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Freddy Barnett's

And Then Things Got Weird….

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The Thriller Driller

ManSurfing

Sylvia Benedict was discovered crying inside of the Sea Lion Beach Geezer World Van by local lifeguard, Brad Stokely, as he was headed home. “I found the woman sitting inside the van, crying over Mr. Noway Sr. The motor was still running. The van’s motor, not the old fart’s. Noway had suffered a heart attack.”

Way.

Sylvia , the spouse of beloved Bolsa Chico Surf Patrol Chief, Bernie Benedict, confessed to the ambulance staff concerning the death of her eighty-eight-year-old lover:

“We’d just had a friendly dinner, celebrating Wayne’s new Thriller Driller Penile Implant. He suggested that we to go out and replace all of the steel fasteners on the Long Beach bridge with his new… Oh, poopsieeeeeeeee!” (Crying.) “Wayne seemed fine! He really did. Then, after his little nap time, he wouldn’t respond.”

“That’s quite enough, Mrs. Benedict,” said the nauseous  ambulance driver.

The truth was el vomitosio. Somehow, the video of her story ended up on the local news.

Wayne Noway III’s (the grandkid) surfer buddies said that the sixteen-year-old surfer had been “blowing major chunkage,” “praying to the porcelain” and “hurling with a mighty chunder” after reading about what his grandpa and his ex-teacher had been doing. Los barfos, mesdames e messieurs.

#

My Sylvia! Bernie thought. And…and Wayne’s grandpa?! Noooooooooo!

He had to get out and get some fresh air, now.

#

After the broadcast, it seemed that the entire town of Bolsa Chico wanted to line the pier and join local hero  Bernie, in his major heave fest. It was if they’d all been hit with the dreaded Nosoi flu.

For days afterward, Bernie felt as though he were wearing a big red ‘D’—for Dumbass — on his forehead. Time had come for him to leave his longtime friends, his beloved job and his hometown of Balsa Chico.

####

Donette’s

Donette’s Cafe, formerly Rosie’s, was built upon the end of the Bolsa Chico Pier, in Orange County, California, in 1956. Recently, it had been purchased by a dark, sultry, dirty-talking  shark goddess, Dauna Robinson, who bought the cafe to promote her native Fijian coffee products: the high-octane Getthefuckouttamyway and Outtamywayasshole coffees, grown on her private  island of Kupaio. Dauna was the one and only waitress at Donette’s.

Bernie rarely drank the coffee, but loved the food. It was the following Sunday, Bernie’s birthday, when he ordered his final breakfast at Donette’s.

The TV was on and…

“Oh, Fuck! No! Not……. on…….. my………goddamned birthday!” Bernie said. The other customers were wondering if the patrolman had caught Tourette’s from Dauna.

Nope. The news was on CNN — and Bernie was pissed. His tragic ‘train wreck’ had gone both bacterial and viral. Millions, perhaps gazillions, were following Bernie’s sad story.

Parsley, Sage, Rosemary’s Baby & Thyme

New Shark Fin Titled

A Ballad of Bonny Auld Scotland — from Shark Fin Soup (coming  soon enough)

On this cold Galloway night, deep within the Beane clan’s seaside cave, it was not going to be all talk. Father Sawney’s loving family realized that dad was dead serious …. and, oh yes, nearly dead drunk. “We can’t afford to buy meager portions of cold gruel any more, children,” he slurred. “Not if I’m gonna keep drinkin. You Scot-nosed bastards will either have to go to work, or we must start eating all of these piple, I mean peebles…I mean…. (snore)”

Sawney fell into a deep dream of sugar-plum fairies before he could finish his sentence.

Little sprout, the little pink cherub, chimed in with his choirboy voice, and an optimistic  “Aye! Why eat gruel, when we can have fresh meat nearly every night?”

Slowly the Beane family developed their unique culinary style. There were no cookbooks in Scotland at this time, and besides, the Beane family couldn’t read. It was often trial (guilty: execution!) and error. Eccy was born a natural chef who understood the cosmic secret of tenderizing.”

“True tenderizing, my children, often requires multiple beatings with heavy clubs and the trampling of horses.”

On the next fine Christmas Eve, father had captured a group of five fat jolly missionaries. Momma tried to cook the first missionary by roasting him. The result was “ He’s too tough!”. She boiled the second missionary and that one came out of the pot “too mushy!”. The third was stewed and was “too stringy!” After the fourth ruined attempt, by baking, Mama Beane ran from the kitchen in tears, and exclaimed “ I Can’t get these missionaries to cook right!. I Tried baking, boiling, stewing, and roasting….I cant do anything right!”, she said, breaking down in tearful sobs. Sweet, dear little Sprout gently put his arm around his mom and hugged her.

