Yael R.

Dragwyla First North American rights

Email: Polaris93@aol.com 937 words
http://polaris93.livejournal.com/

A Disney Day
A True Story of the “Bob”
by the Very Left Reverend Doktor Magistra Batrix,
Το Μικρον Θεριον \cw ]xh
The Infra-Red Woman of the Church of the SubGenius,
Pope of All Broadview and About Half the 134th Block of Greenwood Avenue North,
23® = 3.14159™

Once upon a time, Poobah Products, Inc., a left-handed trivet-manufacturing concern, one of J. R.
“Bob” Dobbs’ many enterprises, sent a group of its junior executives to Disneyland as a reward for
annual performance and a stimulus to all its other employees to upgrade the quality of their work by
encouraging ambition among them. As senior partner of the firm, of course, “Bob” went along to
supervise the group of younger men and add his own subtle psychic manipulations to the other tech niques
used to make the junior execs think this was a Great Big Deal, rather than the Cheapshit Skinflint
Travesty of a company bonus it actually was, used by Poobah Products so it could avoid spending the
stockholders’ money on something really good by way of a performance-incentive program.
A hour or two after everyone had arrived, “Bob” got separated from the rest of the group somewhere
in the bowels of the Mister Toad Ride in Fantasyland. After wandering around for a while, he ran into
some guards who were enjoying an unscheduled work-break out behind the Matterhorn Ride, washing
down their Twinkies and Cheez-Stix with superb, if thoroughly verboten, Guinness.
“Bob” joined them and struck up a conversation. Soon the bottle was passed to him. After much
lubrication of the Foot-Gland and other organs therewith, he and the guards were exchanging relaxed,
friendly banter. “Bob,” now well-shellacked, finally asked them, “Shay! Wha’sh . . . (hic!) wha’sh one
of ush . . . mutantsh . . . gotta do to (hic!) prove w- we’re jush, jush aszh good . . . (ulp!) aszh you Pin-,
er, Normalszh?”
The guards, who by now had had more than a few themselves, had to think that one over for a bit.
Finally, one of them, who’d taken a number of pulls on a fifth of Jack Daniels he’d somehow managed to
smuggle in to work in his lunch-pail, said, “Well . . . firsh’, ya gotta (hic!) . . . drink thish – neat.” He
proffered a second, brand-new, still-sealed bottle of Jack Daniels, holding it out to “Bob.” “Bob” stared
at it owlishly, then looked at the other guards. They all moved a little closer to their colleague, nodding
solemn agreement as he continued, “Then . . . ya gotta (hic!) kill Walt Dizhney . . . bare-handed!
“An’ finally (hic!) . . . ya gotta . . . (hic!) f-, uh, make love to Mickey Moushe over there!” he wound
up with a flourish, pointing at a young man who was wandering through the smiling crowds of neatly-
dressed Normals and that ever-present, unobtrusive handful of Pink park guards and technicians, dressed
up like Mickey Mouse, wearing an enormous, plastic Mickey Mouse head.
“Okay,” said “Bob,” grabbing the bottle, “here goeszhe . . .” Before the startled guards could so
much as blink, he had broken the bottle’s seal, pulled off its cap, upended it, and chugged down the
entirety of its contents in one awesome gulp. For a moment, only the fact that his eyes suddenly began to
pinwheel in their sockets like those of Bugs Bunny on a toot even hinted that something extraordinary
was afoot.

A Disney Day
By Yael R. Dragwyla
Page 1 of 2
 Persephone’s Dalliance (Journeys End in Lover’s Meetings)
By Yael R. Dragwyla
Page 2 of 2

Then he sat up. Emitting one stupendous belch loud enough to shatter windows in downtown Long
Beach, twenty miles away – fortunately, there were no hot-points anywhere nearby, or all of Disneyland
and everything else within a radius of about ten miles around would have gone up in one gigantic, fiery
mushroom cloud – he pulled himself to his feet with the power and determination of a Titan. “Now,” he
roared, while the paralyzed guards, who hadn’t dreamed he’d take them up on any of it, goggled at him
in stunned wonder, “now, gotta GO KILL ME A DIZHNEY!!!” The next thing that any of the guards
knew, he had torn off around the side of the Matterhorn like a tachyon pursued by photon-demons and,
within seconds, disappeared into the huge crowds that filled the park.

*****

Hours went by. The Sun was now not merely over the yardarm, but all the way past the river and
through the woods on the way to Grandma’s House. It was coming on closing-time, and “Bob” was still
missing.
By this time, the panicky group of young junior execs, not knowing where their leader had gone, had
hurried to the park’s main office to report that “Bob” was lost. The guards – all of them, including the
original group with whom “Bob” had been bullfarting at the time of his sudden disappearance – were
about to head out in search-teams to find him.
Suddenly a tremendous force burst open the door of the main office. It flew inward with a crash,
sending splinters, bolts, hinges, and Disney decals flying everywhere. Swaying and weaving, his clothes
torn to mere shredded tatters, bloody claw- and fang-marks crisscrossing his hide in all directions, his
sacred Pipe askew but still lit and puffing out heavenly clouds of ’fropcense, “Bob” stood before the
dumbfounded crowd of guards and company men. For a strained, terrifying moment, no one said a word.
Then “Bob” roared, “Well, Goddammit – where’szh . . . where’szh (hic!) ’at fuckin’ Moushe I’m
shupposh- (hic!), shupposhed’a kill . . . bare-handed?!!!”
(The Moral of this story, children, is: Who needs mice? Fuck Walt Disney up the ass!!)