Tuesday, March 20, 2012

These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... BUNKER BOUND

Now this not like a little back yard cold war bomb shelter. What they got here more like a big, ole, pretentious, suburban ranch house. Contractor put in in years ago when they built the place. That why it got a early 22nd century look.  Lemme see. How am I gone describe that to you?...... Picture The Jetsons if they was first cousins with Caligula. Lots a gold gilt, cream colored cushions, fancy control panels fill a colorful screens that flash on and off. Got these metallic veined, marble floors and bidets what shoot the water out so fast you could permanently castrate a horse. But it safe in there. Them communiss goomers from the M.I.R. ain't gettin' in. Done stripped all the upstairs rooms. Communiss' all stompin' 'round in hand-tooled, chupicabra-skin, rodeo boots. Funny, but Karl Marx never predicted such a predilection for fine footwear and premium time pieces. Sweetie-Pie gettin' tired cookin' up all that challah-bread french toast, but that seem to be her job in 'the new regime' and she don't wanna make waves. 


Meanwhile, down below, they sleepin two to a room (place got six). So we got Mister Bart and Miss Sissie...Miss Monica and her daughter..... Little Davey and his cousin (Monica's son).....Zeb and his legal wife, India.....an' them two ranch hands and they gum-chewin' wimmen folk. Kind a like a pixilated, crazy version a The Waltons, 'cept with more 'go to hell's' than 'good nights.' Zeb and India's room 'specially rich in them go-to-hells. They echoin' off the walls.


Bart sit up in the little holadome watchin' the news. Empire a China movin' in. Tuva-Tuva folk gone crazy. Communiss goomers eatin' up all the french toast... But, as you know, The Twenty First Century (state of the art Space Train) did get through. So somewhere deep in another subterranean Barsoom bunker that Russian/North American consortium busy spittin' out pulse bombs. Only thing is, they gotta conjure up a good way a deliverin' 'em to the enemy. Right now they fixin' on a plan. Gonna feed little ones to whole mess a big blues (large, sometimes man-eating, locusts). Then they gonna do some kind a hinky-dink and remote control 'em so's they swarm all over them God damn evil folk. You remember what happen to them chupicabra settin' all over that tank? This all work right, we gonna have a big, ole mess a General Sao's Chicken and Texas Pulled Beef in no time. 


News say other rich folk got throwed out too. They highlighting all the families....the Gillespies... the Ginsbergs..... the Watkins.... the DiBrunos ... all of 'em. Bart like when they say 'the Texaco's.' He love to hear his name on 'TV.' Shame it gotta be part of a dispossessed oligarchy. But name recognition all that matter...and they gone be back.


Funny thing though.......'TV' goomer never did say the Jonses....... Wonder how 'Stinker' pull that off?


Five heartbeat later, Bart 'sawin' wood.' He snorin' away. Miss Sissie layin' in bed lookin' at some ole, classic, flat-screen movie (I think it Bob & Carol and Ted & Alice). Ranch hands all hootchyin' up they wimmen. This like a vacation for them. Davey and his cousin doin' head transplants on 'genuine-live-miniature-animals. (they got a kit). MonkeyHead-Cobra they favorite.


But Miss Monica ain't doin' nothin'. She jus' lay there, singin' to her daughter and feelin' that baby growin' up inside her.......


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These are the days of EL RANCHO TEXACO ..... Urban Warfare

It came from out in the street. Most folks did not know 'bout this place. That why they call in 'The Hideout, or The Hide-away.' Texacos  got 'nother official townhouse little ways off. Lot a rich folks do it like that. Dumb kitchen gal come runnin' out. But when she sees nobody bleedin' they guts all over the floor she seem a little bit relieved. Guess she 'spectin' a clean it up.


Zeke pull a gun. He go over and peek through them fancy lace panels they got blockin' out them 'sidelights' by the door. Then he say - Trucks! They got  trucks all up and down the street!


Bart run over to see too. Bunch a raggedy goomers jump out. Most of 'em totin' them cheap, Mars made 'hot shots.' You know, them energy shooters. Sort a like a ray gun, 'cept it come out in a line a hot, little spit bubbles.


Then Bart say - It the M.I.R.! It the M.I.R.! Communiss'! Communiss!............... Women folk start screamin' an' twistin' they diamond rings 'round, as if communiss' ain't never learned how to rotate no finger ring. 'Sides they prob'ly all gone go 'gook' down that basement after M.I.R. goomers shoot 'em up anyway.


Zeb yell - Safe Room, downstairs NOW! ........ Them what knows the place start runnin'. Them what don't know pick up the rear. Soon ev'rybody 'hunker in the bunker.' as Bart used to say. But back then it was only a game. Zeb and Alec were partial to playin' war. They 'tend this place is headquarters. Kind a what Hitler would a had if he didn't 'gook' off off all them Jewish scientists and they chillun'. Bunker got nuclear fussion, electro-pulse power, all kind a lazer gadgets, fancy communication devices, freezers (nuclear powered) fill up with frozen pizza (not the shitty kind) and gourmet, genuine Mrs. Paul's fish stick, made from genuine stick-shape fish. Not to mention all the bestest, scented, pastel ass wipes this side a the ass-teroid belt. Miss Sissie kind a fussy on certain thing. That why the hardwood floors so nice.


So there they be. Sixty five feet under ground, sealed behind sixteen feet a titanium, with fool-proof water and ventilation system. Kitchen all fill up wit' genuine twenty first century 'food court' delicacies. Bedrooms filled with clean underwear and brassieres....... When Zeb say - Sweetie-Pie! Where my Sweetie-Pie!? .........'Cause she kinda got partially trampled in the stampede, 'specially when she crouch down a pick up her new, special-made head-crown. So she ain't never made it to the 'safe place.'


Miz India jus' throw back her head and start laughin' and laughin'. Then she go - Sweetie-Pie! Sweetie-Pie...just like some screechy-voice, old witch would say it. 


But nobody pay her any mind. They already pickin' out bedrooms.


An' when that Mars Is Red brigade smash down the townhouse door, Sweetie-Pie right there to greet 'em.  Pimple face bastid go - Which one are you, bitch!?...... Sweetie-Pie think fas'. She go - I the maid. Come on. I show you where they keep all the good stuff.


So they run upstairs to loot all them Rolex watches and satin jockey shorts. Then she take 'em in the kitchen for challah-bread french toast (hootchie gals all know how to make that) and big, ole glasses a TANG


You know, war is sloppy bidniss. An' now we got 'nother contingent a deal wit'.


Funny how Stinker Jones steer 'em all right over to the doorsteps a his bestest 'frienemies.'


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