A Visit to J. T. Bleu's SURREAL ESTATE -- It's my property, I can do what I want with it. Enjoy, but don't take it too seriously. Have a laugh.
ON MEIOSIS*
Or
TO
PUT IT SUCCINTLY
“I Think I’ve Lost My Mind!”
Reported to be the last words uttered by the world’s
first comedian, OOG NAGA MOGASTEIN, who was beheaded by a hostile primitive
audience of homonoids in Olduvai Gorge , Africa , after being pummeled with strange monochrome
bones left over from an earlier humanoid clan known as The Honeymooners
The next day, Kit Dada was —
wait, who am I kidding? This story is
going nowhere. After a nipple-piercing, most of us realize that things go
nowhere until feeling is restored and you are able to hang a hand towel on the
nipple ring from your tits without cringing.
Therefore, let’s say some time passed, days,
weeks, years, in fact, and with the murderer of his mother still at large, Kit decided
to enter a sanatorium somewhere on the magic mountains of Switzerland, because
he had never really recovered from the run-in with his old man, who was still
kicking, going strong, and living in England, where he had successfully beaten
the murder charge, and at the same time managed to completely write Kit out of
his will and any and all family inheritance.
Kit kicked around the States a few years
with Penelope, until they had a flare up, and old accusations surfaced. She
fell in love with a billionaire in Rio , and
Kit just cracked up. That’s when he sought help. He was glad to be in Switzerland
“Why do you say teat, when in actuality you
mean tit?” asked Kit, because he really wanted to know. “Why T-E-A-T and not T-I-T?
Is it a British Oxfordian teat or a Webster’s witch tit?”
“Who is the doctor here, my friend,”
answered Napoleon J.C. “I’ve been practicing the medical arts for two thousand
years and you question my credentials?”
“No, it’s just the spelling…” but Kit’s
words trailed off as usual until he was in a blue funk.
It was around this time that Penelope
visited him, with her rich boyfriend, somebody named Uuli Siushi, a Swede who
made a billion dollars on Argentine beef futures, and now resided in Rio de
Janeiro making paper airplanes.
“Hello, Kit, they said you were feeling
better today. It’s been a long time. How are you?” She handed him a box of
chocolate and some flowers. She also barked like the actress in the Eddie
Murphy movie COMING TO AMERICA. It was cute. But Kit would soon forget all about
the incident. It would leave a poignant vacuum in his mind that kind of sucked.
“You are going surreal again, Kit. I’m
worried.”
“Don’t worry about me. I know what I am
doing.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“Forget about answers, Penelope, what I want
are questions. You know? You did it, Loopy. I know you did it,” said Kit,
looking out the window for the media. He was always suspicious of Penelope’s
passive-aggressive hunger for fame and fortune.
“Let’s not start with that again, Kit,” said
Penelope, turning away to put on more lipstick. Then she took a selfie and
uploaded it to Anderson Cooper at CNN. “He’ll know what to do with this,” she
whispered.
“Not the Anderson Cooper delusion again,
baby. Don’t you know he is never going to respond to your texting?”
“He will when I tell him that I found your
mind in the gutter over on 42nd street. Oh, yes, that will get a
response, Kit. Trust me!”
“I always trusted you; that’s why I’m in
this mess.”
“I know, Kit. Isn’t it wonderful? Oh my God,
he texted me—Anderson Cooper texted me. I think I’m going to die.”
“What did he say, luv?”
“Drop dead.”
“Gorgeous he means. Just what I expected
from those twits at CNN. Come here, babe, for a hug.”
