan and Li'l Debbie raced each other over the waves in furious pursuit, Donovan calling upon the spirit of the sea, Thalassa, Thalassa, to steer him and speed him, while Debbie threw hairbrushes and pairs of pumps at her handmaidens and swore in a manner which would have made even that old salty dog Cap'n Cupcake blush the color of a freshly boiled lobster. | |
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Come back to meeeeeeeeeee, lover man [sang Li'l Debbie; quite torchily, I might add] I'll hold you alllllll night long I'll rock you in my arms With a mother's sweet lullabye songs
And when you get old and fat (fat-fat1)
I'll love you short or tall | |
| The men in the audience were going crazy! Debbie found herself pelted by jockeys, boxers, and jock straps, all thrown by her adoring male constituency. The women started screaming, "Floozy!" "Tramp! "Slut!" But did Debbie care? No. All she cared about was the adulation. This was the love she always needed. The love she always deserved. And nothing was going to prevent her from getting it! | |
| But wait! Was that her father out there in the audience? She would die if it was her dad. Debbie shielded her eyes with her hand and tried to see past the blazing stage lights. The lights which protected her from seeing most of the disgustingly sweaty men who always came to watch her perform. She walked to the edge of the stage in order to see better. It was her dad, she was sure of it. He had a pair of whitey-tighteys in hand and was preparing to toss them to the stage. "Daddy?" she asked in a small, confused voice. The microphone carried her voice across the audience and a hush fell over the crowd. | |
| Mr Tickles had never been much of one for sexual role playing, but somehow when L'il Debbie looked at him and said "Daddy?" it ignited a long dormant desire in him. His prodigious member surged in his velvet trousers. Donavan sulked a bit strumming idly on his sitar. | |
| Mr. Tickles lobbed his underwear onto the stage. To the crowd it was like slow-motion, perhaps because it was slow-motion. Mr. Tickles loved the slow-motion effect - it made everything take longer. All eyes were upon the pair of soiled linen drifting through the air. From the corner of their collective "eye" the audience saw Li'l Debbie reach up with painful slowness to catch the underwear. It seemed to be taking forever, in a way rivalled only by Heinz ketchup. The BVD's unfolded beautifully just before they started the descent to her outstretched hand. L'il Debbie wondered where all of the product placement was coming from. The underwear was now almost into her hand, she could almost smell them. Mr. Tickles was salivating. And then a voice from the crowd ... "NOOOOOO!!! Lit-tle Debbie don't catch them, it's a trap!!!" Only one person had ever enunciated her nickname like that. But, he'd been missing for a long time. She quickly scanned the crowd, it was him. But how? There holding a sitar and a Donovan mask was her long lost lover - Jake. "I thought you were studying." was all she said as the underwear fell to the stage and Mr. Tickles cursed. | |
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...Why the dwarf's fantasies always took place on stages, even when he was on this 'uncharted desert isle,' cannot be fully understood without reference to the chapters on the importance of the reverse-voyeurismic audience syndrome in Kraft-Ebbings' landmark Psychopathia Sexualis. Unfortunately, my ex, Heather, currently getting her MS is Psychology and Vampirism at the University of Transylvania, saw fit to run off, simulataneously, with my copy of the Psychopathia and my roommate Jeb, leaving me wracked with despair and completely helpless when it comes to explaining the psychological nittygritty of Mr. Tickles onanistic objectification of women and stages. Nevertheless... Donovan, bored and boorish, was suffering greatly at that moment, perhaps even more greatly than he'd suffered when his idol Bob Dylan made a complete fool of Donovan in Don't Look Back. And why, you are perhaps asking yourself, as I wring my own pale and liverspotted hands and ask myself, why did he suffer so? Because the poor bard had not sung in over and hour, and he could bear it no longer. A ballad of elves, damsels, and chickens was bursting in him, building up pressure, seeping out of his pores in the form of a noxious sweat that was quite indistinguishable from B.O. The poor soul! The tortured troubadour! The uncaring audience! But -- 'as sure as sheep be womens,' as his grandfather used to say -- he'd show them... | |
