The Konformist

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February 2002

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McHajj:

Part XIV

by

Jaye C. Beldo

Netnous@Aol.Com

 

*Please note: The McHajj series you are about to read came to me directly via a series of disturbing dreams, dreams which continue to haunt me at present. These dreams, more like interminable nightmares, have resulted from life long exposure to advertising in the relentlessly predatory, capitalistic society that I'm haphazardly posited in. In order to deal with the severe psychological trauma such exposure has caused me, I have translated what my unconscious mind has directly conveyed to me into the story below. It is the only way I know how to cope with the constant trespassing into my psyche by the corporate powers which loom about in a most menacing and merciless fashion. Thank you for understanding my dilemma. BTW: I am currently starting a twelve step support group for those who may believe that they are victims of a similar kind of corporate psychological terrorism. I will provide more information in the near future...if there is one. Thank you!

 

"Grandpa Aleister...I'm scared." The Pillsbury Doughboy says, trembling as he is tucked in for the night. "I think I might get psychically attacked again."

"Psychic attack? What on earth is that?" Aleister asks, feigning wonderment as well as dismay.

"Oh Gosh! Well, it usually happens around three or four in the morning. These icky demons bleed through into my brain and I have the weirdest dreams."

"Like what?"

"I dreamed that...." The Doughboy starts to cry. "...that Mark Pauline sent one of his awful robot spiders to eat me alive. I tried telling him that I didn't do it..that it was..."

"Do what?" Grandpa Aleister held the Doughboy's hand.

"I tried to tell him that I wasn't the one who took off with SRL ticket proceeds after one of their performances." The Doughboy starts sobbing. "I have enough of my own dough as it is. Is this some kind of kooky weirdo Eye of Horus mind control that's homing in on my brain in the middle of the night?"

"That is a weird dream indeed." Aleister observes. "Did you confront the robot?"

"I couldn't. It scorched me with a musical flame thrower. It played 'Hamburger Lady' by Throbbing Gristle when it baked me to a crisp. Then I woke up. I was covered with sweat. I vomited up this little rubber Satan squeaking doggy toy."

"I don't think it will happen again. I'll simply reverse your current 93 and you'll wake up fresh as a rose in the morning. You need to take it easy. You're in your third trimester now....I mean any day now! Now hush my favorite little mother to be, it is time for your nightly placenta enema."

From under a gown, Aleister produces a turkey baster filled with some ruby hued alchemical douche and inserts it into the Doughboy's rectum. He waves a wand and bathes the moonchild fetus in this ambrosial mixture, then retires to his library to cram for his bar exam.

"I don't want this moonchild turd." The Doughboy pouts as he tries to retain the quintessential liquid in his ass, face growing more and more purple. Unable to incubate any longer, he throws the covers off and climbs out of bed. He sneaks behind a wax replica of Jimmy Page, climbs up on the neck of the musician's guitar and then darts out of an ivy covered window. He climbs down the side of the mansion, walks across a fog laden courtyard. After a time compressed segueway, he enters the Tower of Inverness and works his way up the spiral stairs. At the top, he starts yodeling like a Muezzin, beckoning to his compadres still hanging for their lives, far away, on Mount Arafat.

But no one answers his calls, for his friends have not risen yet. He scans the skies for an egg that could rescue him but nothing can be seen.

The Doughboy is about to break water. He finds a water closet in the tower. He goes in, sits down, squats and grunts. He looks between his legs and sees a shaft of light coming up the chute. It is a malignant green color. He can see that something is at the bottom of the hole. It is a revolving CIA logo. The light filters through the racks of blood filled vials.

"If you don't retain your moonchild until the proper astrological alignment...I'll eat the thing right now... like it was dog do sushi." The Charmin Teddy Bear says, spinning around on the stage, leering at his lover.

"I don't care what you do." The Doughboy yells down between his legs. He listens to his voice echo and then grunts some more and feels the moon child enter into his rectal birth canal. "I'm not looking forward to being a single parent when I get back to America. Besides....I'll have no visitation rights once you get me into divorce court and pressure me for alimony. You think I get paid to push dinner rolls on the American public?"

"That moonchild is needed to keep an astral gate open in our country. Hold it until the planets insure that baby's rising sign will be in Cancer and the sun sign will be Capricorn. The alignment is only a few minutes away as a matter of fact. " The toilet paper bear warns. "Grave consequences will come your way if you do not retain your baby until then."

"Like what?" The Doughboy challenges.

"Like being Martha Stewart's fall guy when K-Mart goes under and she has no place to dump her product line. Good luck filing for bankruptcy with Bush's new laws."

"That's grave? I'll play the stock market any day over this. I'll even become a day trader specializing in intangibles." The Doughboy grunts until his face is purple. The moonchild starts to emerge. It is a breech birth. The Doughboy reaches around and grabs onto the slimy fecal baby and yanks it out, defying the portent waiting at the bottom of the well. When he feels his progeny firm in his grip, he pulls it out from under his ass to inspect. It is a G.I. Joe doll. Only the martial figurine is bald and has a neatly trimmed goatee. Nothing standard issue about this toy. Nothing worth replicating en masse either.

"Say the kabbalistic formula....and your child will come to life."

The Doughboy looks up and sees Grandpa Aleister in the water closet doorway.

"It's icky. My child is icky. I don't like it at all. Certainly not a chip off the old Ka'Ba if you ask me. Besides...it smells...like a beached mermaid after three days in the Andalusian sun." The Doughboy holds his nose for emphasis. "Now throw this in the Loch so that Bessie can eat it."

"You're a bona fide Zelator Doughboy. You were merely being tested by the Charmin Teddy Bear. He spoke the truth. And now you only have to utter a few words and your goat child....will..will rule the world."

"Can I enter him into a child beauty pageant someday like Jon Benet Ramsey?"

"Your moonchild is already 'Best of Show'. You can milk the Crab Cake Kid for all it is worth....just make sure you start your tour in Hollywood....it is imperative. There's a certain fountain I suggest you go to for starters.

The magic incantation is uttered by Grandpa Aleister. The G.I. Joe comes to life and the Doughboy turns it over and gives it a good spanking.

"Where's Uncle L. Ron and Uncle Anton? Time to pass out the cigars!" The Doughboy examines his baby. "Are you sure this is our child. Doesn't look like either of us in my opinion. Kind of looks like Anton....only uglier."

Mr. Whipple particle beam accelerates from Brookhaven, materializes in the tower, takes the baby and swaddles it in toilet paper. The baby screams, revealing its Northern Pike like fangs and serpentine tongue. The plastic scales are so life like and the eyes glow red and green, blipping on a radar screen at some secret NORAD installation.

"Where's Roman Polanski when we need him? This could be the next global blockbuster. We could rake in more profits than Titanic did. Then I could afford to bribe the officials at the National Academy of Sciences to get my statue put in their foyer." Aleister dreams. "We need to get Ronald McDonald and the Marlboro Man off those crosses before they die. Let's go...let's go....to Allah Land we go!"

The Pillsbury Doughboy starts to cry again. "Oh....lord...why has thou forsaken me? Why couldn't I have given birth to a SMURF?"

 

To be continued

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