“Don’t fret, Mommy. That one’s a friar!”

“THE MAN WITH ONE DEAD SHOE”

New Shark Fin Titled

“THE MAN WITH ONE DEAD SHOE”

Thursday 13 November, 2003, 04:34 GMT, The Lunch Times of Fiji posted this headline:

“A 136 year apology becomes just another ‘roast’ for the descendants of Thomas Baker”

The local inhabitant’s of Nabutautau have been suffering more than indigestion after eating Thomas —the English muffin — Baker over 136 years ago. So a tribal ceremony included a Baker’s Dozen — I meant to say — a dozen of the reverend Baker’s descendants.

Prime Minister Laisenia Qarase and 600 people, attended the tribal ceremony.

The Prime-cut minister said: “The Reverend was good and good for you and we’re honored that his great-great-grandson Geoffrey could attend. And though Geoffrey’s a Baker by name, he appears to be a roaster.” (He paused for laughs.) None came. The audience was getting restless. Bibs were being tied.

The local inhabitants believe their village has been suffering bad luck ever since the cannibalism incident in 1867, and hope that saying sorry will help their fortunes.“We believe we must have been cursed. When we have made the apology we will be clean again.”

Back In 1867, The Dinner Times Published this article: July 21, Nabutautau, Fiji

The Reverend Thomas Baker, from Playden in East Sussex has passed away. Baker was killed on Monday, in Nabutautau.

The Reverend spent many years in the interior highlands of Viti Levu trying to convert the Natives who were reluctant to give up their God, Bau, who is said to be ‘really cool.’ It is possible that the Reverend Baker may have offended some villagers with his holier than Swiss cheese attitude.

Only Reverend Baker’s right shoe remains today. The Hotat tribe ate the rest, including his hat, the left shoe and his spectacles.

The reverend’s cause of death is unknown, though it may have had something to with him getting his brains bashed out by chief Mbunji’s men.
One report says that the revered and untouchable chief, Mbunji, ‘borrowed’ the reverend’s comb while the missionary was out savoring…er, uh, saving the nearby Huk Huks.

When Baker returned that evening to his adopted village during that evening, he recognized his beloved comb still stuck in Chief Mbunji’s fancy hairdo. The reverends last words were, ”I hope that you don’t have cooties, “ when he pulled the comb from Chief’s sacred  ‘do. ‘

The villagers, enjoying their Bloody Mary and Venous Victor cocktails were astounded when they saw the Reverend touching Chief Mbunji. The chief’s should never be touched by a commoner. When a Fijian chief uses a cannibal fork, he will not let the ‘meat’ of his lowly prey touch his esteemed lips.

Then one of the local’s lowered his cup of Kava and  spoke to Reverend Baker: “O.K. Baker, pick your favorite sauce.”

“We ate everything,” one environmentally conscious 10 year old boy said. “If it weren’t for his horrible   stink foot we would have eaten both shoes!“

Services will be held at 5 p.m. on July 29, at the Jesus Shall Tender-Rise Chapel. In honor of the Reverend, guests are requested to wear only one shoe. The celebratory dance afterward will be a hopping good time.

There will be an open casket, a size-10 tissue lined box.

#

It was a ‘repentant consumer’ that lead a mission teacher to the tree limb where Baker’s shoe was perched.

The Reverend’s one leftover shoe is now on exhibit in Fiji’s Culinary Arts Exhibition through January.

A final ‘Foot’ note:

In 1926, Andrew Merrit, a young Mormon from Utah became the last known ‘missionary’ victim of Fijian cannibals. Only his Sunday-go-to-meetin’ suit remained after the attack.

The wealthy Merrit family tried to sue the British Government who controlled Fiji during the 1920s.  A justice of the Supreme Court spurned the litigation by proclaiming:

“This suit holds no Merrit.”

Note:

The Reverend’s humerus bone, attached to his leftover shodden foot was recovered twenty years later from fork of large shaddock tree.

No. The humerus bone is NOT the funny bone. Nor is it even attached to the foot. The humerus is connected to the shoulder bones on top. The lower humerus is connected to the wrist bones. The wrist bones are connected to the hand bones, which in modern man is connected to the iPhone.

They were given the traditional drink of kava, and attended ceremonies on Thursday, at which they were to take part in a “symbolic cutting of the chain of curse and bondage over the village.” The chain happened to be adorning the neck of a church elder.

A Methodist pastor, Iumeleki Susu, a descendant of the only surviving member of Thomas Baker’s doomed group, was also present.

