Looking Out For The Little Creatures
So I was shopping, incognito as usual (trust me, you don't want to let Crazyguy into your store) when I saw something that nearly shocked me out of my fake beard and stovepipe hat. That would've been embarrassing, too; I was already prompting uneasy stares from the people running the trinket shop. What, you may ask, could possibly have caused this near-dislodgement and potential embarrassment? I'll tell you, but I expect you'll only stare at these words in confusion and regard them as the senseless ramblings of a half-baked lunatic (which, let's face it, they are). Here goes...
I can just picture the look on your face. It's a good one; I wish I had a camera. The one I built out of a Special K box was useless. All I got back from the photo lab were pictures of Special K.
So enraged was I by the debacle that stared back at me from the shelf, nestled among hand-carved incense holders and clay figurines made by natives from faraway lands I've probably never heard of, that I decided to do something about it. No, I didn't trash the place - I'd learned that was futile, not to mention expensive, early in my career as a Professional Crazyperson. So, listening to the inner voice of experience (and not the one named Charlie), I straightened my fake whiskers and ridiculous hat and returned home post-haste. Mine abode thus gained, thine host raised er… theen digit, and dialled the residence of one: Skink, last name unknown.
"Skink, you won't believe what I've just seen in [NAME OF STORE BLEEPED OUT]!"
"Not gnomes again, I hope?" said Skink. "I told you, when it comes to medication, take only the prescribed amount."
"No, it's nothing like that. At least, I don't think so… Hang on, I'll do the test."
I then took the tried and true test to ensure I wasn't seeing things - I looked at one of those 'Magic Eye' pictures, the ones you're supposed to be able see things in. I haven't seen anything in one yet without the aid of mixed medication.
"Nope, I really saw these," I returned. "Goddamn coconut crabs, Skink!"
There was silence on the line. The doubting kind that usually ended with a click and a dial-tone.
Again I found myself wishing for a camera, one that could see down phone lines.
"Real live crabs, Skink, except… not anymore. They've been dried out and glued to halved coconut shells."
"Eww… that's a bit grim."
"You haven't heard the worst of it yet, Skink. Their eyes, Skink, their eyes!" Here I paused for dramatic effect.
"They've been replaced by googly ones!"
The horror in Skink's silence was absolute.
"So here's the thing. I've got an idea for a scam - I mean, a worthwhile and altruistic crusade." I waited while Skink finished choking on his own laughter. "Come on, I'm serious. Someone has to look out for the little creatures that haven't the voices to speak. But I'll need funding. Who should I fleece?"
"Ah, well, you'll need to speak to your MP."
I frowned. "My empee? Doesn't that word usually have a three on the end of it? No? Empee, huh? I didn't know I had one."
"You'll find him at City Hall, you dope. The 'top knob for the job.'"
"Oh. Well why don't they call him the T…er, K… F… Hang on, I think I know the answer to that."
Skink wished me luck and I made my way to the looming yellow behemoth that is City Hall. No disguise this time; they didn't know me here - yet. I was determined to change that.
Locating this mystical MP proved a tough job, and gaining entrance to his office even more so. He seemed to be in perpetual meetings with someone-or-other or their neighbor's dog. On the plus side, I had plenty of time to arrange my thoughts and mentally compose my proposal. Or, as the case may be, think of amusing things that 'M.P.' might stand for. I therefore found it hard to keep a straight face when I finally met the man.
"Ah, hello Mr. [NAME BLEEPED OUT FOR OBVIOUS REASONS]," the MP said as I shook his hand.
"Please, call me Crazyguy, that's my handle since I was certified."
The thin, balding chap in his loose-fitting suit gave me such an amusing look of uneasy confusion that I whipped out my box of Special K and took a snap.
"Don't worry," I said, "All my pictures turn out looking like Special K."
"Er, right… well, have a seat then, and let's hear what this is all about."
"Coconut crabs," I said, Special K at the ready.
"Yes. I realise that sounds like an STD you might pick up somewhere exotic, but it's far more serious than that. And they have the audacity to stick googly eyes on them!"
Before his comprehension slipped any further, I described the monstrosities I'd seen in [NAME OF STORE BLEEPED OUT A SECOND TIME. WE DON'T WANT ANY LAW-SUITS HERE!].
"I'm calling my campaign 'Looking Out For The Little Creatures.' Has a ring to it, huh?"
The MP's hand hovered over a button on his desk, but he smiled supportively and urged me to continue.
"I've been digging deeper into this putrid gold-mine of exploited invertebrates, and its forbidden fruits-de-mer don't stop at coconut crabs. How many hotels have you stayed at that had little baskets of soap in the bathrooms?"
"Many, now that you mention it."
"And how many of those 'many' soap baskets had tiny starfish in them? Deprived of their free-wheeling lifestyle on some distant coral reef, dried in the sun, dyed an eye-pleasing red and sealed in cellophane?"
For the briefest of moments, the man saw the horror of it. I continued to prod while the prodding-implement was lukewarm.
"Sea-horses, man. You can buy them in gift shops by the paper bag! Without googly eyes, if you're lucky, but how is your luck these days? It's a sickness sweeping the nation. 'Let's scoop up the sea's bounty, dry it in the sun, and hot-melt it to coconuts and give it googly eyes!' I mean, how would you like to be turned into an ornament festooned with googly eyes?"
Not very much, judging by his reaction. He pressed the button on his desk several times in quick succession, and a loud buzzing noise issued from a tinny little speaker.
"Oh good, I wouldn't mind a cup of tea, myself," I said nonchalantly. "I don't suppose I can get a blueberry muffin with that?"
In short order I was escorted bodily from the office between two security guards - in a fraction of the time it took to get there, I might add - and dumped onto the street outside without so much as a 'we'll get back to you,' or 'get bent, you crazyperson.' Obviously I'll have to admit defeat by the Major P[THE REST OF THIS WORD BLEEPED OUT FOR SENSITIVE READERS. CLUE: IT RHYMES WITH 'BRICK.'] and take my concerns to a higher authority. Fear not, Little Creatures, Crazyguy is looking out for you - with eyes not the least bit googly.