Wednesday, November 24, 2010

F**k da Police; or, Another Day in my Fruitless Search for the Novelization of Agent Cody Banks 2: Destination London

By the time I was awake the dogs had stopped barking. Apparently my bark-sensitive land mines were a success.
As I drearily rubbed my eyes I pulled aside the large flap of sewn-together foreskin that serves as my drapes and saw a large crater in the neighbor's yard, extending from right next to where the dogs are kept all the way past the house, into the next subdivision of property. The only thing that remained of the Kepler's house (and probably the Keplers, if they were home when their dogs started barking) was their garage, some well founded support beams and their lovely, lavish garden.
I walked out of the house and immediately noticed that the cars I'd seen through the windows were in fact police cars, which scared me a little. I still had an arrest warrant for a joke I played one time where I ran my car over this one guy's kid because she stuck her ugly little pink tongue out at me. They call it vehicular homicide, but I call it sticking my proverbial tongue back out at her, teaching her a lesson; given my proverbial tongue is something more like a Red Ford F250.
“Well hello there,” said an officer, who sounded suspiciously foreign to me.
“Hello?” I asked him condescendingly.
“Um,” he responded, obviously perplexed at my introspective jab at his worldview.
“You would, wouldn't you?” I asked him. By now it was rather obvious that I'd gained the upper hand in the situation, and now it was more me questioning him than the other way around. I was the good cop and the bad cop; he was the cop that wasn't being treated like one at all. Advantage me.
“I would what?” asked the officer.
“And I bet you'd totally eat all the Pringles and only leave the crumbs in the bottom of the can, so that you can still say you didn't technically 'finish them', but you can still get to eat all the Pringles. A little bit of having your cake and eating it, too; isn't that the case?” I interrogated, trying to get to the heart of the matter.
“Sir, I'm going to have to ask you—”
“So you're the one asking questions now?” I asked acidicly.
The policeman, now obviously distressed with my intellectual prowess, pointed in the direction of a police cruiser as if to say, “I'm just going to go over here and study for another decade so I can keep up with your mental fluidity.”
I laughed. What else can you do?
I walked to the mailbox and put it in.
As I was returning to my house, another officer, more robust and mentally agile than the previous one, called fast after me.
“Hello?” I responded, seeing if this officer would fall pray to such rudimentary stratagem.
“Who?” he asked.
I nodded in approval of this assertion. “Okay,” I said, “lay it down, thy malfeasant artichoke mediator.”
“What I wanted to ask,” said the man, wetting his mustache with a white-stained sulfuric tongue, “is if you heard anything last night. You know, while you were asleep.”
“I do as an ant does,” I claimed stoically.
“You don't sleep?”
“Did I say ant? I meant aunt,” I corrected myself.
“Oh, so you send out vapid Christmas family newsletters and make fudge on some occasion?”
I nodded, pleased more or less with his summary of my day-to-day activities.
“Would you say you also tend to ramble about the bible?”
“I didn't say great-aunt, did I?” I asked didactically.
“I see,” responded the officer. “Sir, I will be frank.”
“Is that your name?”
“Well, if you're going to play that way,” he grumbled, “I will be franklin.”
“Better,” I said, pointing my morning erection towards the eastern horizon, indicating that he should continue his diatribe.
“Well,” he started, “I do think that you might have been drinking,” he continued, “given that your lawn is littered with fifths,” he ended.
“I'm sorry?” I asked defensively.
“Well, I see that your lawn is littered with a bunch of empty fifths of alcohol, and I was wondering...”
“Let me tell you, sir, I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Well, if you don't want to admit to it, that's fine, you have a right to the fifth amendment...” he trailed off wearily, like a confused cub scout after I've given him enough horse tranquilizers to stop a Humpback Whale dead in the water and I've undressed him in preparations for the Charlie Rose interviews George Clooney marathon I had (Not that Charlie Rose has interviewed Clooney more than once; I just put the DVD on constant repeat until I climax.).
“I certainly will not invoke the fifth amendment, not in this matter of fifths!” I claimed.
“Well, I have to get confirmation from you four more times...” the onerous officer began again.
“Listen, I won't tell you for a second, third, forth or fifth time; I won't invoke the fifth amendment on these fifths here, I don't know what fifths the fifth would cover five times, even.”
“These bottles?” asked the officer.
“Oh, those? Those aren't fifths; those are seven hundred and fifty milliliters,” I assured the officer.
“Same difference,” he contended.
“I'm sorry sir, but seven hundred and fifty milliliters is approximately one percent less liquid than one-fifth of a gallon, and when it comes to the standard system, I'd just as soon fuck a retarded pigeon before the sedimentary layer of rock that is now grafting fully to my back yard futon would be growing its perennial springtime decay.”
“I'm sorry,” said the officer, nonplussed by my blinding genius, “did you say you have a back yard futon?”
“Well, how else am I going to sleep in the back yard on the nights when my balls sweat too much to handle the endless hours of research provided me via the home shopping network?”
“The home sh...”
“And anyways, it seems like the season of the cobra really—when all is said and done—derives fully from most marsupial mammograms matriculation into martial law, doesn't it?”
The officer gingerly walked away, eyes on me the whole time, and spoke to another officer who was reading the novelization of Agent Cody Banks 2: Destination London, written by the illustrious and infamous genre-bending experimental prose writer Michael Anthony Steele. I peered at the book--my prize, my Arc of the Covenant, my Holy Grail, my Temple of doom. I salivated like Pavlov's dog at the sound of a bell. He looked in my direction our eyes met like wolves wear burgundy business suits, shattering the peace of mind I'd maintained up to this point and popping my axiomatic heebie geebies cherry. He looked at me and nodded ravenously. Slowly his bulbous stomach started stirringly in my direction. His eyes blazed boisterously like that one asshole's trailer I burned down. His lips quivered vividly, his mouth was alive with juices like wine; he was hungry like the wolf.
