Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Disney Buys Lucas Episode 17 - The Mouseketeer Graveyard

   This picture that someone sent to me came with the question "Is this the Mouseketeer Graveyard you were telling me about once?" I asked them "Where did you get that." I asked it in a way that there was not a question mark at the end. They said "Is this where Mouseketeer Andy was buried?" I said how did you know about Mouseketeer Andy. I asked it in the same way as the previous question. They said I told them. I said I never spoke about Mouseketeer Andy at any time to any one. They said "See? So you know who Mouseketeer Andy is." I said sure, I never said I didn't. I just said I never spoke of him to anyone. And I added "...and it's ' who Mouseketeer Andy was': not is: I don't think he's still alive. Assuming he ever was." They said "What?" I said "Let's get back to this picture. Why did you send me this." They said "So you have seen this place?" I said "This looks like a movie-still. What movie is this."
   They hung up. As is often the case, when I get more interested in the interviewer than the interviewer is interested in me - the interview ends! The reason for this is because the life of the kind of person who becomes a soul-collapsed journalist - which is all of them - does not warrant examination. And all journalists know this.
   Talking to a journalists is, i tell you this most sincerely, like talking to a soul who has cast himself into hell and knows it but is too lazy to crawl back out, preferring instead to just lay in the shit dripping eternally out from his own ass due to the widening of the anus from the Pounding Cocks Of Weak Decisions having bored a whopping tunnel between his asscheeks within which a Saturn Five could be comfortably housed sideways.
   What I would have said to the journalist-caller, however, had he not left the Interview Venue was that I did have to admit I was slightly pressed suddenly forward and abruptly into the seatbelts when I first saw it; "it" being the picture he sent.
   It was like when you read something that comes at you out of nowhere in an H.P.  Lovecraft story and you go, somewhere in the back room of some cranial memory locker, you go "Jesus Pants-Shitting Christ, why is this sounding fucking familiar??" Except in the case of this picture I knew why it was familiar. It was in fact very much like what Mouseketeer Andy had told me about the "Mouseketeer graveyard." He said he saw it, and his description of it was so vivid that when I saw the movie-still it kind of jolted me into thinking that was really it when in fact it was merely a pretty vivid duplication of the picture that Andy had already installed into my head from his description.
   I was the only one besides Mouseketeer Andy - and the people who made him that way - who knew who Mouseketeer Andy was. Mouseketeer Andy lived in the array - a rather elaborate array - of flood-control conduits that traverse the underside of the streets and houses and stores of the San Fernando Valley. They empty into the Los Angeles "River," which  is a concrete pathway, sometimes walled, sometimes sloped, that oozes past Griffith Park on the North and East sides. During rainstorms however it doesnt ooze, it flies, it swoops, it courses like a 50 mile-per-hour monster 20 feet deep and  50 yards wide in a sluice constructed by the Army Corps of Engineers that rushes everything that falls into it to its death in a crashing-into wrecking-yard-debris fast-paced journey into sure-fire oblivion within ten trillion tons of dissolved mud from the San Gabriel Mountains.
   Much of this network greets other portions of the network in large square arenas of underground concrete, harboring large strange wheels that open and close iron grates and doors and causeways, like a railroad yard for water. And things in the water that, until the rains, never were in water. Like washing machines, gardening rakes, couches, buried bodies, unburied bodies: a potpourri of disgust and all the other things that Mexicans keep in their "yards" and dump into the millions of  curbstone inlets into the underground world of filthy water highways and where it runs off the desert filled with Mexican clothes and car parts once belonging to cars that quit running shortly after the Mexicans stole them.
   Andy was in fact Mexican so it was completely appropriate and wondrously ironic that he too should end-up in the sewer system. I am speaking generically now, saying sewer system, since the flood control maze and labyrinth and network is not a sewer system at all but a rain-disposal system.
   I am not sure that the Disney heirarchs, or anyone else in Burbank, actually,  knew Andy was so close to them. According to Andy, during those times that he would actually endeavor to speak, since he preferred to just breathe in and out and stare, he would bitterly - if gurgling can carry emotion - he would never say if anyone knew he was living there, he would mostly only bitterly gurgle, simply, that he was  "the damned."