 

On the next episode of Shark Fin Soup…

Bloody Hand Print Dark

>>>>> The cop was distracted by the sound of purring on the quiet pier as he approached the Cafe. He pulled a small revolver from the pocket of his windbreaker. The source of the sound was the size of small car, however white and furry.
It was Bomba rolling over and showing his tummy.
“Awwwww,” said the cop, unable to resist. “Good Kitty.”
When Captain Marquandson relaxed his gun and leaned toward the giant cat, Bomba took a swipe and split open the cop’s boozy torso .
Bomba then offered his prey to his boss, Artemis, to finish off.
Artemis ripped out Captain John Marquandson’s diseased liver and held it in front of his face.
“Ha ha! Hey, Johnny boy,” she said. “isn’t this thing supposed to go thump thump thump?”
“No, biotch! Only hearts go thump thump thump,” said Captain John on his slow motion voyage to the bloody planks.
“Dammit, Captain, I’m a goddess not a surgeon!” She threw his poisoned liver into a trash can.

Bats ^^Ö^^ The Dinner Hall Scene

“No one tells my Gibor children what to do, Gretel Van Helsing!”roared the twenty-foot tall Saturn who had burst through the door and took a place in front of Vlad’s crew. He squatted and opened his arms to the stupid trusting Gibors. “Come to Daddy, kids!”

“This doesn’t look good, brother!”said Gretel. “We should make like lightning, and bolt!”

Always obedient, the repulsive Gibors ran into the arms of their daddy, who had created their miserable but delectable race long ago in ancient Mesopotamia. Daddy Saturn began to bite their heads off in quick succession. The entire room, already sick to their stomachs, was startled to see a continuous splattering loop of Francisco Goya’s Saturn Eating His Son. Drooling, the giant smiled with his mouth full, burped and asked, “Who’s got the Sriracha?”― from “Bats”

^^Ö^^

https://read.amazon.com/kp/kshare?asin=B00T2XBVYU&id=Uu0mDM37T0ytYenmK4-pdg&reshareId=1V1PQ9PGQSKVH69GKF7J&reshareChannel=system

Enduring Mr. Monq (Life Among the Cannibals)

New Shark Fin Titled

 

 The Enduring Mr. Monq (Life Among the Cannibals)

(The right to grow arms.)

It started like this:

One hundred years ago, while on his tiny canoe many miles off of the Fiji coast, a fisherman from Fiji’s Hulla Balloo tribe, named Monq (pronounced Mahnk), who was barely out of his teens, lost half of his right arm while fishing.

With lightning speed, Monq’s big marlon spun, pulling the heavy fishing line tight around the boy’s arm and ‘snap,’ sliced it off quick and clean below the elbow. Before passing out, the panicked Monq applied a makeshift tourniquet above his elbow until the bleeding finally stopped.

After sleeping for three days under the sail cloth, Monq awoke in his canoe. He was hungry, and had lost all of his fishing gear along with the unattached limb.

All that there was to eat in the canoe were some small linkia sea stars tangled in an old piece of net and the rainwater inside his canoe. The skinny blue sea stars, more-than-likely tasted like they smelled. The young fisherman held his nose and took his only chance at a meal.

Linkia sea stars have the ability to regenerate their missing body parts.

Monq had no choice but to eat disgusting linkia. After three delirious days in the hot Melanesian sun there was a definite stump developing where his forearm used to hang. After drifting for a few more days, his arm was as good as new and he was able to use the torn net to catch a few tasty fish.

Regeneration was cannibal’s dream come true. He did not want to return to his village in an injured state. It would be a death sentence. Monq’s tribe traditionally ate their sick.

Eating echinoderms, as simple as they were (if you could get past the smell, the taste, and the violent diarrhea), could transfer their talent for regeneration to their eater, but only if consumed fresh, regularly and exclusively for days, if you didn’t mind putt-putt-putting around the island like a 300-hp Ever-rude outboard motor. A diet of powerful sea stars can give a cannibal up to fifty regenerations. Heads not included.

In the nineteenth century missionaries reported seeing only young, healthy Hulla Ballooins when they visited Fiji. Some lucky cannibals may have appeared malformed, when in fact they were busy growing new parts.

A large cushion star, with jelly filling, was worth a lot of money in Monq’s hood. One cushion star can regenerate an entire poor child’s body. Heads not included.

One local chief, named Mmdude (pronounced Hay-yu), grew his own twin. It worked for him while he went off to fish every day. He later set fire to and ate his twin as a birthday cake to himself.

Sometimes fingers, and even entire hands were lost when offered to tribal elders for nail-biting during times of heavy stress, thus saving their own desiccated  digits.

