What's the Frequency, Kenneth?

by A Candy-Colored Clown They Call the Sandman

As I was enjoying my Spaghettio's with horseradish this afternoon, I heard a tinny, raspy voice coming from the bowl. I sifted through the macaroni and tomato sauce and discovered a one-inch tall squirming Arnold Horshack from the 1970's sitcom 'Welcome Back Kotter'. In between his annoying, trademark croaky laughs, he whined, in a thick Brooklyn accent, that the toilet paper must hang down from the back of the roll, not the front. He then commanded me to assassinate Ann Landers for the erroneous advice she's been giving out on this important matter for all these years. I quickly ate him, and had to pull his army jacket out of my teeth with a toothpick. I then screamed to my nurse, Camilia, who brought my medication.

My friend Charlie, who, as I may have mentioned earlier, is a piece of lint living next to my water glass on my nightstand, has informed me that Ellen Barkin is actually a replicant, a la 'Blade Runner', and she plans to perform the Chinese Water Torture on each member of the Beastie Boys. This did not surprise me, as I always felt that her face was not put together quite right. After taking a shower so hot that bits of my skin sloughed off to reveal muscle, cartilage, and bone, I ambled over to the recreation room to watch my fellow patients play ping-pong. Much to my chagrin, however, the ping-pong ball they were batting back and forth is actually a miniature head of Ned Beatty. Rather than screaming, I walked over to the drinking fountain and vomited up an exact likeness of Marc Goodman, one of the original MTV Vee- Jays. Feeling better after having rid my system of its impurities, I went to the Coke machine, deposited two Necco wafers, and was immediately wrestled to the ground by FBI agents. Charlie was right. This place is crawling with Feds. After convincing them that I thought I had put two quarters in the machine, they let me go after shaving my eyebrows and tattooing a likeness of Arte Johnson on my back. After this, I was in no mood for any more excitement, so I retired to my room with a copy of Ferret World magazine. As I settled in and popped the tab on my can of Coke, rather than the reassuring carbonated fizz, I heard the unmistakable growl of Richard Nixon declaring "I am not a crook" from the beverage. I cautiously peered into the can and noticed an entire 1940's swimming musical ensemble with singers, dancers, and orchestra staring up at me flashing the peace sign. I smiled at them, covered the mouth of the can with my thumb, and shook it up and down vigorously. I released my thumb, and out from the can sprung a jelly-like Robin Williams, talking in "wacky" voices, making flamboyant gestures, and prancing around the room. I told him I was not in the mood, and he started choking me. Camilia came running with the medication after hearing the screams.

Charlie frightened me this morning by revealing that the "cotton" on the end of a Q-tip swab is actually reconstituted hair from the heads of deceased elderly people in Idaho. This could explain my recent spate of ear infections. Camilia brought me a bowl of what I thought was Cocoa Crispies this morning. But upon closer inspection, it appeared to be a mass of wriggling brown maggots. I ate them quickly, so as not to offend the hard-working hospital staff. After breakfast and a healthy session of vomiting, I strolled out onto the lush hospital grounds, under the ever-vigilant eye of Camilia. I noticed a squirrel at the base of a tree holding a sign that said "WILL KILL FOR FOOD". I hurried past and made my way to a bench to have a seat and contemplate the scenery. Before I could sit, though, I noticed William Shatner's hairpiece crawling across the back of the bench singing "Maria" from "West Side Story". I was not about to let this deter me. I sat down, and the hairpiece, cutting its rendition short, skittered over to me on tiny, knobby, finger-like appendages, and hoarsely whispered into my ear, "I know the frequency". I screamed and Camilia came, syringe ready.

[Writers] [Birdhouse]