John Tesh Crams Flea into Tuba
by A Candy-Colored Clown They Call the SandmanI was startled awake at 3 a.m. this morning by John Tesh attempting to cram Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist Flea, clad only in a black sock covering his genitals, into a large tuba.
"To err is human, to perform appendectomies during an election year while wearing only a raincoat is divine!" screamed Flea, whose muffled voice emanated from the innards of the brass monstrosity engulfing him down to his wiry torso.
Suddenly, Tesh made an incision into his own lower abdomen, out from which sprung a blackish-green, slimy, oozing proboscis, uncoiling endlessly from his stomach, and darting into the mouthpiece of the tuba. Except for the noise of the gelatinous probe sliding through the labrynthine corridors of the instrument, all was quiet--a stunned silence, like the calm before the storm. Moments later, an ear-piercing scream broke the stillness, as the tentacle-like organism vacuumed up all of Flea's intestines, and then ferociously spewed them forth. Bits of pancreas, colon, bladder, and liver came shooting out of every orifice of the tuba, coating my bedroom like a Disney-colored H.R. Giger nightmare.
All this excitement was making me hungry, so I ambled down to the kitchen, where I discovered Peter Falk, dressed in George Harrison's Sergeant Pepper's outfit, sitting at the table, injecting a Vlasic pickle with a syringe.
"I'm gonna dill-pop some scag, man," he drawled. "Want some?"
I told him I was fine for now, and nervously edged toward the back door and out into the yard. I glanced toward my oak tree and noticed, illuminated by the full moon, Juliette Lewis breast-feeding the embalmed corpse of one of the dwarves from 'The Wizard of Oz.' She smiled at me seductively, and then I ran toward the fence, and jumped over into my neighbor's yard. Immediately, scores of spotlights ignited the property, an air raid siren shrieked, and my neighbor appeared on his porch, wearing a guard unform and pointing a high-powered rifle at my forehead. Behind him, I saw Alec Baldwin and dozens of his brothers, dressed in black S.W.A.T. gear, rappelling down from the roof.
"Lay down on the ground, and keep your hands where I can see them," the neighbor barked through a megaphone.
I complied, and he approached shortly thereafter, and slapped some handcuffs on me. I tried to explain to him what happened, but he said that he would have to detain me in his basement for further questioning. He led me into his dungeon-like abode, uncuffed me, and steered me toward the basement. My warden/host gave me a push toward the stairs, and said that he would be down soon. As I cautiously made my way into the room, the first thing I saw was Emilio Estevez's head mounted on the wall, with antlers coming out of his ears. As I moved onward, searching for a way out, I heard a high-pitched voice coming from the furnace. I opened the panel, and found a naked 8-inch Danny Bonaduce, attaching a colostomy bag to a hamster, and humming the theme from M.A.S.H. Suddenly, the pilot light ignited, and Danny's red hair went up in a flash.
After further exploration, I found the entrance to the crawl space just as I heard the neighbor's footsteps coming downstairs. I quickly entered the cavernous, dank, putrid area, and flicked my lighter to get my bearings. In the distance, I saw Julia Roberts hunched over a candle-lit card table, picking crusty material out of her tear ducts and placing it into perfume bottles lined up in front of her. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the label on each bottle read, "Conjunctivitis-By Julia."
I felt my way around a corner, and nearly tripped over a mass of entangled limbs writhing on the mushy ground. I flicked my Bic, and was startled to see Wesley Snipes and Pat Buchanan, locked in a passionate embrace, rolling around, French-kissing each other.
I lurched forward, like a blind human windmill, and fell into an oozy, stench-ridden pit, and began a steep slide into the sewer system. I landed with a thud in a concrete tunnel. Sitting in a lotus position, a few feet away, was Andy Williams, dressed as an Indian guru. He looked up at me, smiled, and then produced a pair of garden shears from his robe, and systematically cut off each one of his fingers on his left hand, just below the knuckle.
"Sometimes you feel like a nut," he smiled, arcs of blood shooting from the five stumps on his hand, "sometimes you don't."
I continued on through the tunnel, holding my lighter above my head, searching for an opening. Suddenly, I felt my body being sucked upwards, through a powerful vortex. I found myself unable to breathe for a moment, and then felt water all around me. I lunged forward, gasping for air, and plunged out of my upstairs toilet-dizzy, cold, and wet. I looked into the bathroom mirror and noticed that my eyebrows were missing. It was good to be home again.
[Writers] [Birdhouse]