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He cleared his throat, sent a gentle cascade of notes rolling down the neck of the sitar and began:
Oh, the waterlilies, [he sang]
Folderol-dee with a bumblebee | |
| "Holy crap! Will you listen to this drivel?" Mr. Tickles screamed as he shoved onlookers left and right. He wasn't trying to get anywhere, he just enjoyed shoving. It gave him a sense of satisfaction, it made him feel like a big, tough guy-person(that and the fact that where he was from being a "dwarf" meant being only 6'3" tall instead of the +9 feet that was the norm). | |
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The only thing that stopped him, that made the insipidly uninspired World Wide Wrestling Federation Semifinals setting of the dwarf's sexual fantasies dissolve into the lusty jungle foliage around him, a riot of lianas and frangipani, was Li'l Debbie. Whereas only moments previously she had been playing a vigorous game of footsie with Mr. Tickles, at the sound of Donovan's plaintive ballad, the snake-cake siren's attentions had become riveted on the gentle Scottish folksinger as he plucked upon his sitar. Why, it was as if Mr. Tickles suddenly didn't even exist anymore! The two of them! The nerve of it! His erection wilted sadly inside the loose confines of nis brightly colored pantaloons. So much effort for nothing! Curses! And we still haven't reached Cupcake Island, either...Now if the others would only show up in the S.S.Ignavia, everything would go back to normal. Sigh... But as usual, he was wrong. | |
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PAH! spat Mr Tickles as the smitten pair launched into a power ballad version of "Memories" from CATS eyes locked in passion. "Enough!" he cried and began crashing his way into the jungle, a disitnct ache in his unrelieved testicles. | |
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Poor Mr. Tickles was loosing touch with reality. He was having a very difficult time separating his fantasy world from the real world. He was beginning to doubt Li'l Debbie and Donovan's existence. After all they weren't paying any attention to him. He squeezed his eyes shut tight and pressed his palms to his temples. When he opened his eyes again he saw only swirling colors and light. An occasional disembodied face floated by and laughed at him. Mr. Tickles feared he was finally losing his mind. Then he heard a familiar voice that broke through his hallucinations and brought him back to reality. He opened his eyes and standing on the beach before him was none other than his old mistress Meredith who now very much resembled Dorothy Lamore in 'The Road to Bali'. He clutched at her ankles and sobbed. "I thought you were dead." he cried. "No, I was brought to this desert island by a couple of dolphins a few months ago." Meredith explained. "And look who else they brought." Meredith pointed to the top of a palm tree where a man wearing nothing but a loincloth and a golden brown suntan was picking coconuts. He slid down the trunk of the great palm and walked toward Meredith and Mr. Tickles. It was his old partner in crime, Jake. Mr. Tickles' heart grew lighter and he smiled at his dear old friends. | |
| Jake wasn't so happy, however. He'd just acquired a pecker full of splinters from sliding down the trunk of his beloved palm. As Jake very carefully extracted the hundreds of splinters from his best man, Meredith led Mr Tickles to her Castle, which was surrounded by pavers and fake terracota pots full of exotic plants. An army of giant purple ants played David Bowie's "Little China Girl" as Meredith and Mr Tickles entered the main foyer which was tastefully decorated a la Brudy Bunch style. As Mr Tickle sipped on his eye of newt tea, he asked his old mistress why she had brought him here to her extravagant residence. "You disappoint me, Tickle" she purred as she moved towards an excited Mr Tickles, "I thought that a man of your obvious intelligence would figure out straight away why I wanted you here!". "Is it because you missed me, sugar?" Replied a baffled Mr Tickles. "No, Tickle things have changed. I now work for a man whose power in this world is second to none. Do you know who I'm talking about, Tickle?" Meredith questioned. "You're not talking about Jake are you?" replied Mr Tickle. "NOOOOOO" roared