Archive for December 7th, 2011

Authors note: Although I stopped blogging many months ago, that didn’t mean that I stopped following the thoughts, lives, and adventures of my many internet friends still out there word-smithing away for their readers pleasure!

And like all of you wonderful readers and commenters at Lemur Kings Folly, I’ve felt great concern for our host and buddy regarding his neck issues and their impact on his life and family.

That LK has so often expressed his anxiety – not about himself,  but about how his infirmities might burden his family – is quite revealing. It reveals the man’s strength of character – the finest.

So I’ve tried to entertain him with the familiar, remind him of how bad it could be (or get) with my darkest imagination, and express my hopes for the eventual outcome. I hope he – and you – has giggles over this!


Franken-boy slowly lifted the trembling fork-load of Rooty-Tooty-Fresh-N-Fruity towards his mouth, seemingly unaware that he was being observed. The obnoxious little brat across the isle in the next booth was watching him – rapt – but Franken-boy’s focus was on the fork and its contents, and nothing else.

Just as the fork came within range of Franken-boy’s open and clearly desperate-for-food piehole, the large mouthful slipped off the fork (plop), then tumbled down the front of his shirt and under the table – never to be seen again.

Franken-boy silently watched this latest setback and his shoulders slumped realistically – all hope fading from his eyes. He knew now that he was going to starve.

The little brat couldn’t help but burst into loud, hysterical laughter at this magnificently executed pratfall, and was promptly, energetically, and repeatedly smacked by his mother, who’d had quite enough of the little shit by now.

Franken-boy looked up at his elderly companion with appropriately worshipful eyes and quietly but eagerly asked, “Was that right, Master? Did I do it right?”

The fanged and dripping mouth of Steamboat McGoo spat, “Yes. Yes, my young apprentice…soon your training will be complete…take these!” and he reached clawed and grizzled paws towards the doomed child. In them, He was holding a cane and a whoopee cushion.

Lemur King snapped back into consciousness, his neck awash in agony bright as chrome-reflected sunlight, his eyes feeling hot and rust-grained.

He hurt.

His body – laying in a miasma of his own sweaty leavings – contorted in a primal rejection of the imagery now fading from his fuzzy and confused minds eye.

Or, at least, LK tried to contort. He was strapped and fastened down to the surgical table by stout padded canvas belts and could barely breathe – let alone move much more than a muscle or two. Not even that, actually. He was paralyzed.  A breathing mask was fitted snugly over his face, impairing his vision and smelling of an old swimming mask.

All around him lay an ominous dark.

“Sir? Are you OK? Don’t try to move. The anesthetic hasn’t worn off and you’ll hurt yourself.” said a voice – vaguely familiar.

Ah! The voice was that of Dr. Fudgefingers – the surgeon assigned to his case by The O’BuggerCare Board, and from the Rugged Hyman Surgical Group.

“Hgzdjkllgehme?” mumbled LK, not understanding what was going on – or where he was.

“Yes sir, you’ve just come out of surgery and I’m here to tell you all is swell.” The Dark moved a bit and there was a deeper doctor-shadow next to him now.  “The disconnect procedure went flawlessly.”

“Foop Pie-snit?”, LK pronounced carefully, so as not to be misunderstood.

“Yes. I’m sorry to tell you that after we got into the mechanics of your neck-disk internals we found that the whole thing was hopeless. So per your contract, we initiated the cranial separation procedure…”, the doctor said as he reached for either side of LK’s head.

And to LK’s horror, he felt – and saw – his head lift away from the body – now far below him and receding away into the darkness. And it hurt.

“There will be significant residual pain in the neck-stub end, I’m afraid, but we at O’BuggerCare and Suicide Kiosk #37569 provide plenty of opiates…”

But LK heard no more over his own screaming….

… and then the darkness rose up and carried him away… to a place where oblivion would be a kindness.


….and LK woke up, feeling so quietly and peacefully pain-free that his clear and crisp mind struggled to remember a recent comparable state of being.

He felt magnificent.

“We wants data, yes we does”, mumbled LK, and proceeded to move, then to toss and turn his head, shoulders and extremities in ever-more violent motions in an effort to find the until-just-now ever-present pain.

None.  Nada.

“Good data! More.”

Sensing with his noodle, he moved every part of his body trying to detect the least bit – the tiniest shred – of pain.

Zilch.  All his pain centers were apparently sound asleep – comatose, even.

“I could get used to this!”, he exclaimed, threw caution to the winds, and attempted to get up out of the hospital bed. But even as the thought formed, his body’s muscles were already moving him smoothly to a fully erect position next to the bed. Perfectly.

No twinge of anything resembling pain intruded upon the effort. His body was a well-oiled machine.

“Yes, sir – I’ll take this one”, he spoke to the imaginary Body Salesman. “This body will do juuuuuuust fine. Check please!”

There was a rustle and bustle behind him and he turned his head – painlessly, the neck all ball-bearings and teflon gliding – and was inundated by simultaneous hugs, kisses, squeezes, and other pleasant indignities from CW, Girlhead, and Franken-Boy. He bent and lifted a child in each arm – effortlessly – and hugged them tightly. This left him completely defenseless against the huge mega-kiss CW planted on his kisser with …well…her own.

“Things are looking brighter every moment”, LK exclaimed indistinctly past the smothering smooch. “Let’s go eat! I’m starving!”

In a raspy voice that could grind dry bones, worsening with every word,  Franken-boy said “Yeah, Dad!  And I can show you some really… neat tricks… Uncle McGoo showed me this morning!” As he spoke, he held up an ancient whoopee cushion and a twisted cane in his trembling clawed hands.


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I am now hooked up to a sedative. See, everyone that comes in sees a calm individual.

Had the anesthesiologist say “your appearance fooled me but not your vitals. So I am going to order up something.”

Bless you, child.

Cruel Wife is sitting 3 feet away banging on her laptop.

And as i said, I just got my sedatives and iV painkiller. Very smooth.

So I am going to knock off for now.


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Soon… soon…

Tomorrow is the surgery.  Fused-disc time.  No more foolin’ around.

I think you will be pleased with tomorrow’s posting.  Pleasantly so.

A friend has been invited to play and he accepted.  He will pour forth upon these pages a fun and twisted story.  He darkles.  He tincts.  Yar.

Or something like that.

All that comes to mind is:

Your soul is so dark it smudges mine.  – Zebra speaking to Rat, Pearls Before Swine

That’s not a negative commentary on our guest poster.  My soul has plenty of dark already.

Seriously, that is all that comes to mind.  I’m blank right now.  Even random stuff that normally comes to me is kaput.  And usually my brain NEVER stops spinning – at least three levels working at a time (which is not as fun as it might sound, in truth).  Today?  Nothing.

Oh well.  More later, eh?

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