Tuesday, May 13, 2008


IN LAST WEEK’S LITERARY ADVENTURE: Doogie built a time machine with the intention of traveling back to 1894 London and watching H.G. Wells write the first page of his science fiction classic, The Time Machine. (Cool, huh? Bet you wish you had read that one.) However, our well-read adventurer made a crucial miscalculation: although his machine traveled through time, it didn’t travel through space. So although Doogie was transported to 1894, he was still in Philadelphia, instead of London, where H.G. Wells lived. On a farm on the outskirts of Philadelphia Doogie met a short, rude farmer who almost stoned him to death. Doogie made a few short trips back in time to confront the farmer again, and during their last fight the farmer’s battle ogre broke Doogie’s pelvis with a bathtub. Despite his wounds, Doogie was able to escape and crawl to safety.

EDITOR’S NOTE: The summary above is just that: a summary. Lots of other wild shit went down, much of it too complicated to explain. It’s very possible that during this week’s adventure Doogie might mention things that happened last week which—if you didn’t read part 1 or 2—might not make sense to you. In the event of that happening, I will step in and try to explain as best I can. Enjoy the story! –ed.

- - -

Maude placed another pile of piping hot, wet towels on me, and I screamed in pain. (Maude is Doogie’s third ex-wife. Maude is making him sweat to draw out the poison in his system. –ed.)

“C’est si bon.” (Maude is French. She speaks very little English. –ed.)

“You know I don’t speak French,” I said. (Which is why they divorced. –ed.) I knew at that very moment the poison was racing through my veins, drawing nearer and nearer to my heart. (Doogie had been poisoned by members of the shadowy Thugee clan. –ed.) Fucking Thugees. (See? I told you. –ed.)

“Yar, ‘tis a shame, ta be sure. I loves ya, I do. Don go dien on me now! Hold steady lad!” Maude said. (What little English Maude did know, she learned from watching pirate movies. –ed.)

Just then the submarine Captain rushed in, holding his finger in front of his lips and shushing violently. (After the Thugees poisoned Doogie, [using blowfish toxin –assistant ed.] Doogie and Maude . . . wait a minute, did someone say something? –ed.) [Yes, I did. The assistant editor. I just mentioned that Doogie was poisoned using blowfish toxin –asst. ed.] (Uh, that’s irrelevant. You’re hurting the story’s momentum. –ed.) [Sorry. –asst. ed.] (That’s alright. –ed.)

“Don’t scream so loud!” the Captain whispered. “We’re running on silent mode right now, but if (Oh fuck, sorry, the assistant editor interrupted me before. They’re on a submarine because after being poisoned, Doogie and Maude leapt into the bay, and there was a submarine in there, and they climbed aboard. –ed.) [That’s not quite how it happened, but it’s close enough. –asst. ed.] you keep making noise, the giant squid will pick us up on his sonar, [Squid don’t use sonar. Doogie’s an idiot. –asst. ed.] and—”

BOOM! Before the captain could finish his sentence, a massive impact rocked the sub. We were thrown to the floor as the sub pitched and twisted. The lights went out. In the pitch black darkness the sub’s steel hull groaned. Rivets popped loose like gun fire. A moment later red lights and a wailing siren pierced the dark. Surprisingly, I really wanted to fuck something (Blowfish toxin is a powerful aphrodisiac. –ed.) [See, aren’t you glad I mentioned he was poisoned using blowfish toxin? –asst. ed.] (. . . Yeah. –ed.) [Yeah what? –asst. ed] (Fine. Yeah, I’m glad you mentioned it. –ed.)

The captain leapt up, blood pouring from a gash in his forehead. “It’s the squid! Surface! Surface! We’ll fight him topside!” Crew men ran past us in the dim red haze, their boots clattering on the steel floor, each of them holding a long steel harpoon. The Captain ran after them, but I grabbed his arm and stopped him.

“If you’re going to fight that thing, you’re going to need a good harpoon man,” I said.