Meredith "Enough with this playing around you silly little man!". Mr Tickle was taken aback by Meredith out burst, but quickly regained his composure in true Tickle style. "I am talking about the messiah, Tickle, the King of television. Aaron Spelling!!" bellowed Meredith. "What the hell does Aaron spelling want with me?" asked Mr Tickle weakly. An exasperated Meredith rose from her chair and summoned the guards. "Mr Spelling wants you to direct the new series of 'The Love Boat'" Meredith replied. As Mr Tickle jumped from his chair to escape Meredith ordered her guards to shackle poor Mr Tickle. "There is no escape, Tickle you are trapped. You don't want to see what happened to the last directors, your friends Li'l Deb and Donovan do you?" To petrified to answer, Mr Tickle did nothing. This infuriated Meredith who then unmercifully showed Mr Tickle what had happened to his friends. "Nooooooo" cried Mr Tickles as he fell to his knees. Meredith let out an evil laugh and said "See what happens when you don't obey the Messiah, Tickle? You are forced to watch old Tom Hanks movies! DO WE UNDERSTAND EACH OTHER??". Mr Tickle let out a barely audiable "Yes" before he was led to the set of the Love Boat, never to be seen by the outside world again, except as a name on the closing credits. And that's the story of Poor old Mr Tickle. | |
| There was just the hint of dawn on the horizon when Mr Tickles awoke in his little nest of palm leaves. "Goddamit", he grumbled to himself, "if I'm going to have TV nightmares they could at least involve Tori Spelling." He groped for his velvet pantaloons. In the distance he could make out the faint strains of Donovan's extended sitar break on a version of "Endless Love". He was hungry. He was horny, he needed a shave and a way to get to Cupcake Island now that it appeared that Injun Joe and Captain Cupcake had marooned him here. But most especially he needed to find a way to make Donovan shut the fuck up with that goddam sitar. | |
| Mr. Tickles was very confused. He wasn't sure what was happening and what had just been a nightmare. Then he saw Little Debbie and Meredith locked in battle. Donovan was caught in his bubble which seemed to have a mind of its own and was making him quite seasick. Oh man, thought Mr. Tickles, I really nead some breakfast. But what there was to eat on Stage Island he did not know. | |
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Or at least it seemed to Mr Tickles that the pair were locked in battle. In reality L'il Debbie and Donovan were involved in some heavy mystic tantric lovemaking that involved orifices existing on all sixteen planes of existence and the interconnection of third eyes through the nostrils of a nearby Nepalese houseboy named Hadji that Donovan kept for just this purpose. Having just passed the tenth state of erotics, Kimpashti, (or "The Tiger Eats Her Cubs While Buddha Watches and Rubs Her Belly") the blissful pair were building to the heady heights of Pidji Teng (or "The Lizard's Tongue Smites the Holy Lotus Sword With Perfumed Saliva") with still twenty six levels to go. | |
| What kind of shit are you talking about, dumb ass! | |
| I laughed at him and shouted "Ah doan't wahnt- yaw lahf" a la James Van Der Beek in that crazy football flick. I ran away then, for the clouds on the horizon did not seem favorable, and i did not want to be in the midst of a thunderstorm caused by Dawson Leery. | |
| But alas.... i fell over; and was killed. | |
| Bearing this terrible news I got up and ran home. | |
| I recieved news that I was fired. | |
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Or so sang the blissful pair as they rose to the thirteenth level Kunji Kunji Koni ("The Jade Willow Bends In A Shower Of Puckered Rosebuds") Mr Tickles for his part found a mango tree and ate a dejected breakfast. | |
| At that moment his fate seemed inextricably tied up with Jake's. An eternal winter of ungratified sexual desire and Jergen's lotion. He remembered the cat suit then. Mr. Tickles rolled his eyes. He heaved a sigh. He might as well climb back into it, resign himself to subsisting on kibble and the occasional saucer of cream, find some herb-tea-drinking feminist to take him home and chuck him under the chin and seer the delicate ego of his ears with gitty-bitty-kittums baby talk. Anything was better than this, opined the dwarf as Li'l Debbie announced her 87th orgasm of the morning with a series of eardrum-bursting bleats and hoots all too reminiscent of Mr. Tickles' all-time favorite CD, Morton Subotnick Unplugged. | |
