(When last we left our virtuous epicure and his red-knicker'd rodent companion, they had just made their escape from The Dimension of All-Anal Action, only to stumble upon a Sectar of space that had been decimated by the Abominable Charlie Brown, a zomborg created by the nefarious Fitch, Schmidt, and Schifflet. However, before the pair could come up with a plan, they found themselves falling through a poopwormhole.)
"...iieeee!" contintued the compatriots, as they fell. Mickey Mouse had said something about Fitch, Schmidt, and Schifflet being behind the creation of the Abominable Charlie Brown. Why did those names ring a bell? Did it have something to do with that secret society, Ornithicus Obscuro, that Barton had infiltrated, having heard that they had the recipe for the omelette that jesus had eaten at The Last Breakfast? But for some reason, there was a fuzzy spot in Msr. Buttmarten's memory in the days around the accident that had sent him into The Dimension of All-Anal Action. He remembered grabbing Mickey and making a run for it, but there was something before ...
For his part, Mickey Mouse was about to mention that on a couple of occasions he thought he'd overheard his captor, the evil Screwtoons McFoolery, on the phone with someone from Fitch, Schmidt, and Schifflet. He was about to mention it to his rescuer, when he hit the ground face-first - that is, if by "ground," you mean a pyramid of leaking garbage bags piled on the curb and swarming with flies. Buttmarten followed a second or two behind.
It was summertime, and by the stink, Barton knew that they had landed in beautiful New York, NY - specifically (if a nearby streetsign were to be believed, and why wouldn't it?) on Bedford Ave. in Brooklyn, probably in the neighborhood of Bed-Stuy. Barton understood all of this, despite the fact that he had never heard of New York City, it having been founded by the frigging Dutch only a few years prior to the accident that had sent the 17th Century gourmand tumbling through time apparently, as well as space. But then again, he'd always been precocious. (He also was able to transmogrify himself and those around him into a variety of small birds - a gift he'd shared with no one, save his mother, fearing he might be hanged for witchcraft.)
Barton Buttmarten picked himself up from the urine-braised sidewalk, calculating by the thoroughness of saturation the half-life of the aroma to be 225 years, give or take a couple decades. He also realized that through coincidence or divine providence, the constellation of blackened gum he had landed upon formed an exact 4:1 replica of the moles on his mistress's back. But she was long gone, killed in the accident that had flung her lover into The Dimension of All-Anal Action and the lands beyond. Barton would never see her or the Belgium he knew again, and the knowlege made his memory bittersweet. The gum, too, was bittersweet; however, its bittersweetness stemmed from the adulteration of its natural sweetness with whatever had also made it turn black.
The chef spit out the piece of gum he had scraped off the sidewalk back whence it had come, and looked to see if Mickey was okay. A coffee filter hung over one ear and there were several gargantuan cockroaches crawling over his back, but he seemed to be none the worse for wear.
"Well I'll be pickled and dipped in shit!" Mickey tittered. "You can still kind of taste the mint on this dental floss."
"Nay, perhaps not," commented Buttmarten, noticing the greasy stain on the front of the mouse's knickers. "It looks like you just landed on your Anal-eez and it burst."
This, of course, constituted a crisis of epicurean proportions, a true fecalamity, as Mickey Mouse was still reeling rectally from his stint in The Dimension of All Anal Action. Now was the time for a different type of anal action - the kind that soothes as it cures! Only, being unfamiliar with this part of Brooklyn, the duo was unsure where to look for the ointment.
Barton raised a finger in the air.
Nothing happened.
Mickey picked a booger and ate it.
"Well," said Barton, "I guess that puts the lie to the old chestnut about being able to pick your friends and being able to pick your nose, but not being able to pick your friend's nose, does it not?" A laugh track rang in the distance and Barton paused for comic effect. "So how do my boogers taste, ol chum?"
"Bu-bu-bu-boogeriffic!" Mickey Mouse squealed.
And still they waited. A taxi drove by; a pair of pigeons pecked at the garbage; a subway rattled in the distance; someone threw a bottle at the two of them and it shattered on the street in front of them. Still Msr. Buttmarten did not lower his raised finger.
