BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

They gave her looks. Brains. Nuclear capabilities. Everything but an “off” switch.

Since Gregory Hines died back in 2003, they called me to fill in.

“You know I can’t dance, right?” I asked.

By way of reply, they advanced their own question, “Do you know how to use a gun?”

“Well, yeah.”

One of them handed me a stack of paper. It was folded and dog-eared to a specific page. It looked like it had seen better days.

“I hate to tell you this,” I said. “But, this isn’t a gun.”

“This is a script. You get the gun when the properties master gets here,” the script girl replied. I knew she was the script girl because it said so on her t-shirt. She then followed up with yet another question as she tapped her index finger on the page. “Can you memorize this line right here?”

I looked down at the paper and read the text. I looked back up at them, then lowered my eyes and read the text again. Not only had the paper itself seen better days, so had the writing. Finally, I said, “You’re kidding, right?”

“No” was the answer.

“I can memorize it,” I told them. “In fact, now that I’ve read it once I’m pretty sure I’m never going to be able to forget it, unfortunately. “

“Good,” she quipped.

I shook my head. “You aren’t  going to expect me to actually say it or something ridiculous like that, are you?”

“Ssshhhhh!” the one with the wild-eyes shushed. “Here she comes.”

“Here who comes?” I asked.

“Eeek.”

“Eeek?”

“Ssshhh!”

I turned to see E K coming down the stairs. She was all decked out in a retro leather jacket, short skirt, and stiletto heels. I have to admit, she was looking pretty hot in a retro-80’s-disco-pop sorta way. Over her shoulder was a huge, black  duffle bag that looked more than a little suspicious.  What’s more, she was wearing an unhappy grimace. I wasn’t entirely sure whether it was because the duffle was too heavy or if she was seriously pissed off about the eighties pop wardrobe. Of course, it’s always possible she was just pissed about everything in general. I mean, we’re talking about E K here.

“Ummmm… Hi… Your worship,” I said.

The Evil One didn’t say a word. Instead she simply reached into the duffle, then quickly withdrew her hand and pointed a rather nasty looking machine pistol at me.

I cringed.

She stood there.

Finally I said, “What’s going on here?”

“She’s activated,” the script girl said.

“What do you mean she’s activated?” I asked.

“Ssshhh!” the wild-eyed one shushed me again, then whispered urgently, “You’ll set her off.”

“I’ve got some bad news for you,” I told him. “You don’t have to talk to set her off. Just leave the toilet seat up and see what happens. It’s pretty ugly.”

“Do you have a death wish?” the script girl hissed.

“No, but whoever gave my wife an Uzi obviously does,” I replied. “And, by the way. It’s EKay, not Eeek.”

“Not anymore,” said a new voice.

E K turned and fired.

I ducked.

So did everyone else.

Once the explosive burp and clatter of brass subsided, and the ringing in my ears started to fade, I looked over at the holes in the wall. The guy belonging to the new voice dragged himself up from the floor and gave me a nod.

“I knew she was going to do that,” he said.

I looked over and noticed that E K was just standing there staring with her breach hanging wide open. I would have mentioned it to her but I was afraid she’d just reload.

“Good on ya’,” I replied to the new guy. “So, who’s gonna fix my wall?”

“I’ll get a gaffer to take care of that. They have some pretty amazing tape.”

“So I hear.”

“You must be Colonel McQuade.”

“No, I’m Murv.”

He nodded and winked. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”

“Seriously.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he grunted

“So, what did you mean by not anymore?” I asked.

“Simple. She used to be EKay. Now she’s Eeek VIII.”

“Eeek Eight…”

“No, Eeek VIII.”

“That’s what I said.”

“This is a B movie. You have to say it with a Roman accent in order to make it sound important.”

“I see…” I grumbled. “So, what happened to Eeek One through… Excuse me, Eeek I through Eeek VII?”

“They were all blonds. The director wanted a redhead.”

“And they wanted to know if I had a death wish…” I mumbled while shaking my head, and then asked, “He’s not very bright, is he?”

“Hey! I’m right here…” the director shouted.

“Not very bright, are you?” I turned and asked.

He didn’t answer. Instead he just climbed back into his fancy folding chair and grumbled a lot.

“So…” I began. “What exactly does Eeek Eigh… I mean VIII do? I mean, besides destroy our house with an Uzi.”

“She terminates Japanese Beetles.”

“With a machine gun?”

“That’s one method. She’s capable of destroying Japanese Beetles in a variety of ways. And, if she is overcome by them at any point, she is also equipped with a tactical nuclear device.”

“Yeah,” I grunted. “I know. I live with her. I’ve seen her melt down.”

“Here,” he said, then handed me a Sig Sauer. “This is your gun.”

“Great,” I said, taking the firearm from him. “What am I supposed to do with it? I thought Eeek over here was the Japanese Beetle Exterminator.”

“She is.” He replied, then directed himself to retro E K. “Eeek VIII. Kill.”

With that, my wife reloaded the Uzi and stalked through the house. A moment later the back door exploded off its hinges and that was followed by the burp of the machine pistol, occasionally punctuated by silence. I assumed  that just meant she was reloading, because the gunfire would commence again within a few seconds.

