A Symphony unto Oneself

A Symphony unto Oneself

Chapter 9

     The Story The Authors
"And what'll we be serving t'night, Cap'n Hook? What gourmet fare, then?"
"Why -- leftovers, Smee. Same as every other meal...Though I must say, thank the briny deeps he's off the psyllium husks! Almost swept us away at the end... He's been quiet today, though. Seemed to be famished yesterday, we must 'ave eaten six meals -- ah, fickleness of Fate, Fate's a more capricious bitch than the salty sea!" His voice trailed off then into reverie --
"What's that?" asked Smee, "I can't here you, you're reminiscing again aren't you?" vanblah
"Reminiscing again, reminiscing again, reminiscing again, reminiscing again..." The ethereal Cockney trill of Smee's voice reverberated off the walls of Donovan's colon and exited his bum with a strangely amplified brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrap!
"Why, I'd know that voice on me deathbed!" exclaimed Cap'n Cupcake, bringing his ear close up to Donovan's blowhole and finding himself rewarded with a snootful of flatulence as, back inside, Smee began to sing a bawdy old pirate song from the days of the Spanish Main

Now, the sexual life of the camel
Is not quite what everyone thinks
One night in an excess of passion
He tried to deflower the Sphinx

But the Sphinx's posterior regions
Were clogged with the sands of the Nile
Which acocunts for the hump on the camel
And the Sphinx's inscrutable smile...

...only serving to confirm Cap'n Cupcake's suspicions. "Smee!" he exclaimed. "Or I'm a maldive shark! Smee! Scaly bugger's got a keel-hauling coming to 'im, 'e was me First Mate an' me trusted friend till the day 'e tried organize a mutiny on me old ship. Fancied 'imself able to navigate a snack-cake ship through the stormy seas of expiration dates, 'e did! Well, well, well -- old Smee 'imself!"

"Chief Big Wheel go to me sea chest an' fetch me that enema at the bottom (no pun intended, me laddie)under those ol' and sticky pastry magazines. Be sure to fill it up good'n full of harsh sea water. An' if it be Smee a-hidin' in there we'll flush the rotten blighter out one way or another."
Cap'n Cupcake stood pensively for a moment eyeing Donovan's puckered sphincter. "Aye, an' if I'm not a knob eared lubber it takes more than one rotten apple to fill up a barrel this big."
Li'l Debbie sat off to one side, sobbing, plucking petals off daisies ("Donovan, Tickles, Donovan, Tickles, Donovan, Tickles," ad nauseum) only faintly comforted by the tender ministrations (or was that minestrone?) of Meredith.
Meanwhile, Chief Big Wheel had returned with the trusty old enema, a plunger, a portable generator, an electric pump, a triple-strength garden hose, and the DiGiovanni Supraú Home High-Colonic Kit, as well raingear and a variety of delicious chocolatey snack-cakes for all.
They hooked up the generator to the pump, the pump to the hose, the hose to the enema bottle, and the whole zany contraption to Donovan's pasty hindquarters, which had been rendered immobile by several lengths of rope tied with trusty old sailor's-knots to the posts of the conjugal bed. Likewise had the Scottish bard's wrists been bound. And then they began to pump him. Thirty-five standard gallons of salt water did they pump into him. A sturdy cork did they then insert into his sphincter, allowing the brine a full forty-five minutes to work its salty, cleansing magic. Then the cork did they remove. All present donned their raingear, at which time Cap'n Cupcake began in earnest to work at Donovan's nether opening, sweating gobbets of rich chocolatey sweat in the searing midday sun.
At this point, the denizens of Donovan's trendier-than-Soho colon began to appear:
A nation of sea-monkeys;
Two dromedary camels;
The elusive Count Chocula;
And then, with a great gush of watery brown liquid flecked with the remnants of Donovan's last meal of organic pumpkin-seed bread, a fully grown female giraffe came forth from the bard's rectum, staggered to its feet, shook itself dazedly off and galloped off into the dense jungle foliage.
"Mary, Joseph, and Excalibur!" exclaimed everyone in unison, not least of whom was the drenched and sputtering figure of Amelia Earhardt who had arrived in the salty brown wake of the giraffe, clutching the copy of 45 Grave's Autopsy LP which Ram—n Montoya stole from me in 1988;
Next came several bootleg copies of Chef's all-time favorite film, Kathie Lee Does Jersey City;
A litter of newborn Afghans;
Bond, James, in the arms of (good heavens!) Miss Moneypenny;
An old boot;
A veritable menagerie of formerly impacted gerbils;
Bitsy Bootleg, looking sheepishly away from Meredith;
And another gush of liquid. What would come next, they wondered?

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