Finally, after what seemed like weeks, but was only really about a day and a half, they were sauntered up to by a young youth in a white-on-white NY Yankees cap worn "Cleveland-style" (that is to say with the brim completely flat), which cap was placed atop a red-on-red NY Yankees cap, also worn in the style of that fair Ohioan city, but rotated 60 degrees from the white cap.
"What up, rat?" the newcomer addressed Mickey.
"My good sir," intoned Barton Buttmarten, "we require dire anal assistance. My travelling companion received recently a nearsome fatal rectal reamery at the hands of the nafarious Screwtoons McFoolery, a brutal bebuggering to be sure, and it would behoove us muchforsooth if ye would kindwillingly point us to the most forthwith purveyory of that most unctuous liniment, Anal-eez?"
Dub-C (as he was known, due to the Double Cleveland caps that were his trademark) rolled a toothpick from the right to the left side of his mouth and said nothing.
The silence had just grown awkward, when in the distance could be heard an enormous belch; and though it was blocks away, it's odor drifted to them on the wind - a smell of cabbage farts, "High Gravity" malt liquor, and halitosis. It could only be the Abominable Charlie Brown, robbed from the grave to wreak havok on Bed-Stuy. Barton Buttmarten had not trained in the nasal arts under the tutelage of olfactory grand master Pierre le Boeuff for nothing. Each chamber of his sinuses was like a mobile chemical lab or a fortress of solitude or a gang of bloodhounds or a gang of bloodworms or a gang of poopworms or ...
But Mickey Mouse was tugging at Barton's sleeve, pulling him out of his reverie. "I think Dub-C is about to punch you in the face," commented the rodent. "I don't think he understood a word you said, and there's no way we can face the Abominable Charlie Brown with my anus the size of a pie tin and your face looking like a side of ground beef."
(Are our heroes lost? Will they defeat the Abominable Charlie Brown? Will Mickey Mouse's anus ever stop bleeding? Does anyone care? Tune in next week for another pants-pissing pulse-pounding episode of The Odd Oddyssey of Barton Buttmarten, and you may or may not find out the answers to these questions and more.)
"...iieeee!" contintued the compatriots, as they fell. Mickey Mouse had said something about Fitch, Schmidt, and Schifflet being behind the creation of the Abominable Charlie Brown. Why did those names ring a bell? Did it have something to do with that secret society, Ornithicus Obscuro, that Barton had infiltrated, having heard that they had the recipe for the omelette that jesus had eaten at The Last Breakfast? But for some reason, there was a fuzzy spot in Msr. Buttmarten's memory in the days around the accident that had sent him into The Dimension of All-Anal Action. He remembered grabbing Mickey and making a run for it, but there was something before ...
For his part, Mickey Mouse was about to mention that on a couple of occasions he thought he'd overheard his captor, the evil Screwtoons McFoolery, on the phone with someone from Fitch, Schmidt, and Schifflet. He was about to mention it to his rescuer, when he hit the ground face-first - that is, if by "ground," you mean a pyramid of leaking garbage bags piled on the curb and swarming with flies. Buttmarten followed a second or two behind.
It was summertime, and by the stink, Barton knew that they had landed in beautiful New York, NY - specifically (if a nearby streetsign were to be believed, and why wouldn't it?) on Bedford Ave. in Brooklyn, probably in the neighborhood of Bed-Stuy. Barton understood all of this, despite the fact that he had never heard of New York City, it having been founded by the frigging Dutch only a few years prior to the accident that had sent the 17th Century gourmand tumbling through time apparently, as well as space. But then again, he'd always been precocious. (He also was able to transmogrify himself and those around him into a variety of small birds - a gift he'd shared with no one, save his mother, fearing he might be hanged for witchcraft.)
