Show begins with the sound of clattering teletype machines and automatic weaponry, voices shrieking in foreign languages and the honking of pissed-off geese; on screen, twirling logos and flapping American flags alternate with shots of Patrick Carlisle, hard-hitting journalist, in stop-action poses: 1) chin in hands, tongue tip protruding, staring in mesmerized wonder at Salma Hayek's fulsome décolletage (Announcer: “Breaking News!”), 2) snarling like a hyena, forefinger jammed into the terrified face of a small, pigtailed, black girl-child (Announcer: “J’ Accuse!”), and 3) leashed, on all fours, face wedged firmly between the gray buttocks of Dick Cheney (Announcer: “Fox Network News!”). Then the screen goes black except for a cartoon Patrick-Carlisle-brand Noodle Soup can, which is tilting and shuddering as if alive, with Mr. Carlisle’s voice yelling in a bad Cheech Marin imitation, “Hey man! Get me outta here!”
The announcer bellows: “Ladies & Gentlemen, the Patrick M. Carlisle Show!” [Generic audience hysteria mixed with the heartrending cries of anguished barnyard animals]
Hello, I’m Patrick Carlisle, and welcome to today’s edition of "In the Belly of the Beast." [crashing wave of canned applause] Today, we’re broadcasting live from Neverbeen Ranch with a rare and exclusive interview with the reclusive Henry E. Panky, so-called humorist, biting social commentator and acknowledged ass-licking poseur. Thank you for having us, Henry.
HENRY: Thank you for allowing me to have you, Giraldo. It’s great to be here, an honor really. Super! Of course, I’m usually here. [gestures to transmitting ankle bracelet] Frankly, I'd like to get out! Hee hee! Touché!
PATRICK: [Chuckles indulgently] Yes, well, good luck with that. [clears throat and leans forward] Henry, you call your home Neverbeen Ranch, but it’s really just a double-wide trailer on a thousand square foot, garbage strewn lot squeezed between the animal shelter and the Ye Olde Omelet Shoppe. What’s up with that? And why would anyone want to eat an old omelet?
HENRY: Giraldo, when one crawls through that skunk hole under the chicken wire, one enters the fantastical vortex of Neverbeen. A mystery crack in the linoleum, a black hole over the rainbow, a gassy bogland of whimsical possibilities, if you will -- I’m sure you felt it yourself. [Mr. Carlisle nods tentatively, wags his head uncertainly and finally shrugs dubiously; camera pans across a coffee table littered with pill bottles, nasal sprays, salad tongs, five or six partially-eaten omelets, Pez, Tic Tacs, Tums and a wide variety of naked plastic dolls to which lipstick and inked-in eyeglasses had been carefully added.] As you can see, we also have the Phantasmical Play Kingdom of Neverbeen for the little ones. [Camera swivels outside to reveal a set of rusted monkey bars, a rotted teeter-totter and a couple of dangling tires filled with scum water, all barely visible among the chest-high tumbleweeds of the back yard.] But they never come anymore...even after I built the full-scale replica of the holy Lingam of Amarnath...except to throw their stink bombs." [Henry sighs, his face goes vacant and flaccid, and he desultorily smacks his lips together a few times.] "Nasty, tricksy little weasels."
[Perking up again] Now, where were we? Oh yes--and this style of trailer is called “Ranch.”
PATRICK: Fair enough. Then let’s talk about the critics. Your writing has been described by the Bush White House spokesperson as “mental drain-salad.” What do you have to say to that?
HENRY: She's perky! Hee hee hee! Old girlfriends, relatives, Republican nitpickers and devil-worshiping Yezidis! Yes! Yes! And I like drain salad! [Appearing increasingly agitated, Henry suddenly gets up from the couch to leap-frog around the room. As the camera attempts to follow Mr. Panky, it abruptly becomes apparent that the seat of his sweat pants have been cut away. The camera man yelps in surprise and jerks the camera away, lurching around the shabby room to finally settle on Mr. Carlisle's face, now disfigured with pity and revulsion. With a final hop, Mr. Panky lands back on the couch, bug-eyed and gulping for breath.] Anyway, Tweeter thinks I’m insanely funny and sagacious! She's my muse. She’s a hide-behind.
