The On-Going Phne Conversation

DAMIAN: Hello?

JARED: Hello, may I please speak with Johann?


JARED: Mr. Johann Sebastian please.

DAMIAN: I think you have the wrong number . . .

J: Is this 842-9086?

D: Yes . . .

J: Yes, well, I'm looking for a Mr. Johann Sebastian Bach. His wife gave me his number.

D: Isn't he dead?

J: No, he's quite alive sir, and I'm calling about the dinner party at your residence next Thursday.

D: My residence?

J: This is 842-9086, right?

D: Yeah . . . but . . .

J: And your house is at 702 East Johnson Drive?

D: Well, yes, but . . .

J: Please put Johann on, I have a few questions that I need to clarify.

D: Umm . . . he's not in right now.

J: Oh. In that case, please tell him that his dog ran away with my daughter again, and have him call me. He's got my number.

D: His dog ran away with your daughter?

J: Yes sir, it's a terrible pain. Every full moon the mutt just prances over here, talks romance to my daughter, and the next day they're gone.

D: His dog woo's your daughter?!

J: Yes . . . I'm afraid she's a little lonely.

D: A little ?!

J: Yes. Her mother and I decided she could only date purebreds, but most purebreds won't go for her.

D: Forgive me sir . . . but . . . is your daughter a . . . dog?

J: Half dog sir.

D: Are you a dog?

J: Heavens no sir.

D: Is your wife a dog?

J: Dirty bastard!!! Are you calling my wife a bitch?!

D: No sir! But . . . well, if you're both human, how is your daughter half dog?

J: Modern medicine can do wonders, sir.

D: Oh . . . um . . . ok. I'll have Johann call you then.

J: Oh, ok. And tell him the experiment with his wife and the platypus worked marvelously.

D: The platypus?

J: Yes, sir. The platypus wrote wonderfully after his wife came in.

D: What did it write?

J: A symphony.

D: Classical?

J: No, sir. This particular platypus is quite partial to African river music. It reminds him of home.

D: I see.

J: Yes, apparently the platypus was originally from New Orleans, but was then adopted by a family of panda bears.

D: Panda bears? From Africa?

J: No, sir. Pandas live in China.

D: But you said the platypus liked African river music.

J: Yes, because it was then kidnapped by a group of hyenas.

D: From Africa?

J: Yes, sir.

D: You're insane.

J: Oh! Hold on, the UPS man is here. I've been expecting a package. One moment.

D: Ok . . . . . . . . . . .

J: I'm back. My HIPPOPOTAMUS POSSESSION BOOK finally arrived.

D: You want to own a hippopotamus?

J: No, I want to possess one.

D: Possess its mind?

J: Yes. Actually, I plan on possessing a whole herd of hippopotamus' minds. I'm traveling to Africa this summer.

D: To return the platypus?

J: No, he wants to stay and compose more symphonies.

D: I see.

J: Which is kind of why I'm looking for Johann. The platypus needs advice on finishing the third allegro movement.

D: And I suppose Johann is very helpful in such areas?

J: Not very , but kind of. The platypus is really quite superior to Johann when it comes to such things.

D: I see.

J: I would never tell Johann that though. He's too fragile.

D: How is the platypus in jazz?

J: Wonderful! He plays lead alto for Glenn Miller.

D: Wow! That's a talented platypus!

J: Yes, quite. He also plays tennis and croquet.

D: I don't like croquet.

J: Did I ask you if you liked croquet?

D: Well, no . . . but . . .

J: You know, you remind me of my cousin Dorothy. Always saying stuff nobody cares about. Her and her parrot.

D: Her parrot?

J: Yes, sir. His name is Alfonzo. Every time I visit Dorothy, he says, "Alfonzo wants an eggroll! Alfonzo wants an eggroll!" in that annoying parrot voice. I don't know why he thinks I would have an eggroll.

D: Maybe he's hungry?

J: I'm afraid not, sir. Every time I see him he's gnawing on an ostrich

D: An ostrich spleen?!

J: Yes, sir. Dorothy raises ostriches for the semi-annual Canadian Ostrich Race.

D: In Canada.

J: No, in Munich.

D: Then why is it called the Canadian Ostrich Race?

J: It was founded by a Canadian woman, sir.

D: I see.

J: She was a widow.

D: Really? That's sad.

J: Yes. Apparently her husband choked to death on an ostrich spleen.