Today, the sea star cure remains a secret among a handful of tribes, handed (no pun intended) down from regeneration to regeneration. (hee hee).

In the Twenty-first Century, Sea Star Therapy has yet to be discovered by Western medicine. In nineteenth- century Hawaii, Father Damien, could not be offer the victim’s of Hansen’s disease the sea star cure. Damien, though pure-of-heart, and with his hipster beard, just wasn’t tuned in to Micronesian sea star magic.

Power to the People: Right Arm!

Monq -Version 10.2, was home again from his many weeks at sea and ready for the Annual Fiji Mbolo Worm Eating Festival (AFMWEF) which always began at sundown on June 1, with the centuries old chant:

“Nobody likes me. Everybody hates me. Guess I’ll go eat worms.”

Standing on the torch-lit makeshift pier, Monq tossed his net into the water, and saw the surface began to squirm. As he pulled in his net for the first time, he felt a sharp pain in thin membrane between his thumb and index finger.“Oh Mmfuck! Not again!” he thought. He kept pulling and saw that the net was, yes, not only full of green and brown Mbolo worms (oh yum) but deadly striped sea snakes!

In an angry quick motion, he pulled his razor-sharp machete from his canoe, and, in one furious swoop, lopped off his own hand before the lethal poison could travel through his blood vessels and throughout his body, which would ultimately result in his belly button unscrewing and his ass falling off.

Damn! It’s the right hand again! I need that for work too! It would be months before Monq’s new hand would, again, be operational.

____________

Monq had much bigger worries. One night while drunk on Kava, he’d insulted the local sheriff, Urp, by wearing the big red sea star on his bare chest and making gun sounds like a cowboy. He’d once seen Urp walking through the village wearing a silver star. Monq thought that wearing some red sea star “bling” might attract the ladies. (It would only end up attracting his often angry-for-a-good-reason, castration-happy wife.)

Red sea stars were sacred. They were only to be worn as bling by authority figures. Monq didn’t think that anybody had been paying attention. Behind a clump of bushes, a young cannibal named Bing, of the rival Elvii tribe, was taking detailed notes. Members of the Elvii are greasy-haired relatives of the vicious and Kuru afflicted Hotats of New Guinea. Bing, coveted Monq’s beautiful wife, Mmbabybaby, “for her mind.” Monq’s rival was also insane. Bing had acquired Kuru (mad cow disease) from dining on human brains at “Cerebrum Fest 2007” while in Papua, New Guinea. Bing’s afflicted body shook like a leaf on a fuzzy tree. Uh huh huh. Later that night, Bing would leave notes. One for Monq’s chief and one for Monq’s wife.

“Chief Mmrall (pronounced Dave) will not be amused,” said Monq’s wife, Mmbabybaby. “He gonna bite your head off, stupid!”

“And heads don’t grow back,” squeaked Monq as she had just castrated him again.

Monq would probably lose his meager income as well.

Because of worry, Monq had bitten his own fingernails literally down to the knuckles on three fingers of his right hand. It would be weeks before he could properly wipe his behind, which luckily never fell off because of the sea snake bite.

“Idiot!” he thought to himself. “I’d better started chewing on my left hand!”

Chief Mmrall was due back today, and Monq was sure that the monarch would make him a main course on the ‘Royal Sunday Brunch Buffet table. Monq could imagine himself, on a plate, right next to the very rare, endangered dark porpoise eggs.

Yes, porpoise eggs.

The Jolly 400-pound Chief had come back to the village and nothing was said about Monq’s transgression. Then, without any notice, one Sunday morning, two of the villages scariest warriors, Mmrush and Mmrove (Bob and Ed), knocked upon the door of the Monq family hut. “Whish Whish” went the knocking on the grass door.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Mmus, Monq. The Chief wants to see you for breakfast! Now!”

Monq, put on his best Sunday-go-to-eatin loin cloth, kissed his wife a tearful goodbye and went to the Chief’s hut along with the two warriors.

“Monq!” said the jovial Chief, Mmrall.”Have you had your morning Kava yet?”

“Mmmmm No, Your Highness.”

“Do you take fruit bat milk in it?”

“No, Your Highness.”

“Lady fingers?”

“No, thank you, Your Highness. Can I ask why you sent for me?”

“I didn’t send for you. Do you remember Daucina, the shark goddess? She was my close childhood friend. I’ve heard that she’d moved to Kupaio and started to grow coffee in the island’s bloody soil.”

The Chief smiled his ragged-toothed smile and leaned close to the fisherman. “She’s just saved your skin, Monq. She needs your special talent’s of regeneration, to help her fight the enemies of her old man, Dakuwaka.”

“The Shark God?”