   I had to agree. Mouseketeer Andy looked like the Elephant Man made out of mucus. He had an odor pouring off him that was like salmon made out of burning sulphur that gave off steam instead of smoke. He was like a walking greenhouse of humidity mixed with the odor of a flesh-eating plant from a sunken hole in a peatmoss jungle in Burma during a heat wave in whatever their July is after the plant ate an Iraqi male Muslim that had himself just eaten a raw goat that had shit-out boiling yak bile from its ass all over itself on a haul-out beach of walruses in a Louisiana bayou sandbar reeking of rotting algae bubbling on the wet inner skin of a vulture's diseased cloaca. Andy smelled really really bad in other words.
   He didn't look so hot either. Even though he was hot. And by hot I mean as registered by a thermometer, not by Paris Hilton's aesthetical scale of deigned-worthy-to-jizz-upon-her-nipples hot. I mean hot. Andy was hot. His surface temperature was 120 degrees F. Add all that heat to the stink he would have been still naturally producing even if he was embedded in dry ice on the backside of Ganymede after the death of the sun and you have a real problem maintaining the will to live or even staying conscious during a social call upon Mouseketeer Andy.
   Andy killed anyone who stumbled upon him. He did it by telepathically incinerating their brain-mass while it was still inside their skulls. He probably could have incinerated their balls too while they were still inside their ballsacks but frying their brains seems to be his method of choice. Maybe it was his way of showing mercy and decorum. It might have been a Spanish sense of civility since his last name was Miramontes and not Icxtaxztekwtzicuatixquatl and he lacked that Aztec/Mayan savagery the Cartel Mexicans are so proud of. It was Andy's noble sense of spirit that harkened back to the race that built the Armada, not the race that harkened back to the jungle pyramids where adult males raped 9 year old boys and girls and then removed their beating hearts from their chests and ate them raw in front of the still living, still seeing, eyes of their jizz-covered, bleeding-from-the-ass, victims that caused him to fry their brains and not their balls, most likely. An eye-daubing, tear-drying touch of civility that coursed through his Corinthian Leather veins, or however R-r-r-r-reeecar-r-r-r-rdo Montalllllban might have referred to them.
   He didn't kill me, like he did everyone else, because we were both used in the same experiment only in my case things went the way they were supposed to. I am not at liberty to discuss what "things went the way they were supposed to" means. It involves things that are not contained within the celestial context of Sol-planet Earth. That does not mean they are magical or "wondrous." It just means it does not entail human cultural psychology, which is astoundingly fucked up. I like to call it "I had the implant removed." Which is my idea of a joke because I am fond of saying I am the only reverse paranoid on earth: I am convinced I don't have an implant and everyone else does. But that's just a joke. A more serious way to put it would be I had the control rods in my brain pulled out. I was deAdamized. This by no means means I am now a nice person. I am not. I am still a social psycho anxious for the fun of Armageddon and hoping I am riding one of the hydrogen bombs to earth onto whatever enclave of assholes I am assigned to descend upon, preferably a Muslim one. And if the Muslim enclave is only full of Muslim women and children, haha, it won't make no difference to me, I will gladly blow them into oblivion while laughing.
   No, I have not been made more holy. My personality has not been altered, I am still a mental patient. Only the lies I believed were removed. Not all the lies: just the ones I believed.
   Now, you might be saying why would such an incident turn Mouseketeer Andy into the ugly piece of  stench-radiating wreckage previously described.
   Because Mouseketeer Andy liked the lies that he believed. When his psyche and soul rebelled against having them removed his physicality took on the visible appearance of the lies.
   In other words, looking at Andy was actually scarier than you might have thought, based on the previous description I gave you: because you were not looking at his body: you were looking at his soul: not at him. Or maybe I should say you were looking at him. The real him.
   Somewhere someone with a pocket protector in his shirt is saying "If andy was made ugly losing his lies because he loved them, were you made beautiful losing your lies because you did not love them?"
