It Was All Something of A Bother

If memory serves, it was back in Ought One on the notorious floating ice slopes of the Ross Perot Ice Shelf in the little explored Canadian Hawaiian islets, Westeast of Port Uranium, where the Viceroy, the Undersecretary and I were reduced to boiling our gortex shells for a pesto base during one particularly devastating minus 100 howler. In accordance with the preaaranged plan xeroxed near the TransAmerica building, I had telexed Dr. X for the instructions on the Geneto-Ray but the Red Crested Awk stubbornly refused to turn into a San Clemente minature mammoth, dooming our plans for a unique cardigan manufactory, and forcing us to consider the dreaded Plan B.

Plan B. How the very appellation sent icy chills to the bones, in this helped as well by the actual icy chill. Most men would rather shave their small intestines than consider Plan B. But on the verge of death, when dreams of loving charted accountants no longer nurtured the will to live, the very brave, or the very desperate, or the very bravely desperately brave would be forced to consider Plan B, even as the very name brought a taste to the mouth like sucking on Zinc lozenges dipped in fresh salmonella.

Of course it involved the meat generator, a heavy duty Cuisinart, a Rush tape and the suspension of certain culinary taboos. We can only thank God that at the very moment of our ungodly doom on that godfrosaken floating icebarge a fully loaded C-130 was shot down in the immediate area by water-borne radical Disney Marketers with heat-seeking memos, just saving our Sherpa, Walter Mondale, from a fate worse than death, but not sparing our other Sherpa, Sarah Silverman, from a bottle of Beaujolais Nouveau and certain additional attentions.

And as we pulled the pallets of Tang and Doritos from the icy yet increasingly orange water, how we laughed and laughed and laughed in foodie joy and at Walter Mondale's comically endearing expression, knowing now that he would continue to live in liberal shame, as would we, and Sarah, now gamely sporting the mini-mammorth wool bikini, delivered a string of sharply placed obsenities at our collective expense.