“Apparently the *Hotats, the Kuru infected crazies from New Guinea have already adopted her power-hungry mother, Macelaca. Now, the crazies are also targeting Daucina’s family and her friends. You’ll be following, Daucina’s brother, a Mako shark named Fuscus, over to Kupaio, to help her out.”

“Fuscus. I remember him from the Fiji Devil’s Team. He’s one badddddd…”

“Shut your mouf!”

“Sorry, Your Highness.”

“Just fuckin’ with you, Monq.”

“Go and help the goddess. Get your canoe ready. You leave at high tide. When you return, call me. We’ll have dinner.” The Chief showed his ragged-toothed smile again. “Don’t worry. We’ll order a pizza….with everyone on it. Hah! I’m just busting your bolas, kid.”

“Your Highness?”

“Just fuckin’with you, Monq.”

•The Hotats a tribe of greasy “canoe mechanics” who cannot surf.

•Kuru = The human version of Mad Cow disease, caused by eating brains.

* Hansen’s disease / Leprosy (Not caused by the boy band The HansOn Brothers from the 1970s who, in fact wrote a song called “MMMBop“)

By the Sea (from Shark Fin Soup)

 

The warm morning sun shimmered upon the rippling sea. A nice sized coconut bobbed up and down just past the surging shoreline and a few yards past the black skinned, golden haired, fifteen-year-old Mmbop Handsun, the prince of his own itsy-bitsy teenie-weenie Micronesian kingdom.

It was going to be another hot one, and Mmbop had forgotten his newest pair of certified-previously-owned Ray-Ban sun glasses given to him, in trade, by a rich tourist woman for one of his prized wood carvings — carvings that he ordered, weekly, from what he thought were poor dumb hard-working saps over in Malaysia. He did not realize that the Malaysians had been outsourcing the genuine Fijian carvings to a sweaty warehouse in Alabama, USA, that employed the children of ex auto workers. Mmbop only paid twenty-five cents apiece for the crude art. Yesterday he’d sold ten oversized one-hundred dollar wooden cannibal forks that his father, the Chief, Papaumaumau, had ordered from Taiwan at 50 cents apiece. It had been a good week, now that he’d also helped his parents decimate and sell off most of the island’s remaining palm trees to the Chinese.

As if any drunken tourist would even notice, there was hardly a substantial palm tree left on any of the High Society Islands within three hundred miles. Coconuts were scarce on both Little Hubba, and Big Hubba-Hubba, the two islands comprising the kingdom of Hubba Hubba Hubba.

“Shouldn’t waste perfectly good food!” Mmbop said, as he pushed his thick blonde dreadlocks back. The golden hair and clear blue eyes were a throwback to his Scandinavian sailor ancestors who’d visited, mated and had been munched on, in Micronesia over seven hundred years ago.

Mmbop lifted himself up, stretching his long thin shadow across the beach.

After eating the sweet coconut meat he would clean off the husk and carve a bearded monkey head for the dwindling tourists that have been disappearing along with the trees. Maybe he’d add a human finger bone through the nose.

Tourists always assumed that the “nose-bone” came from a chicken. Chickens were revered as Gods in Hubba-Hubba. They were only used for their eggs, by order of Queen Erica, after the island’s omelet loving priests had convinced her that the chicken fruit were a gift from Lomalagi (Heaven) and that ‘the sacred chickens, DID, in fact, come before the eggs.’

He watched the coconut bobbing in the water. After the carving was finished, he would add some shell teeth and toy glasses.

Tourists love that stuff, Mmbop thought as he bent forward, and tried to grab onto the bobbing nut that persisted on floating away in the slow current and morning glare. He hit at the coconut with a stick and it turned over. It appeared to have already been carved with a funny beard and a big schnozolla with a human bone through it!

It, of course, was a real human head.

Mmbop scooped it out of the surf and carried it to shore.

Granola grinding, hemp wearing, coral hugging tourists don’t want a real human head, he thought. Not even a fresh one like this. Maybe I should toss it back? He shook his head ‘no.’ I shouldn’t waste a perfectly good head. He decided to ‘fix it up’ with a few artful cuts. He reached into the pocket of his Izod swimsuit, which yet another rich tourist had traded him for a necklace of genuine plastic whale teeth, and grabbed his Swiss Army Cannibal Fork, that came complete with a saw blade, a grater, a marital aid, assorted knives, an Egyptian nose hook (for removing brains), a Phillips screwdriver, and a waterproof universal remote.

At home, waiting for him, was his main squeeze, Mmbopalula.

“Maybe I’ll take it to her as a gift.…Besides, nothing turns a woman on like a full head of hair.”

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