…And Then Things Got Weird….


May 2019

Jingles (Saint Peter) The Guy with All the keys

Saint Peter (Jingles). The guy with all the Keys.

Pete “Jingles” Wicszotcszkivitch had been the janitor at Westchester High School for as long as anyone could remember. He’d been assigned to his job, by God himself, at the current site over 3000 years before the school buildings had been constructed. Between Westchester High School and the Pearly Gates of Heaven, Jingles (a.k.a. Saint Pete) put in over eighty hours of cleanliness, so that he could be next to godliness.

The local Jocks and cheerleaders always teased Pete and they had nick-named him “Jingles” because of the huge key ring that dangled from his grey overalls. You could hear Jingles coming from miles away, unless he didn’t want you to hear him. Then you could only hear him three quarters of a mile away. His constant companions were his Japanese transistor radio and his rolling mop-bucket combo that was always filled with ACME Demon Eliminator.

The kids at the school loved to tease the old janitor. They considered unshaven Jingles a drunk, dirty old man who spent his free time at The Duck n’ Fishes ogling, its owner Cheri Baby. He would fill Biggie’s jukebox with coins requesting “I’m in the Nude for Love.”

He still is (what they said) and he still does.

Jingles always managed to teach the “little punks at school a lesson” especially when he greeted them, years later, after their deaths, at the pearly gates as a result of auto accidents. In his part-time gig as the cruel Saint Peter, he would force the brats to spend a year in “Traffic School for Teenage Sinners” before they could enter Heaven. That way, the punks would invariably miss the sumptuous nightly Oriental Seafood buffets.

Jingles had been watching Rubio since the kid started school in 1964 when the punk began to leave his trail of oily smudges along the newly mopped corridors of what Jingles called “Excreter Central.”

Westchester High was planet Earth’s foremost portal to Hell. It was an obvious fact to anyone who took the time to track the caliber of kids that the school released upon the world. Those “kids” included five Manson family members and the notorious surf band called Ionel GrtwszxtszckKyzt And the Spazmotics.

According to Jingles, his job was “to control the flow of these ‘juvenile delinquent punks’ from Earth to Heaven or Hell, so that they don’t bother the ‘Big Cheese (God) during their journey.

One day, Jingles decided to ring up Mr. Cheese using his Magic Hoppalong Cassidy Walkie-Talkie. Jingles was ready to spill the whole enchilada to the boss—about Hell’s chosen composer, Anthony Rubio.


Jingles heard ‘El Queso Grande’s’(The Big Cheese’s) phone pick up. “Jingles! Is that you, my old friend?” It sounded like Charleton Heston. “It’s me, Moses, your friendly Prince of Egypt. What the consarned heck is going on down there?”

“Moe! Is the Big Cheese in? This is an emergency. The awful music that ass faced moron plays on his boom box and …”

“Are you talking about that kid, Rubio? Sorry, God took the rest of the week off, Saint Pete. He’s eating ice cream and binge watching some British fantasy nonsense on Netflix. You can talk to me.”

“This is more serious than the atomic ‘trots,’ Moe. It think that this garbage that Rubio is writing might be the type of Drek that Cheri was developing as a weapon for the Department of Offense, or, even worse, it could be the Hippity Hop music that the Old Testicle warned us of.”

“Disco? Hippity Hop? Are you on cough syrup, Pete?”

“Jesus! This is serious, Sir.”

“Sorry Jingles, Jesus F. just left for the day,” explaineth Moses. “If you want to talk to his brother, Jesus H., the kid comes back from lunch at one. Or, acting as Charlton Heston, I could ask some of my NRA friends visit this punk Rubio.”

“I’m thinkin’ that we might need to use the old hellfire and brimstone on this kid,” saidith the janitor.

“Are you sure he’s threatening us with a new enhanced version of Cheri’s Crisco music? Has he killed anyone?”

“It’s Disco music,” corrected Jingles. “No deaths, sir.”

“Then, I’ll let the Cheese, himself, deal with him appropriately,” said Moses, who sounded worried. “Meanwhile, just keep Rubio away from Cheri. She’s a swell kid. All of us up here like her, but we do not care for her Frisco garbage.”

“Not Frisco. Disco, consigliere, and that abomination was also Rubio’s idea. This new variety is much worse. He’s throwing in country lyrics and space sounds. Country Rap, or, as we call it, CRAP music.”