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"Kee-rist, grumbled Mr Tickles to himself, "this is worse than the frickin' sitar." adding a side dish of crow and sour grapes to his tropical breakfast. With a heavy sigh he began to work his way inland and away from the rising strangled cries of the hot and heavy pair. The echoes of the sound following like a little black cloud. | |
| Coconuts disengaged themselves from palm trees and thudded to the ground around the miserable little man as Donovan and Debbie orgasmed simultaneously at the steep apex of K'un Sha or "Annunciation of the Gilded Yoni in a Nest of Fire Ants." Parrots rose screaming from the dense tropical foliage and a rotten mango bopped poor Mr. Tickles on the head. "Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah" he screamed, as stinging, rancid mango juices ran into his beady little eyes. | |
| This insult to injury was more than our diminutive friend could bear. Roaring in pain and anger he broke into a run towards the beach bent on destruction. | |
| "Eeeeewoooooooooooooooooooooooggga!" came Li'l Debbie's throaty keening as she knew, for the first time that morning, the delights of Shishra or "The Conflagratory Lingam is Caused To Approximate a Ripe Turnip Amidst the Eunuchoid Congress of Auparishtaka." | |
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The ever-resourceful Mr. Tickles, meanwhile, had chopped down a stand of palm trees and fashioned a primitive sort of catapult. This he dragged down the beach to where Donovan's mystic crystal ship lay at anchor in the shallow, sunkissed lagoon. Atop a makeshift platform bed, held aloft by crude stilts and otherwise generally straight out of The Swiss Family Robinson, the gentle Scottish bard was using his feet to rub Li'l Debbie down with rendered whale fat while with his nimble fingers he worked a live sea-slug in and out of the petallike folds of her yoni, these actions causing her to groan and thrash about the conjugal bed in spasms of exquisite ecstacy. Enraged beyond words, the dwarf aimed and cocked the catapult, installed his tiny self in the basket, and cut the cord... Zeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep -- straight and true as the arrows of Artemis, the areodynamic dwarf shot through the air, and came to impact straight in the bullseye of the ongoing bridal festivities -- -- that is to say, head-first, a tiny stubborn battering-ram, headfist, like a misguided babe seeking a return to the womb, headfirst he landed between Donovan's furiously pumping buttocks and lodged, the whole upper half of him -- inextricably, it seemed -- inside Donovan's bum. The little dwarf legs kicked furiously, and Donovan just howled in pain. | |
| With no apparent escape backwards the angry dwarf decided there was naught to be done but proceed onward. Donovan reeled howling and screeching and waving his invaded posterior like some enraged rabid dog trying to dislodge Mr Tickles from his anal cavity. L'il Debbie still in the throes of conjugal bliss and new to the mystic side erotic delights of considered this to be part of the activities. | |
| The realities of the dwarf's large, shiny belt-buckle squeezing past Donovan's prostate gland as Mr. Tickles thrashed furiously forward caused the composer of such sing-along favorites as "Mellow Yellow" and "The Fat Angel" to experience ninety-seven consecutive orgasms in the space of just under three minutes. He yelped, flailed and twitched with the impossible palsy such a mix of agony and ecstacy, bucking upon a suddenly scared Li'l Debbie (Who was this man? she asked herself...What is he doing to me? Why is he making those terrible noises?) Donovan gave one final scream and then collapsed unconscious atop her, his still-erect member pulsing between her thighs with a life of its own. | |
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Li'l Debbie screamed in absolute horror as Donovan began to kick and bray like a donkey that had just been stung by a giant mutant killer bee and Mr. Tickles' lower half flopped around like a wet rag hanging out of a donkey's ass. Meredith, who had arrived on the beach just in time to witness Mr. Tickles' headlong foray into the great unknown, could only shake her head and laugh. "Oh, Mr. Tickles," she chuckled to herself. "You've done it again you silly little man." | |