The captain stared at me. “Surface breached!” a voice yelled from above. The captain’s eyes flicked away and then back to my face. He shoved a harpoon into my hands and clapped me on the shoulder. “Aye, we will. Let’s go!” he said. He grabbed his own harpoon and climbed up the ladder—towards the sound of rolling waves, pounding spray, and dieing men.

I lingered a moment below deck, barely able to life the heavy spear. (When Doogie told the captain “. . . you’re going to need a good harpoon man,” he was merely trying to ease an awkward situation by making small talk, not volunteer himself for the job. He had never thrown a harpoon, and couldn’t even throw a football straight. –ed.) When I told the captain “. . . you’re going to need a good harpoon man,” I was merely trying to ease an awkward situation by making small talk, (Oh, fuck. Okay. He’s explaining it. Just forget I said anything. –ed.) not volunteer myself for the job. I had never thrown a harpoon, although right now I was so horny I could fuck a mound of dirt (The powerful amorous qualities of blowfish toxin can last up to five hours. –ed.)

I grabbed Maude and pulled her hot body against mine. I kissed her long and hard. Her full breasts squished up ‘till they were under my chin, and a little breast milk squirted out (Maude has chronic lactation syndrome, CLS. –ed.) “Would ya care to plunder my booty?” she whispered.

Suddenly a giant tentacle slid down the submarine turret, grabbed me, and whisked me outside. I was whirled around. I saw the sky. The sea. Men throwing harpoons. Red water. The squid’s gaping maw. The squid pulled me down to its body, and I found myself inches away from one of its giant eyes, larger than my entire body.

I poked the squid right in the middle of its eyeball with my harpoon.

The beast howled in pain! It flung me into the sea like a stone from a sling. I hit the water and immediately sank. I looked up and watched as the light above receded further and further away. I tried to swim up, I clawed at the water, but I was pulled irresistibly down. Down. Down. The light above was a pinpoint, then nothing. (Doogie’s not a very good writer. –ed.)


Then, a light in the darkness. Two lights. Dim. Floating towards me.

“Hey.” A raspy voice. “Hey.”

My vision cleared. The floating eyes blinked. They were pale orange.

“Are you alright?”

I wasn’t in the ocean. I was on land, but I was soaking wet. My head hurt. I tried to stand, and banged my head on steel. My hip flared with pain. It was broken.

“Where’s the squid?” I said.

The glowing eyes blinked. “You ate all yours. And it wasn’t squid, it was boiled corn husks. You kept yellin’ out and stabbin’ it with your fork.”

There was a creak and a sudden flare of bright light. Light flooded my vision, blinding me. I heard thick-soled shoes descend a long wooden staircase, then cross a stone floor towards me, and stop only a foot away.

Cold water was thrown in my face. The shock brought me to my senses and I gasped for air.

Ting! Ting! Ting! Metal tapped metal mere inches over my head. I squinted hard and looked up. I was in a cage. The small farmer stood over me, tapping something on the bars. He smiled. “What’s this then?” I saw what was in his hand. It was the brass key to the time machine.

(Oh, for the love of Pete. It was all a dream! How incredibly stupid! So apparently as Doogie was crawling away from his battle with the midget farmer and giantess Fran, he must have passed out and been captured? And the whole squid rigmarole was a hallucination or dream or whatever. Wow. Great twist, M. Night Shyamalan! I hope this is a dream, and that I’ll wake up in a second to discover I have a job that doesn’t suck this much. –ed.)

[I liked the twist. –asst. ed.]

{I didn’t. –editorial intern}


Doogie will be hosting his new comedy show THE MINISTRY OF SECRET JOKES at Fergie's Pub (1214 Sansom St.) on May 28th, 9PM, $0


The Brow said...

I am an editor, and I thought the editors who worked on this Literary Adventure were astonishingly unprofessional. In many instances their interjections were tangental and irrelevant, and it was particularly distracting when they began to argue among themselves.

Literary Adventure: C-
Literary Adventure's editors: F-

Anonymous said...

Dave from Pierre, who is an editor by day (sorta, it's kinda technical editing, boring crap), loved this piece.

Margaret said...

Needs more tentacles. [-Ed.]

Flattop said...

I thought the amount of tentacles was just right: not too many, not too few.