“I should have guessed. I’d like to stomp him into clay for Ramses’ pyramids, but I don’t want to have to scrape that punk off of the bottoms of my boogedie boogedie shoes.”

Jingles needed to get down to the Duck n’ Fishes to get hisself drunk and meditate to the hypnotic motion of Cheri’s electric boogaloo.

Transformations in the Bacchus Bar (Shark Fin Soup)


Bernie Benedict: Interpol agent. He became famous for spotting and talking to apparitions and now he talks to most gods. Known as “The God Whisperer,” Bernie himself, is being transformed, slowly into a god.

Artemis: The stunning virgin goddess of the Moon and Hunt. She has fallen for mortal Bernie.

Jesus: The Messiah, who just fell in love. He needs to tell someone all about it.

The scent of gardenias filled the Bacchus Bar as all six-foot-six of the alabaster skinned Artemis danced, swirled and spun her skirt off into the dark corners. Doves flew toward the goddess, each holding a linen napkin to protect what little modesty that she had left. Bernie Benedict, well on his way to becoming the spitting image of Cary Grant, was barely sober enough to snatch a napkin from the beak of one of Artie’s “modesty” doves. The cloth intended for her left breast.

The face of Bernie’s ‘new best bud,’ Jesus, appeared on the small square of linen.

The wobbly Artemis exclaimed, “Σκατά! (Poopy!)”

As if someone hit the phonograph needle, the theme from Zorba came to a ripping halt. Bernie cried out. “Who invited you?”

The goddess quickly wrapped herself within the linen tablecloth. “Who invited him?”

“Wait! Don’t get mad,” said the Messiah. “I had to tell someone. I wanted you two to be the first to know. Bernie I found someone! A goddess — of —my — own!”

“Not now, Junior,” said Bernie.

The normally morose Messiah was jumping up and down. “Everyone calls her The Goddess Candy.”

Bernie asked, “Goddess Candy? Does she wear black leather and run a restaurant called Dominance Pizza?”

Jesus, surprised, stared at Bernie. “Yeah. Hey! You know her?”

“Sure we know her,” said Artemis. “I hate to tell you, J.C., but she’s not a real goddess. That’s her ‘stage name.’ She’s a dominatrix. You poor schmo.”

“A what? לַעֲזָאזֵל! Dad dammit! I feel like such a douche bagel.”

“Did she ask you to lick her boots?”

“Uhhhh… Please don’t mention this to my mom. Okay?”

“Sure. Hey, since you’re here, let me ask your opinion on something. If I, Bernie Benedict, a mortal, succumb to a goddess who is outside of my own religion, which is…”

“Ass worship?” said Artemis, slapping away Bernie’s naughty tentacles.

J.C. was staring at the soaked, disheveled Artemis. “You’ll be damned if you do, Bernie.”

Bernie, downcast, looked upset.

Jesus elbowed Bernie in the ribs like a bro. “But damned if you don’t,” he laughed.

Little Shredded Wheat Puss sure is in a good mood, thought Artemis.

Bernie, relieved, bowed in gratitude, hitting his drunken head on the table. “Ow! Bloody ‘ell!”

“I’ll leave you two sinners alone,” said Jesus. “I just thought I’d tell you the good news…(mumble)…ah לַעֲזָאזֵל!”

Fading while blushing, the Messiah went away in a little ‘poof.’

Artemis’ eyes smoldered at Bernie, “Definitely damned if you don’t.” The tablecloth she’d been wearing as it dropped to the floor. Guilt had left the building. Below the hat on her head, Artie was naked and glowing pink from within. “Hey. Lookie here, sinner,” she invited. “I’m PETA approved.”


“No pelt.”

“Oh, Jesu…,” said Bernie. “Blast it all. Me and my big drunken yap.”

“Tah dahhhhhhh!” Jesus instantly reappeared on the tablecloth. “You rang, good buddy?”

“No! It was a mistake.” yelled Bernie.

“Sorry. Did I leave my halo here?”

“It’s on your head. Now, go away,” said the pair, who were an explosive combination of pent-up bodily fluids, combustible alcohol and frenzied jutting protuberances.

“Did I already mention to you, Bernie,” asked Jesus, “that …”


The savior faded away.

“He really is in love,” said Artemis, wrapped in a fresh tablecloth.

“Now, where were we darling?”

“Right about…here,” she said, dancing in Bernie’s direction. “We were getting …elegant and…” (She stopped) “Dammit. Don’t look now.”