  I like to think so. The mirror, however says "no, you still look like decrepit Grampaw Buford's bleeding hemorrhoids."
   So why was Andy visibly altered and I visibly wasn't? Even they don't know and they shitcanned that program immediately, although there were 5 or 6 Mouseketeers prior to the termination of the program who came out the other end the way that the program intended. I don't know who they are and don't care: you can't make pudding out of pus, is the way I see it: so they see things clearly, what's the point if they are still dull-as-dung dipshits and don't tell anyone.
   One of my own questions is, if that little project was something they got rid of immediately at the first sign of disaster, the rational, relatively alert man has to ask himself does this mean that in the main scheme of things this was just a minor undertaking?...a mere lab experiment by the apprentice freshmen assisting the tenured sorcerers? I have no idea. If they are doing bigger things they sure ain't doing it here on Earth as far as I can see.
   And Andy seems drastic enough for me.
   The problem with Andy is that he can't be killed, or at least no one has succeeded in killing him, because there have been attempts. I was there for one of them. Ten people in some sort of strange armor that hugged the body and had extruding arcing tendrils up and down the forearms and shoulders and upper arms, they advanced out of the darkness of a dozen different corridors and did not seem to give a shit that I was there. Someone audibly and calmly announced "Kill them."
   Andy altered his shape from more or less a bipedal pudding into a winged ten foot bat that really spread the stink around because his surface area had increased, even not-counting the huge new wtf wings.
   If the ten individuals behind what appeared to be faceplates had expressions I don't know what they were because Andy had stretched both legs forward and scooped five into one "foot" and five into the other "foot" like an eagle would catch two trout from the surface of a lake.
   He now also had talons. Ten on each "foot."
   The talons on both feet or whatever they were closed immediately and abruptly on the two cinched clumps of attackers and they all burst and popped in relative silence like tomatoes. Andy's head then changed from something from the Id creature of Forbidden Planet to the head of a baleen whale with an orifice instead of baleen and this black abyss of unholy stench simply and unceremoniously but with a lot of liquidy noise siphoned the former platoon that was now pulp into itself.
   I watched all this like I would watch my own death if I could watch it, with silent paralysis and my mouth and eyes becoming one central circle of disbelief.
   The ten people now gone and blood everywhere, always-transforming-Andy, standing at his new full height, leaned down at me and said, with new vocal chords that made his voice sound a little like a jet engine "It's not all sad introspection while sulking in the bodily appearance of a garden slug down here in the sewers."
   "No fucking shit," I managed to say. After a minute I said "You gonna look like Satan Unchained for long? I feel like I'm in the fucking Bible. How come you ain't killing me?"
   Be-Elzebub Miramontes looked down at me with very large illuminated orange eyes from some other dimension of events, some other dimension of denizens, some other dimension of life and said in a voice now like a struggling plugged toilet pipe in a large communal bathroom " Why would I kill you. We're both members of the Screen Actors Guild. Union brothers have to stick together. It's the laborer's code. All power to the people. Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha."
   I was glad he felt that way even though I am not a Democrat.
    "Who were those people. And why were they going to kill you. And me by default. And why do you look like Satan? And you smell a thousand times worse now that you're ten times bigger. Are you ever going to take a bath?"
   "Why don't you leave before I pull your arms and legs off and shorten the distance between your asshole and your mouth by eating your guts and then shitting them into the hole in your dick assuming you have one, cunt."
   Mousketeer Andy when he was 10 was not much of a diplomat. Now, at 50, and having the soul and appearance of Moloch, neither time nor computerized special effects had done anything for his manners. And, since he could actually make good on all those threats he made, and, since his speaking voice now sounded like a low frequency Theramin having a nervous breakdown at rumbling volume, I left.
   If he hadn'ta been a fuckin' Mexican I'm sure he woulda been a much nicer person.
   I also think he is the only Mouseketeer that if they hired ten more that look like him the Mickey Mouse Club being played on tv with that crew would give a whole new majestic meaning to the concept of "good ratings." People would kill to watch it. And nobody would ever make fun of them later on when they got fired, either. Nobody with any fuckin' sense at least.



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