To long-time fans, new readers, and disclaimer geeks, one and all, welcome. You may ask “why” after reading this gratuitous post. Let’s suffice to say it’s because someone’s got to bring the quality of writing down around here, and I have a reputation to uphold. Granted, it’s not nearly going as low or obnoxious as have certain recent political campaigns, but this sequence is entitled “Poll Position,” after all.

Sincerely,
Shecky Merman

FADE IN TO

Flashback sequence, as Bobby J. Memphis stomps out of the conference room, the others still laughing.

Bobby J. enters the rest room, still perturbed at the rest of Yanstebangus. He selects a piece of reading material from the rack. Close-up of it: a Johnny McStuff catalog.

~_^.^_~

Eddie Fraught and George Portent had gotten laid off when the truck-building plant was shut down in the latest attempt to adapt to a rapidly failing economy. There weren’t any sweetheart deals for the rank-and-file, although Upper Management supporters of various politicians tried to call in favors. Regrettably, several states and a wide cross-section of the bankers had been in line first, snapping up $700,000,000,000.00 in relief checks. Most of managers got shuffled to other plants; some got “golden handshakes” equal to three years’ pay for “worker bees” like George and Eddie.

Fortunately for George and Eddie, neither had to resort to sweeping Aisle Number Nine at Mal-Wart, the world’s bargain super-center. They got jobs sweeping aisles and fulfilling orders at the local Johnny McStuff Novelty Warehouse.

“Hey, Eddie, check this out. Somebody ordered the last 3 B625A’s we’ve got.” George waved the crinkly pull ticket as he stuck it on the clipboard on Eddie’s forklift.

Eddie flipped a few pages in the catalog. He hadn’t quite memorized what all of the codes signified. A wide grin broke over his grizzled face. “Someone’s going to have fun with these!”

~_^.^_~

Giovanni leaned in to the table, addressing the other 3 musical superstars. “All I can tell you is that this… thing… spoke. It knocked me out and must have dumped me in the car and moved it. And the scroll warned me about ‘The Shadowy Masters.’ ”

Billy P. sat back and said, “And you’re sure you weren’t drinking? I mean… Shadowy Masters… android machines with floating political consultants… lion-men living in underground lairs? It’s a little… well…”

Giovanni snapped, “I wasn’t drunk! I know what I saw.” He buried his dark eyes in his brow and slammed himself back in his chair.

“Alright, alright,” said Stefano, bending forward and raising his hand slightly. “Let’s figure what Giovanni says is legit. What are they going to want with us, anyway? Maybe to play a benefit concert for some big politico? Hey, that might make us more bread than a cereal endorsement.”

An audible groan came from the others.

“Whatever, it would;” Stefano went on, “but what I’m saying is that we have to focus on this tour we’re doing. No creepy Halloween ghost stories, we have 25 cities in 39 days. So, gentlemen, we keep our eyes open but get ready to rehearse.”

Bobby J. Memphis spoke up. “Hell yeah, y’all. I’m not worried. I’m just glad we’ve got the little breaks in there, because Brother Claghorn wants me to do a couple of those benefit shows for his campaign. Not like I’m makin’ any money off ‘im.” He gave Stefano the hairy eyeball.

“Okay, Bobby J., enough.” Stefano shrugged off the barb. “I meant we’d sell more albums after an appearance. I know you wouldn’t object to that.”

“Yeah, true,” said Bobby J. “Anyway… don’t forget that chili the Mrs. sent in. It’s in the crock-pot.”

“Yeah, it smells great,” said Billy P.

The others nodded agreement. It was the generic lunchtime, around noon, so they broke and enjoyed the chili. Bobby J. didn’t take much, attributing this to a huge brunch at Victory Worship Center on the way in.

~_^.^_~

NOTE: faint of heart? Squeamish? Low “grossout’ factor? Have better taste and aesthetic sense than Shecky Merman? Give up now, scroll to the bottom, and look forward to the next installment of Yanstebangus! Even Jim Carrey or Mike Myers fans should cringe. Consider that a warning.

The rest of you, well, read on.

~_^.^_~

The four-alarm chili was delectable, as the second and, in Stefano’s case, third helpings attested. There was just the right amount of heat, and a delicate balance of peppers to meat and bean flavors. The chili had obviously simmered for at least a full day, very low, to infuse everything with Southwest goodness. There were even almost chocolate notes to the flavor.

“Wow, kind of the reverse of Chocolat,’ said Billy P.