I jogged through the house to the smoking hole where my back door used to be, and looked out at the carnage. Japanese Beetles were screaming for mercy as E K… I mean Eeek VIII… was peppering the back yard with 9mm rounds while stomping the carcasses of the wounded insects and gleefully grinding them into the ground.  The crunching noise was absolutely horrific, and she showed no sign of stopping. In fact, she really seemed to be enjoying herself.

“Now do you know what to do?” the properties guy asked.

“Run and hide?” I replied.

“Pssstttt!” a noise came from behind.

I turned to see the script girl motioning wildly.

“What?” I asked.

“Your line…” she hissed urgently. “Say your line…”

“You mean you seriously want me to say that?”

“Yes!” the director demanded.

I moaned.

“We can have wardrobe put you into a Japanese Beetle costume,” the director threatened.

“Yeah, okay, fine…” I grumbled, then cleared my throat and said, “Well this is quite some toy you have yourselves here gentlemen. I suppose you want me to put it back in its box.”

“CUT!” the director yelled.

The crunching and gunfire continued, along with a bit of giggling coming from the retro-clad redhead.

“CUT!” the director yelled again.

Eeek VIII kept stomping beetles and blowing holes into the sides of our neighbor’s houses with the Uzi.

“You idiots really did forget to give her an off switch, didn’t you?”

“Ummm… Animatronics wasn’t my department,” the properties master said. “Just props.”

“Yeah, great… Pass the buck,” I replied, then asked, “Okay, so what now?”

“Well… Ummm… She’s your wife. We were hoping you could tell us…”

“Yeah, actually, I think I can… Don’t call me if you decide to remake The Fly. She hates those too…”

More to come…

Murv

(NOTE: It is entirely possible that the movie reference above is a bit too obscure. My apologies for that. However, I watched it many years ago and figured I should subject the rest of you to it as well. The movie is “Eve of Destruction” – Also known in other countries as Eve Eight, Android Assassin, as well as Terminator Woman. It was a B Minus / C Plus Terminatoresque ripoff S/F flick starring Gregory Hines and Dutch actress Renée Soutendijk in a dual role as Doctor Eve Simmons and Eve VIII. You can read more about the actual movie here: Eve Of Destruction. I recommend pizza, booze, and nothing much else to do before actually watching this. But if you like mindless B schlock movies, it’s worth a gander. In the interest of full disclosure, while E K does in fact have leather and stilettos, she does not own an Uzi nor a tactical nuclear device. Production stills and frame grabs  of the actual movie were used to create Eeek Eig… I mean, Eeek VIII.)

A few years back I was in a shoe store. Yeah, I do that sometimes. Not in the creepy, shoe fetish sort of way mind you. I actually have to go in and buy myself shoes every now and then. I could go into all sorts of details about how I wear out my shoes differently than most folks because of an old, severe injury that causes me to favor one leg – and I’d be telling the truth – but that’s not really what this blog is about.

Well… Except that I was in a shoe store because I had worn out my shoes and it was time for a new pair. That part is what it’s about… sort of.

Anywho… There I was in the shoe store and I’d picked out a pair of not so terribly expensive tennis shoes. Next to me was this bin, and in said bin were those reptile shoes. You know… Crocs. Actually, these were Crocs Knockoffs… Crockoffs, as it were… So, just for grins I dug through, found a pair in my size, tried ’em on, and since it was BOGO day at the shoe store, bought them. I figured if nothing else they’d make good shower shoes or something, given that I am booked at a lot of outdoor, weekend festivals  in state parks and such…

Well, as it turns out, I found these things to be pretty damned comfortable. So much so, in fact, that I wore them around the house, when I was taking out the trash, and even when I’d go to the store. Eventually, like all other shoes, they wore out. The straps broke, the treads wore off, etc. However, I still have them. The straps weren’t anything that couldn’t be fixed with a couple of heavy duty snap-ties. The treads – well, as long as I stay away from slick surfaces I’m all good… On that note, I forgot about that once, and ended up sprawled on a parking lot in the rain.

I haven’t forgotten since.

But, moving right along. E K – you knew E K would come into the mix at some point, right? So, anyway, the evil one was out shopping the other day and ended up in the official Crocs store. This prompted her to call me because they had a sale bin, and certainly I needed a new pair of Crocs. Obviously she was feeling magnanimous on this particular day, because she was willing to spend 10 bucks on the real deal instead of 5 bucks on the knockoffs.

After much kibbitzing, during which I explained that I should probably be present to try them on first, she bought me a pair anyway. You see, when E K has her mind made up, it’s pretty much made up, and there’s no dissuading her from her evil plan.

Unfortunately, what she brought home was more in line with something the Jolly Green Giant would wear. Given the old adage about shoe size, I can only assume this was wishful thinking on her part, if you know what I mean.

So, anyway, fast forward a week or so. Against my will, as usual, I was forced to go shopping with E K and the o-spring. Part of the grand plan was to exchange the gun boats at the Croc store for something a little more along the line of normal sized shoes. However, no matter which pair I tried on, none were just right. Either they were way too big, or just plain too small.

So, I suggested to E K that she either exchange them for something she wanted, or simply return them.

Did you know that Crocs Store employees apparently work on commission?

I didn’t then, but I do now.

Yeah. I have a new pair of Crocs. They don’t fit me worth a damn, but the fifteen-year-old behind the counter guaranteed me that within 3 days they’d be just fine, because they are, after all, Crocs.

I wonder if I could just cut the soles off and glue them to the knockoffs?

More to come…

Murv