As he stepped gallantly onto the small patch of lawn unsaturated in Bacardi and urine, the officer gave me a scowl not unlike a mother wolf when you threaten her child, or when you kidnap a wolf pup and try to take it to a McDonald's Playland, to be more exact. I looked deep into his sharp brown eyes, the color of when you try to combine markers like red and blue, thinking it will come out purple—it doesn't, it comes out brown—and I sneered.
“Are you scoffing me?” he asked franklinly, in a bulbous basso profundo.
“I most certainly am not!” I yelled, offended that he would ask. “Can you not tell the difference between a scoff and a sneer?”
“One man's cough is another man's sneer,” the officer claimed.
“That's like saying one man's Asian is another man's colored.”
“Colored?” he asked, surprised at my olden, colloquial vernacular.
“Yes,” I said, “colored.”
The officer lowered his eyes and his voice, saying, “You aren't allowed to say colored.”
“What do you mean? Is this not America, the land of the home and the free?”
“Well, it is, and you have the right...”
“Then I'll say colored if I damn well please.”
I decided now would be a good time to try an escape. I was tired of the questions, and everybody knows that questions lead to answers, and sometimes some answers will put you back in prison, and since I'm still technically on parole in eleven different states where I've been paroled—well, I'd just as well not even take the chance.
“Good day, then,” I said, leaving the officer to his own devices.
“I'm sorry?” he asked, still lost in a sea of bepuzzlement.
“What do you want?” I said, wanting to avoid any further interrogation at the hands of such brutal investigators.
“I just wanted to ask you a question or two,” he continued.
“Can I be earnest?” I asked him, interrupting.
“Well, I think you'd have to check with the estate of Jim Varney.”
I was instantly taken aback, stumbling back onto my back. I fell onto a bed of brown grass and clear bottles. I stroked the detonator in my shirt pocket sweetly with my left hand.
“Are you rubbing your nipple?” asked the officer, offended.
“I'll perform my areolic acrobatics at will; this is a free goddamn country!” I shouted, now visibly aroused.
“Not in my town you don't!”said the Orwellian officer, starting towards me.
“You wouldn't,” I said, fingering the trigger and shaking my head warningly.
“What is it that you've got there?” he asked. “What do you think you're doing?”
“Do you see that mailbox over there?”
“Yes, why?” he asked.
“Well, there's a bomb in it.”
“Just 'cause,” I said. “Oh, this is the trigger.”
“Why on earth?”
“Hows about we make a trade,” I proposed.
“I would like all the Michael Anthony Steele novels you have, right now.”
“But I don't have all of them here!”
“Well, that's your problem, isn't it?” I said malevolently. “Oh, another thing you should know: if you go talk to your colored friends over there, it's boom boom time.”
“Colored? They're all white,” he insisted.
“What do you mean? They're blue.”
“You know, the color.”
“Oh, because of their uniforms? They're still Caucasian underneath.”
“What?” I asked, beginning to lose the officer's direction.
“They're white people. Their skin is white.”
“It looks blue to me.”
“That's their clothing.”
“Their wha?”
I shook my head. What the hell is clothing? Something made out of cloths? Suddenly, I snapped out of my quandary; this was not the time, nor place. I was full-swing into operation Michael Anthony Steele, and I wasn't about to give up chase.
“Shut up, fat man,” I said to the cop. He wasn't that fat, but I thought I'd see if I could damage his self-esteem. He was fat enough to be self-conscious about his weight, but not fat enough to get looked and pointed at for being fat.
“I'm not fat,” he insisted.
“Get the books, blubbers.”
The officer frowned and walked towards his cruiser. He didn't talk to any of the other officers—he didn't even look at them. He came back bearing King of the Pirates, Book 1, The Naked Brothers Band's Cry Wolff and Battle of the Bands, and I'm a Great Big Tow-Truck! I looked at the latter and frowned.
“What do you think I am, some kind of child?” I asked hatefully. “You think I still read picture books? I'm a big boy, you dumb motherfucker!” I yelled, chucking the book at the officer's small forehead.
“Oh Jesus, ouch!” he exclaimed.
“And where the fuck is Agent Cody Banks 2?” I asked.
“I haven't got a copy,” he lied.
“You're a liar!”
“I am not!”
“Are too!” I said, grabbing a mostly empty bottle of Barcardi 151 lying next to my right ankle.
“I certainly am not!” the officer insisted.
I took a swig from the bottle and produced a lighter from my pocket. I spit the potent rum at the policeman's leg and lit a flame under it. The fumes caught immediately.
“Liar, liar, pants on fire!” I observed.
The other officers noticed that their comrade had a barbecuing leg and tried to come to his assistance. Before they could, however, I rubbed my nipple scornfully and they were wiped out by the mailbox shrapnel.
The officer lay crying at his poor little leg and I interrogated him further, “So, you still don't have Agent Cody Banks 2: Destination London?” I asked.
"My pocket," he said woefully.
"Right or left?" I asked excitedly. Finally the treasure would be mine.
I turned around his charred body and looked for a right pocket. Instead, all I could see was the cover of Agent Cody Banks 2: Destination London grafted poorly to the side of the officer's leg. I looked at my watch. Duh, it was a Monday.
"To quote Garfield," I said aloud, "I hate Mondays."
"The President?" asked the officer in a delusional mumble.
I laughed. "Who would elect a cartoon cat to be president?" I walked back inside, chuckling at such a silly idea.