“Yeah, well, just don’t get no funny ideas, man,” quipped Bobby J.

Everyone roared at this. And A Good Time Was Had By All.

There was a moment, shortly following, that to this day will get you a trouncing by three members of this League Of Ordinary Gentlemen.

Almost at the same moment-now, seriously, if you hate gross-out gags-oh, hell, you were warned-three out of four band members felt a strange curdling in their stomachs. There was that sensation that, once experienced, is never forgotten. It’s one of the hallmarks of the human experience, and not one of the fun ones. The sensation of your intestines coming to a full, roiling boil, which only the most insensate would not connect to an immutable, imminent, nauseating explosion.

They looked at each other with that hopeless anti-grin, top teeth resting on down-turned bottom lip. They all stood abruptly. Their legs sent the rolling conference-room chairs haphazardly spinning backward. They were all calculating that there were 2 bathrooms, one with 2 stalls, the other a single.

Bobby J. remained seated. “What’s up with you all?” he asked, innocently, suppressing a smirk.

“No time!” shouted Stefano, rushing at the door. Billy P. and Giovanni just nodded and sprinted closely behind.

Bobby J. howled with laughter alone in the conference room.

As they raced toward the restrooms, Stefano said, “Ladies Room’s got 2 stalls, right?”

“Yeah,” confirmed Giovanni, breathless. “Janitor always leaves the door propped after cleaning and we never use it, so you can see that.”

“Not like I’m looking in there, usually,” he added.

“Usually,” said Billy P., keeping much better humor than one normally would under the circumstances. “Anyway, Stefano, you go for the men’s, whatever, I don’t care, I gotta GO!”

They made it there, with mere seconds to spare. Their shoes clattered over the floor with the sound of tap-dancers having epileptic seizures. As each flicked the stall doors, open, they raised the toilet lids, rapidly.

Shrill electronic screams greeted them, and each saw a horrifying monster, claws outstretched, leaping from inside the bowl. That it was made of rubber and its claws were suction-cupped to the inside of the lid didn’t ease the shock.

The explosive force with which the bowels of each of our hapless heroes let go could have cracked a cinder block. Suffice to say that it had the sound of a trombone section playing while immersed in chocolate pudding. Billy P. and Giovanni did much better than Stefano, each of them actually making the stall, ripping the plastic toilet monsters out of the way, and flinging themselves onto their respective thrones. Stefano, unfortunately, had a wardrobe malfunction: his button-fly gaucho pants were not made for a speedy escape.

The chili was.

Stefano’s manner and mode of dress were Southwestern, in tune with his persona, but his constitution was decidedly from Pittsburgh. Even though he could withstand 3 cabbage rolls, a pot of black coffee, 4 kielbasas, and a 12-pack of Iron City Beer, he was no match for the fiery chili burning his rump. The hot burst blasted against the taut linen barricade, splashing back against Stefano’s keister, and running down his leg. The vile droll leached to the outside edge of his pants.

Almost instantly, the heat in the trickling mess turned to a cold clamminess, making Stefano’s stomach flip upside down. The toilet monster, tossed to the floor, still looked up at the queasy troubadour. It taunted him with its snaggle-toothed smirk. The garish, sewery scent leapt into his nostrils, reached down his throat, and pulled as much gloppy sputum as it could back up his throat and out onto the discarded prank creature.

A chorus of groans in the stalls of the still-open ladies’ room was a sour soundtrack to Stefano’s indignity. Ashen-faced, befouled in the worst way, all he could do was head back out the door and look for old rags in the janitor’s closet.

Bobby J. was in the hall, laughing and pointing. “What’s a-matter, man, can’t handle yer chili?”

Stefano growled through the bile in his throat, “Just clean that crap up, man! Get the hell outta my way.” He didn’t even take a swing at Bobby J., though the thought had crossed his swirling mind.

At this point, he just collected a bunch of old newspapers to line the seat of his ebony SUV and headed back to his place for a change of clothes. “Paybacks are a bitch,” he thought to himself. He faintly smiled at a plastic skeleton decoration hanging in a tree strung with phony spider webs.

~_^.^_~

Just remember: sometimes a treat may contain the trick. Happy Hallowe’en from Yanstebangus!

If any of you join us next time, God bless you.

And on a serious note, it will soon be Election Day. Be the change you wish to see in the world. Don’t waste your voice on silence. Vote early and vote often.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Previously…