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Sigmund Freud would be proud

Electrified on April 3, 2011.

Sigmund Freud would be proud this week: I had successfully eradicated the last trace of Œdipus complex from every aspect of my life.

That mighty feat accomplished, I then proceeded to guzzle down six full litres of Mountain Dew. Once the iridescent green-yellow elixir had made its way into my bloodstream, I was able to use my overcaffeinated buttocks as a makeshift jet-pack in order to fly to Fáskrúðsfjörður, Iceland, where my most beauteous of femjoys, Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir, had been vacationing with her family for the past couple weeks. Fáskrúðsfjörður was reputed to be my little porcelain doll’s hometown, but I balked at the suggestion: Surely no one could be born in such an unpronounceable place!

Ravna hadn’t expected me. She especially hadn’t expected me to come crashing through the roof of her family home. And she most especially hadn’t expected my explanation of how I came to be flying above the house and how my entry thereinto at the end of a most graceful parabolic plummet was an accident: The logical result of my colon having expelled the last bit of compressed gas within and no longer being able to serve as an impromptu jet engine.

Fortunately, Ravna was well-used to my improbable explanations and excussion for every bit of horror and buffoonery that befell my life, but unfortunately—a more scrobuluous writer may have shouted, “alas!”—her three sisters, with whom she had been sharing a dish of Hákarl on the table through which I had come plummeting, were less forgiving, and insisted that I desist at once, for if I persisted in telling such silly tales, I would be ejected most dejectedly straight out the rear door of their house through their combined manhandling efforts. A witty entendre about being “manhandled” by Ravna’s three sisters escaped my lips ere I was able to connect brain and larynx and thereby stop myself; this failure to control my voice box quickly resulted in me being quite efficiently manhandled to the door and booted in the buttocks into the street.

Realizing there could be no further penalty, I followed my single entendre up with a double: This one concerned the “rear door” of the house and Ravna’s three sister’s clear enjoyment in the use thereof. They had already slammed the door in my face, and locked it, so they most likely did not hear me. Therefore, I repeated myself six times, each time louder and in a voice more resembling that of a screech owl. I only stopped at six because an agitated man residing in the adjacent house leaned out his window and threatened to clock me over the head with an entire bucket of putrescent shark meat if I persisted. I insisted on persisting with my hooting, owl-like crudity, resisting his demands that I desist: His bucket of shark meat missed me entirely… but his fist did not.

Returning home on Wednesday by riding the seam between space and time, I was greeted on my doorstep by the most average man in the world: Norb McBorbley. He told me they had rebuilt the Hormel spam-canning plant that had mysteriously exploded and he wanted to rehire me as his senior spam-canner. I hooted with delight at the offer—this time more like a garefowl than a screech owl—and told him I could start at once: Even yesterday if he desired.

Norb did indeed desire me to start the day prior, so I summoned at once the captain of the Magic Oreo Machine™ and requested he use his mystical machine to take me back in time one full day. He obliged me quite willingly, and thus I was able to start my second new job at the spam-canning plant on Tuesday as Norb had desired. The day was entirely uneventful except for all the things that went wrong, including every window being blown out of the fifth floor of the factory when my buttocks, under no conscious control of mine, decided to do its jet-pack thing again—indoors. The mess was horrendous, but fortunately no one was around and I was able to blame it all on a vat of spam precursor overturning accidentally. The ruse was convincing, and the entirety of the brown and yellow sludge was mopped up and poured—a more scrobuluous writer may have cringed out “oozed”—back into the processing vats. Rumor has it 4,500 cans of spam were made from it, but no one knows for sure.

Wednesday morning arrived again, and I returned to my shiny (and puffy!) new job at the Hormel spam-canning plant for the second day in a row. Neither explosion nor colonic decompression interrupted my day, and if you, my dear readers, will allow me to ignore the 36 plant workers that fell into the processing machinery and were incorporated into approximately 30,000 cans of spam, I can—and will!—deem the day completely uneventful.

Thursday proved to be uneventful in nearly the same manner, and I was even given the task of finding 72 new employees to replace the ones that had mysteriously disappeared in the last two days. Norb was so impressed with my job performance so far that he promised that if I found him 72 new employees in less than 72 hours, I would be gifted with approximately 64,500 cans of free spam. I accepted the offer—and challenge!—at once. For that many cans of spam, I would devote myself to this task with more gusto and glee than I had ever shown in my life!

On Friday morning, I immediately called up my old friends in Eigentoria and ordered myself a case of 72 eigenslaves at once. Eigen E. Eigenstein, head of Eigenlabor Eigenready, Inc., was able to fulfill my order immediately and shipped my eigenslaves to me via second-day eigenmail. Come Hell or high eigenwater, they would arrive Sunday eigenevening. I was eigenoverjoyed. 64,500 cans of spam would be mine! All mine! Mine, mine, mine!

Puerile paroxysms of celebration out of the way (for now), I went home and slept on it.

I spent all day yesterday and today spinning in tight little circles in anticipation of the arrival of my crate of eigenslaves. I even went “Pwee, pwee, pwee-wee-wee!” most of the time too! Norb’s plant wasn’t open today of course—today being some sort of hideous, gnarled “week end” as opposed to one of those smooth, refreshing “weekdays”—and so I would have to wait until tomorrow to unwrap the crate and install my fresh batch of eigenslaves into the spam-canning machinery. Not since that hot lesbian scene with Kara Thrace and Gina Inviere that I’d seen on TV years ago had I been so excited!

Woo, woo-hoo, woo, woible, woible, woo-whee! I’ll let you know how it went next week! Goodnight, you salivating crotch-salamanders of damnation!