Regardless of whatever recreational drugs each of us may have used during our lives, we've all had experiences that were sufficiently peculiar that, were we to recount them to people who weren't there to share the moment, we'd receive a blank stare of indifference. Like the time I was playing guitar in a barn full of acid heads in rural Texas, and my left hand became an independent entity with its own free will. I could only stare at it, wondering if my right hand would remember where I had left the car keys. Or the time I ate a brownie of questionable origin, and then watched as the rabbit ears on my television began marching in a circle, like part of a George Pal Puppetoon.
And then there was that other time when unicorns and puttos slid down my bannister with mustard squirting from their asses, genuflected on the Persian rug at the base of the stairs, and held out their American Express cards for an ostentatiously gay antique dealer. Nothing particularly unusual I suppose, and to my relief, it was much easier getting those mustard stains out of the carpet than the goat blood that Alexander Hamilton spilled during his orgasm at my Christmas social in 1983.
I had always written off those experiences, assuming you would have had to have been there, using the same chemicals. Nowadays, I only have an occasional beer or glass of wine, and my day to day experiences are much more mundane. I'll scramble some eggs. I'll read my e-mail. I'll buy some groceries. Sometimes I'll stop 80 year old men on the street and ask them to describe the most repulsive sexual activity they've ever participated in. Then it's an afternoon nap and maybe an episode of Green Acres before bed. But a recent aberration from this routine has raised my fears that I've once again lost the line between reality and nightmares.
Paul Lynde was dressed as Santa Claus and Margaret Hamilton was his maid. She told him it wasn't Christmas, and then a laugh track informed me that this is funny. Reflexively, I made a sound with my mouth, and my stomach shook lightly, simulating the effect of amusement. But there was nothing that felt amusing. There was only the numb despair of my entire being relinquishing its free will for an hour, sort of like what was described during the title sequence of the original Outer Limits television series. There could be no joy. There could only be irritation packaged with dread and hopelessness, as my skin, bones, and muscle tissue were pitilessly commandeered by The Paul Lynde Halloween Special.
Next, Paul was dressed as the Easter Bunny. He sang Peter Cottontail. Margaret Hamilton informed him it wasn't Easter. "Oh, ha ha ha!" my mouth emitted. Again, the laugh track instructed my mouth and stomach of the inherent humor in this situation, and they dutifully responded.
Paul put on a smoking jacket. He sang My Funny Valentine. Margaret Hamilton told him it wasn't Valentine's Day. "HA HA HA!," I screamed. "IT'S NOT FUCKING VALENTINE'S DAY! I GUESS PAUL SHOULDN'T SING THAT FUCKING SONG! HA HA HA HA!!" My soul screamed for the sweet release of death, even if the fires of hell awaited.
Then Paul came out and did a stand-up monologue. The premise was that he likes children. Here's one of the punch lines. A kid who needs to use the bathroom says "now or never" instead of "trick or treat." "HA HA HA HA HA YUK YUK HA HA HA!" my mouth shrieked. "I BET THAT KID NEEDS TO PISS!! HA HA HA!! MAYBE PAUL SHOULD LET HIM USE THE TOILET!!!" The laugh track was especially pleased with this one. Then Margaret Hamilton came out and sang a duet with Paul, while men in red devil costumes danced very badly. While they bound Paul in ropes, he mentioned something about there being "too much Alice Cooper," and "not enough Alice Faye." Then they put him into a garbage can, and Donnie and Marie Osmond came out dressed like sorcerers. "Oh, look, it's Donnie and Marie! I wonder what they're up to?" screamed Augusto Pinochet from my subconscious. He squealed with glee as they slammed the lid on Paul's head, the can exploded, and Paul emerged like Wile E. Coyote. It all had the effect of the same "knock knock" joke repeated a million times in the desert sun to a starving African child.
The segue to the next scene gave me a chance to regain control over my limbs. I crawled to my tool box, and loaded a one inch bit into my Black & Decker drill. Plugging it in, I sobbed with joy as I inserted the spinning drill bit into my urethra, sort of like a home gonorrhea treatment, or perhaps a Celine Dion appearance on the Jerry Lewis Labor Day Telethon. Blood and skin tissue spilled on the floor and splattered the curtains, and one of my cats slipped on the crimson stew while making a dash for her water dish. I was definitely feeling a lot better, but I could feel control being drained from my limbs again, and when I regained consciousness, I was back in the living room in front of the television, and my wife was mopping the trail of blood with a Swiffer.
Now Paul and Margaret Hamilton were in a car, going to see Billie Hayes from H. R. Pufnstuf. Her butler was Billy Barty. This was Paul's cue to start telling midget jokes. He called him a short order cook. "HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! FUCK! THAT IS SOME FUNNY SHIT! HA HA HA HA HA!." Betty White showed up as a witch. Margaret and Billie were setting her up on a blind date with Paul. Betty said she was expecting Paul Newman. Get it? HA HA HA HA HA!! Billy Barty sure is short! HA HA HA HA HA HA!!! Then Betty went away, and somehow they decided that Paul got three wishes. The sentient part of my brain prayed for one of those wishes so I could be transported to the World Trade Center right before the planes hit.
Unfortunately, Paul kept all three wishes. First he wanted to be a trucker. This had no contextual logic to it, but I guess it's funny because it allows a gay man in a sequined jump suit and a beret to say stuff like "breaker breaker." It's even funnier if he says it to Tim Conway. And it so happens Paul was talking to Tim Conway. HA HA HA HA HA HA. They argued over Roz Kelly's affections. Remember her? Fonzie's girlfriend? How did Paul Lynde manage to land all of this talent? They said lots of really stupid shit, Paul drove his truck through a wall, the laugh track said it was funny, and then they did this square dance song that deteriorated into a disco slop.
Then KISS came out and sang Detroit Rock City. Do you really think anyone could make this shit up?
Then it was time for Paul's second wish. Billy Barty was there. Somebody mentioned that he's short. It was "funny." Then Paul decided he wanted to be a shiek. So they waved their wands again and Paul was dressed up in the kind of shiek costume you'd expect to see on an episode of I Married Joan. He was in a tent, trying to seduce Florence Henderson, and I began scraping a rusty saw across my right knee, hoping to sever an artery. Then Tim Conway showed up dressed as a sheriff, they said lots of shit that wasn't funny, and they sang another horrible song.
Realizing that Paul had one remaining wish, it occured to me that I could open the gas outlets on the stove. Paul decided that Margaret and Billie could have his third wish. Guess what they wished for. A disco party! Oh boy! And guess who was there! Florence Henderson! She entered from a balcony, above a giant orange neon bat, and ripped into a soprano disco version of That Old Black Magic. Spinal fluid began seeping from my anus.
But there's more. Two more songs from KISS, and an ensemble performance of Disco Baby by Roz, Paul, Florence, Tim Conway, and well golly, the whole gang. Except for KISS. They watched from a distance, attempting to salvage what little dignity they walked in with. It didn't work.
As the hour long torture fest drew to a close, Paul stepped up to the camera and earnestly thanked me for being his guest. The nails that I'd driven through my testicles were hardly noticeable, and there was only a dull ache when I tried to pry them from the coffee table with the claw end of a hammer.
I vaguely remember something about DVD "bonus features," but I admit it's just a blur, and the paramedics were distracting me with a whirlwind of gauze and hypodermic needles.
Anyone wanna watch Bye Bye Birdie?
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