PATRICK: [Raising his eyebrows politely] Teeters?
HENRY: Sure, Tweeter! Where are you, babycakes? [Mr. Panky makes squeaky kissing and "num num" noises for several minutes, but no Tweeter appears. The camera zooms in on dozens of suppurating claw and tooth marks on Mr. Panky’s hands, arms and neck] Well, she’s shy, but a very discriminating critic!
PATRICK: Yes, of course. Well, perhaps Mr. Teeter will make an appearance later. But moving into perhaps more difficult and emotional terrain …
HENRY: [Clapping hands madly and bouncing up and down] There’s Tweeter! [Camera swings quickly to show a hairless, ferret-sized creature, long tailed and floppy eared, but with an infinitely sad, almost human face, staring forlornly through the sliding glass doors with what appears to be a Denver omelet in its mouth. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the nightmarish apparition is gone.] That was Tweeter! She's a hide-behind.
CAMERA MAN: [Muttering to himself] “What the fuck was that?”
PATRICK: [Mr. Carlisle shakes himself like a wet dog in a bad dream, then in an obvious act of willpower, pulls himself together and turns a sickly smile of false gaiety upon the camera.] How delightful! Oh, she is a beauty, isn’t she, folks? [canned applause] Yes, indeedy. [chuckles warmly, glances at his watch, and turns abruptly solemn.] Now Henry, I know that for many of our viewers, one subject in particular stands foremost, and that is your relationship with...
HENRY: [Shrill and panicky] No, Giraldo, no! You promised...oh, you malodorous liberal parasite...
PATRICK: [Firmly over Mr. Panky's wails] What exactly is the nature of your current relationship with Governor...
HENRY: [Shrieking wildly] Eeeeeeeeeeeee! [long, low groan, then his voice drops to a sad, miserable whisper] gone...needed space...tired of omelettes...slipped out the skunk hole while I buttered the Lingam...Tweeter never trusted her!...[Clapping hands over his ears, Henry begins to rock back and forth and make moist, flubbering noises with the thick, mottled tongue snaking out his mouth like a dying sea cucumber.]
PATRICK: [Making calming, placatory gestures] Please, Mr. Panky, let’s not be melodramatic ... or naïve. Our viewers have a right...to details...what the...Mr. Panky? Henry? Are you all...dear Mother of Christ! No!
An insane anguish fills Mr. Panky’s face, which proceeds to collapse inward in slow motion, from hairline to chin, like a sinkhole swallowing the Bush ranch outside Waco. He looks something like that famous picture of the toothless, rubber-faced, old man who could swallow his own nose while smoking a cigarette -- but infinitely more distasteful. Unconscious moans of wonder, dismay and dread issue from Mr. Carlisle and the camera man, who accidentally presses the button for the canned audience-response track. The contrast between this barely human expression of out-and-out derangement, and the roars, peals, snorts, whistles and squeals of artificial hilarity--plus the shouts of "Hey man, get me outta here!"-- will later earn the show a special Emmy Award.
After what seems to be an eternity, Mr. Panky gently picks up a doll wearing glasses, beehive hairdo, bikini, scoped rifle, and baby moose carcass on its shoulder. He waggles it in front of the camera and cries in a girlish voice, "I'm an independent young lady, CBS News!" Then, turning away from the camera, he cradles the beautiful toy to his chest and begins to croon in a childish but husky tremolo, "Happy birthday, Mrs. President..." The scene shifts to a gigantic American flag rippling and snapping in slow-motion over the Hooli Hyundai Annual 4th-of-July sale.
With flag flapping and Panky lost in the melancholy beatitude of his fathomless patriotism, Mr. Carlisle and camera man slink surreptitiously to and through the skunk hole, dragging their equipment behind. They look back at The Magical Kingdom of Neverbeen Ranch, and then, in wordless agreement...quickly begin to plug the skunk hole with anything to hand.
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