Sucking Richard Simmons dry
While writing a lengthy note to my now long-distance companion Rob -- Rob, wave to the good people -- who was pining for Kung Fu and irrationally paranoid that I had developed a hatred, or at least a grumbly dislike, for his guts, I was struck by Frankensteinian inspiration. Not because of Rob's guts, mind you, which are quite lovable in a puppyish albeit slightly gory way. This is a man with superb guts, impeccable guts, the finest guts on the east coast, guts you'd want to bronze and display on your mantle for special guests to admire, mighty guts, guts of thunder.
come hither - back off
That would make a good movie title: Guts of Thunder, starring Tom Cruise. That or a punk rock moniker. Everybody, put your hands and faux hawks together for the one, the only -- Guts of Thunder!
Now certainly, I'm a little puzzled by the pining for Kung Fu deal, but that's likely because it's difficult for me to imagine the calm spirituality to be found in kicking someone's head. However, I'm told it's quite relaxing. Perhaps I should try it one day.
Anyway, back to Frankenstein.
I commented to Rob on how low-energy I was feeling that day, and just how unfair said low energy happened to be on that particular day, which was sunny and calm with scented breezes and a perpetually circling ice cream truck. What more could a person want? Energy to get the hell off the sofa, that's what.
This immediately made me think of Richard Simmons. Now certainly, Richard Simmons is not exactly the sort of person who anyone thinks of immediately, thanks to all that is good and right in the world. The only thing that might instill spontaneous Richard Simmons thoughts into someone's head are his shorts, which, thanks again to all that is good etc., are not something one sees regularly walking around on the streets or even in the privacy of one's home.
Energy. Richard Simmons has far too much of it. Richard Simmons has so much energy I feel as if my head is going to explode just watching him. It's possible that this could also be related to his voice, the sparkles in his hair, the hair itself, and the endlessly coordinated tank top/shorts/shoes combo. But it's his energy most of all that makes my eyes bleed. If anyone ever needed an energy enema, it's Richard Simmons. He'd probably even enjoy it.
There are other Richard Simmons in the world, those like Susan Powter, Anthony Robbins -- come to think of it, anyone who has ever made a half-hour paid advertisement to air on late-night television. These people must be stopped.
That was when the inspiration hit me. We need intraspecies energy siphoning. Think of all the human suffering that would end. Depression, chronic fatigue syndrome, mono, morbid obesity, adult children living in their parents' basement -- gone. But how? How could this energy transfer take place from high-pressure energy containers to low-energy repositories?
Then I reached inspirational climax. I'm pretty sure there was even some moistening of cerebral folds going on.
Here's the thing: it would simply be impractical for some kind of medical device to be constructed. There would almost certainly be all kinds of levers and buttons involved, whirring sounds and clicks, and finally some kind of large tube-and-crane construction that would seek out and suction the Richard Simmons of the world. That would be unwieldy, prone to endless need of repair and tubular cleanings, and difficult to manoeuvre through revolving doors. Besides, this is a biochemical process, this symbiotic energy transfer, so we either need to get one kick-ass chemistry set involved or, better yet, genetic manipulation.
Sure, we could try some kind of osmosis, but think of what could go horribly wrong. How would you explain away absorbing Grandma? Then there's always the possibility of additional sexual accoutrements. However, that would mean you'd have to have sex with Richard Simmons.
It would have to be hollowed out for optimal energy suction yet storage-friendly for quick tuckaways for those times one meets the Queen or has sex in an elevator.
A Monarch has a lovely snout: elegant, retractable in a French curl sort of way, and perfectly hollow. In its 3-generation 3,000 km journey from Mexico to Canada and back, a Monarch needs to suck that nectar dry, baby. What could be better for the purpose of bleeding Richard Simmons than a butterfly proboscis?
What's more, its secondary uses could become legendary. An 8-foot-long spiralling hollow schnoz could come in handy in all kinds of interpersonal interactions.
Now certainly, it would be necessary to carefully isolate the appropriate Monarch genes for human insertion, in order to incorporate this energy-sucking snout. After all, I don't think Mexico would be too happy about millions of people streaming back over their borders only to spend the winter hugging fir trees in Michoacan.
I think I will contact a bioengineering firm and get the great Monarch Proboscis Project on the path to actuality. Hey, if they can put fish genes in a strawberry, they can build Richard-Simmons-energy-sucking human monarch nostrils.
Next on the list will be a wine-grape-crushing rhinocerpuppy, then a traffic-congestion-controlling octocop. The possibilities are endless. I see great fame and many rabid anti-Smoog demonstrations in my future. But boy, will I have the energy to take it.
I feel the need to add a new feature for periodic pokes in the Eye: diary-entry-related doggerel as penned by Smoog.
The Bottoms Up Law
I'm here to test a super secret theory:
the couch (or chesterfield in Leeds) contains
a huge attractive force. We'll sit there, bleary,
pint of stout in hand, for ages, brains
compelled to ooze towards our tumid bums.
This potent drag's precisely why our change
will drop through cushion slots, along with crumbs
from buttered scones and honey crullers. Strange
magnetic fields can swallow wedding rings
forever, never to be found. I plan
to gather data proving sofa springs
can power rapid trains across Japan.
In time, I'll speak to scientific brass.
There's just one snag -- I can't get off my ass.
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