“What, dear?” asked Bernie. “For Heaven’s sake, Junior!”

“Candy’s a nice person!” stressed the Messiah, who had reappeared on Artemis’ fresh cover-up. “You’re just jealous, Mr. Berrrrrrnie Benedict. Eat my body!”

Bernie screamed. “That is soooo wrong! Get off of Artemis, Your Holiness!”

Artemis released the tablecloth and, six foot six and gloriously nude, did the Mexican hat dance on top of it. “It’s time that we get in orbit.”

“Nice bouquet, Artie.”

Artie spoke to the covered Messiah,“Get an everlasting life, kid,” while she twirled the gold chain like a lasso. “Grab the reins, Bernie.”

“You’re a funny goddess, I like you.”

“Come on, guyzzzzzzz,” said the Savior from beneath the cloth.

Bernie also stood up to leave. “Don’t follow us or I’ll call my attorney.”

“I don’t follow anyone. Remember? I already have over a billion followers and that’s on Twitter alone!” Jesus had disappeared.

“That kid can be such a … How do the American’s say it? asked Bernie.


The Birth of the British Invasion (the truth)

Wiltshire County, Great Britain-1963

The two alien Brills hovered their ship, The Lollipop, above the farming village of Hangover, near Stonehenge, in the county of Wiltshire, on the Salisbury plane.

The night before they landed, Buddy was busy drawing giant dicks, boobs and the word ‘fuck’ across the English countryside as though the wheat fields below were his personal Etch-A-Sketch.

Some of Buddy’s sketches were more than a quarter mile wide. He designed the patterns on the space ship’s computer and then precision cut the artful images upon the green pastoral landscape below.

At 1:30 a.m., on June 28, 1963, while the residents of Hangover slept, Ada demanded Buddy “go to bed and stop drawing your silly stick-figure porn with humungous butts and boobies.”

* * * *

Jolly Lord Capersmith

At two a.m., a distinguished gap-toothed mustached old duffer, wearing a bowler hat was driving home from the Laughing Gravy Pub. He pulled his Bentley over to the side of the road that faced his family’s Ancestral Castle upon his vast Capersmithshireton Estate.

“Wot?” said Lord Joseph.

Something exciting was afoot in the fields below. His Lordship quickly grabbed his silver-tipped cane along with his fine hand-tooled leather attaché case from motorcar’s passenger seat. Inside the case were his thermos, and a brand new brass fox hunting pistol. He removed his bowler hat and replaced it with a more appropriate deer stalker cap. Lord Joseph furtively tiptoed down the slope to investigate the strange lights illuminating the wheat fields below.

“By Jove! Naughty stick figures. I doooooo say. Delightful!”

In the field, on his property no less, also stood what looked like…

“Pip. Pip,” he said while twirling his handlebar mustache.

“It’s a bloody American Juke box. Rahthah! Jolly good show, old bean.”

Step — step — step.

“It must be the Princess’ idea of making merry,” his Lordship quipped. “A jest, I’m sure!”

“I’ll sit on this jolly old stump, pour myself a hot cup of tea, take aim at the doodad-thingamajig with my pistol, and give myself a bit of a respite! Simply smashing!”

Though the tipsy Lord Joseph fired and missed the juke box shaped space ship, the loud shots woke up the ever-testy alien musician, Ada, who was thoroughly enjoying an erotic dream wherein the radical Inventor, Nikola Tesla, was demonstrating his hot new invention, the Personal Harmonic Resonance Vibration Oscillator upon her person.

Capersmith stopped shooting when an invisible hand pulled back the window shade on the ship. “Something” inside the space ship struggled and cursed while trying to open the window on the front of the giant juke box. Dried paint had glued the window sill shut. Before Lord Joseph could say, with a stiff upper lip, “Oh bugger,” the window shot upward, and….

“Tallyho, Sir Asshole!” said Ada while she implemented the magic of the jolly olde ACME Auto-Suc upon Lord Joseph Capersmith, and thus deposited Lord Joseph’s royal rump within the Good Ship Lollipop.

Repeated screams of “Unhand me, knaves! Do you know who I am? I’m Lord Capersmith, a favorite of and a royal subject of her majesty!” echoed deep into Jolly Olde Sherwood forest.

Ada restored the tranquility of the spacecraft when she respectfully presented His Lordship with a formal printed invitation:

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