You may now beckon from yon memory, yea reader of wall-eye and ice-pick wit, a vision of a time and a place that you may have confused with some other time and place (but then, it is really not your fault, the wall-eye and all)...but to wit...beckon if you will that memory of that place that is so blue, yes reader, blue!
Ah the connotations of that word...so many meanings. One may be blue for the unrequited love, or blue from too much breath beheld (beheld?). One may be blue from reading too much Chaucer, or Capote, or Kerouwac... "blue in the face", that is.
Which leads us, reader with the far-away stare, to that place of the face of blue, that devastatingly handsome place with the mug (putz) of blue - that's right, numbskull, Putzenbleu (bethcha didn't see that comin', you wall-eyed freak, for what else am I to believe of one who digs in dung?).
Warto McConkey and Crystal Silverloin had first met here back in ought-ought. They were both in town for a convention having something to do with their respective occupation du jour, that is, they were both in the exciting employ of that thrill-a-minute industry, Cable Television advertising sales.
They were trying to work a deal to wire up everyone in Greenback, Tennessee with Cable TV. She had just developed a new gimmick for impressing Cable TV execs by wearing a catwoman costume to her sales pitches. The patent leather really showed off her more than adequate physique, and she had a quirky little way of punctuating her advert patter with a little game show modelesque move she commonly referred to as "getting the points across".
Of course, those pesky advert execs of the cable capitol of the world, Putzenbleu, France, were always receptive to any "œpoints" she might offer.
Little did she know that on this day she'd happen across the man who'd change her life forever.
Warto McConkey had heard about the â"interesting" costumes that some comely young Cable TV advertising sales reps were commonly using to get that almighty advertising dollar. He decided he'd get his share.
Donning a bow tie and form-flattering (for his manly physique truly resembled an hour glass, or perhaps a peanut), khaki outfit complimented by leggings that covered completely his stilt-like legs, Warto was quite the sight.
This time, this time he would woo them. Lester's Radiator Shack on Highway four-eleven was counting on it.
Lester really needed the attention of those six families in Greenback who were now wired with cable, to wit, the Sax family of Wiggle Planes, the Platudinors of Black Philo Hollar, the Ying family of Burmese Dachshund Way (who made their money dealing in Spider Butt Silk from that infamous nemesis of the silkworm, the Yongtze-Provence Butte* Spider (*Butte, in the Greenback dialect translates to "Butt"); the Boar-Dong family of Ham Head Hill, the Grinders of Sausage Flats and the Jones family of Common-Name Lane - all members of Greenback's elite, effite and always replete "Apex" society - a group of Greenback upper-crust.
Warto was pumped. He had it all over the rest of those maroons in the waiting room. One guy looked like Captain America, and another was done up like Art Linkletter.
With his "connections" back home, and his dynamite get up, he was sure to win an account for Lester's Radiator Shack.
Yeah, this khaki spandex was just the ticket. And the bow tie...man, a gentleman of upper-crust appointment (ee wuz I tell ya).
And if it didn't work out, he could always wear it as a disguise when he traveled.
It was about then that his bubble truly burst, for she walked out of that office with her account in cat's claw clutch, and his heart was forever lost only to reside behind that shiny, bulbuous breast, (ah, what the heck, BREASTS â€“ this ain't a family show).
They were in love at first sight; it was a union that would be the pride of all of Greenback.
Menlo and Platu had just â€œgotten to the good partsâ€ in watching the Democratic National Convention's tribute to the Roman Emeror Caligula entitled â€œCaligula: Blueprint for a Modern Presidentâ€ on the â€œMisery Channelâ€ when the show was interrupted by a special announcement from Lester's Radiator Shack on Highway four-eleven.
Lester, it would seem, was having a special come Saturday. REAL special.
Radiators were not the only thing on the cheap at Lester's. Radiators were the front for the real operation out back in the junk yard. You guessed it reader. Ol' Lester was selling stink bombs, and a certain family from Ham Head Hill was buying them up left, right and center (did we really have to put the right in there with those â€œotherâ€ two?).
Anyhow, it was about this time that Menlo turns to Platu and says,
â€œDid you ever hear a rumor that ol' Lester was kin to the Boar-Dongs?â€.
To which Platu replied,
â€œUh, yeah. Intersting you should ask. Lester changed his name after becoming involved in some nasty infringement case with a national supplier of electronic parts and gadgets. Seemed he truly sensed that their high-priced corporate lawyers really had him on the ropes, so he changed the name on his business license from â€œLesterâ€ Baby-Nap Dong to Lester Grinder's Dong (Grinder being his Mother's maiden name), to thus throw off the scent of the Federal investigators involved in the case (for this was back during a less than intrepid administration). It was all quite sordid, and difficult for most, but the really super-genius (albeit horrendously naive) or completely stoned (but real sharp when it comes to coupon clipping)consumers of news to really understand. The typical consumers of news. Pretty much everyone who watches/reads/ingests news. Why do you ask?â€
â€œOf course, of course...Platu dear boy...has it not occurred to you that our man Lester Dong (whatever), or rather, Lester (whatever) Dong, is actually none other than our dastardly nemesis, Sultan Zphat?â€.
â€œOf course not Menlo. It would be preposterous for me to jump to such a conclusion. Zphat is of some foreign descent. Definitely not a name that is from around these parts.
Dong is a really, big, family in the Southern United States. I'll pass this off to your upbringing, Sir.â€. Obviously, once again a proof that "thee ain't from 'roun chere".
â€œBut Platu, really. Do you not see that his mannerisms are those of a Sultan? Sure, he's all black with radiator grime and all, but scrape that away and I'll bet you'll find the heart of a nomad, or a really big bird.â€
â€œNah, he just knows radiators...he don't know no Sultan-in. Scrape it away and you'll just find more Lester. Leave it alone Menlo. Your powers of wizardry are failing you,â€ replied one final, exasperated time our Mr. Platu.
â€œWell, he looks like an oil sultan with all that black grime on his faceâ€.
â€œTrust me, he is a simple man, our Lester Dong,â€ and with that, Menlo and Platu went back to sipping their whiskeys and watching more of that timely classic â€œBeaujangles Hyde: Terror of New Orleans, Hero of the Left-Wingâ€ on the â€œEducajin Channelâ€.