Barton Buttmarten picked himself up from the urine-braised sidewalk, calculating by the thoroughness of saturation the half-life of the aroma to be 225 years, give or take a couple decades. He also realized that through coincidence or divine providence, the constellation of blackened gum he had landed upon formed an exact 4:1 replica of the moles on his mistress's back. But she was long gone, killed in the accident that had flung her lover into The Dimension of All-Anal Action and the lands beyond. Barton would never see her or the Belgium he knew again, and the knowlege made his memory bittersweet. The gum, too, was bittersweet; however, its bittersweetness stemmed from the adulteration of its natural sweetness with whatever had also made it turn black.
The chef spit out the piece of gum he had scraped off the sidewalk back whence it had come, and looked to see if Mickey was okay. A coffee filter hung over one ear and there were several gargantuan cockroaches crawling over his back, but he seemed to be none the worse for wear.
"Well I'll be pickled and dipped in shit!" Mickey tittered. "You can still kind of taste the mint on this dental floss."
"Nay, perhaps not," commented Buttmarten, noticing the greasy stain on the front of the mouse's knickers. "It looks like you just landed on your Anal-eez and it burst."
This, of course, constituted a crisis of epicurean proportions, a true fecalamity, as Mickey Mouse was still reeling rectally from his stint in The Dimension of All Anal Action. Now was the time for a different type of anal action - the kind that soothes as it cures! Only, being unfamiliar with this part of Brooklyn, the duo was unsure where to look for the ointment.
Barton raised a finger in the air.
Nothing happened.
Mickey picked a booger and ate it.
"Well," said Barton, "I guess that puts the lie to the old chestnut about being able to pick your friends and being able to pick your nose, but not being able to pick your friend's nose, does it not?" A laugh track rang in the distance and Barton paused for comic effect. "So how do my boogers taste, ol chum?"
"Bu-bu-bu-boogeriffic!" Mickey Mouse squealed.
And still they waited. A taxi drove by; a pair of pigeons pecked at the garbage; a subway rattled in the distance; someone threw a bottle at the two of them and it shattered on the street in front of them. Still Msr. Buttmarten did not lower his raised finger.
Finally, after what seemed like weeks, but was only really about a day and a half, they were sauntered up to by a young youth in a white-on-white NY Yankees cap worn "Cleveland-style" (that is to say with the brim completely flat), which cap was placed atop a red-on-red NY Yankees cap, also worn in the style of that fair Ohioan city, but rotated 60 degrees from the white cap.
"What up, rat?" the newcomer addressed Mickey.
"My good sir," intoned Barton Buttmarten, "we require dire anal assistance. My travelling companion received recently a nearsome fatal rectal reamery at the hands of the nafarious Screwtoons McFoolery, a brutal bebuggering to be sure, and it would behoove us muchforsooth if ye would kindwillingly point us to the most forthwith purveyory of that most unctuous liniment, Anal-eez?"
Dub-C (as he was known, due to the Double Cleveland caps that were his trademark) rolled a toothpick from the right to the left side of his mouth and said nothing.
The silence had just grown awkward, when in the distance could be heard an enormous belch; and though it was blocks away, it's odor drifted to them on the wind - a smell of cabbage farts, "High Gravity" malt liquor, and halitosis. It could only be the Abominable Charlie Brown, robbed from the grave to wreak havok on Bed-Stuy. Barton Buttmarten had not trained in the nasal arts under the tutelage of olfactory grand master Pierre le Boeuff for nothing. Each chamber of his sinuses was like a mobile chemical lab or a fortress of solitude or a gang of bloodhounds or a gang of bloodworms or a gang of poopworms or ...
But Mickey Mouse was tugging at Barton's sleeve, pulling him out of his reverie. "I think Dub-C is about to punch you in the face," commented the rodent. "I don't think he understood a word you said, and there's no way we can face the Abominable Charlie Brown with my anus the size of a pie tin and your face looking like a side of ground beef."
(Are our heroes lost? Will they defeat the Abominable Charlie Brown? Will Mickey Mouse's anus ever stop bleeding? Does anyone care? Tune in next week for another pants-pissing pulse-pounding episode of The Odd Oddyssey of Barton Buttmarten, and you may or may not find out the answers to these questions and more.)
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