D: Yeah, those spleens will get you every time.

J: Sure will, sir. Word has it that she was so upset that she vowed to race ostriches until his death was avenged. She usually loses though.

D: I'm afraid I don't quite understand, sir.

J: Well, ostriches do run much faster than humans.

D: She races against the ostriches?

J: Yes, sir. What did you think I meant?

D: I thought the ostriches raced the ostriches.

J: Why would they do that?

D: Well . . . I don't know, sir. But why would she race against the ostriches?

J: To avenge the death of her husband! I told you that, pay attention!

D: OK! Calm down, sir.

J: Are you telling me to calm down?!

D: Yes!

J: Oh . . . ok. Oh! Hold on, my fish is loose again.

D: Umm . . .

J: LUCIFER! ! ! Come back here, you know you can't survive in the air! Get back in your hydrogen peroxide bowl!

D: Ummmm . . .

J: Whew! He scared me!

D: He lives in . . . hydrogen peroxide?

J: Yes, sir. He likes the bubbles.

D: I see.

J: Yes. Apparently his mother mistook a glass of Sprite for a small pond once. Now he just has to have the bubbles.

D: Then why not put him in Sprite?

J: It gets flat, sir.

D: I see.

J: Is Johann in yet?

D: No, sir, he hasn't arrived.>/br>
J: Where is he anyway?

D: Peru, sir.

J: What's he doin' in Peru?

D: Studying beavers, sir.

J: Really? My uncle Ferdinand studies beavers. He observes their mating rituals.

D: What kind of beavers?

J: Musical beavers. Friends of my platypus, but they're not good enough for Glenn Miller.

D: I see.

J: Yes, apparently beavers like polka more than jazz. Do you know any polka greats that they could play for?

D: No, sir. I'm afraid I don't listen to polka. There aren't too many polka greats here in Liechtenstein. I'm sure there's a need for polka-playing beavers in Pennsylvania though.

J: Isn't Pennsylvania known for polka?

D: Yes sir, it is.

J: I'd like to move to Pennsylvania. I like the cattle.

D: What's so special about Pennsylvania cattle?

J: They're blue.

D: I see.

J: Yes, apparently there was a great explosion in a pen plant in Punksatawnee back in 1869. The ink got everywhere and soaked into the soil, so when the cows eat the grass the ink gets into their blood and turns their fur blue.

D: Really?

J: Do you think I'm lying sir?

D: No.

J: Good, because I'm not.

D: I believe you!

J: Ok then.

D: Right.

J: Do you have a wife?

D: Yes, sir. Why?

J: I'm lonely.

D: Don't you have a wife?

J: I want two.

D: Why?

J: I'm Mormon.

D: I see. Well, you can't have mine.

J: Why not?

D: Because she's my wife, sir!

J: Oh. Ok . . . is she an Amazon?

D: No. Why?

J: I like Amazon women. They know how to command of all situations.

D: But Amazons tribes of women don't exist anymore, sir.

J: I know. I'm still searching in hopes of finding one, though. If I find an Amazon woman, however, as her slave I can study her pet piranha.

D: Pet piranha?!

J: Yes, sir. Apparently the women use their tame piranhas in their savage mating rituals with captured males.

D: I see.

J: Oh, hold on! Sylvia's back!

D: Who's Sylvia?

J: My daughter. Sylvia just walked in . . . with Johann's dog.

D: Oh dear.

J: Yes, sir. One moment please.

D: Ok . . .

J: Sylvia! Where have you been, young lady?! I told you to stay away from that mutt! Now get to your half-dog-house!

D: Half-dog-house?

J: Yes, sir. She can't have a full-dog-house because she's not a full dog.

D: I see.

J: And you!!! You mutt! Get out of my condominium! If I ever see you here again I'll have you neutered! And I am going to tell Johann about this!

D: You're insane, sir.

J: Thank you, sir. I've tried hard to become so.

D: You've tried to become insane?!

J: Yes, sir. Me and Alfonzo.

D: The parrot?

J: No, sir, my wife.

D: Your wife's name is Alfonzo?

J: Yes, sir! Where do you think the parrot got the name?

D: Isn't Alfonzo a man's name, sir?

J: Shhhh! ! ! Quiet! ! ! You don't want her to hear that, do you?

D: Hear what?

J: If she knew Alfonzo was a man's name she'd have a breakdown! She's very unstable.

D: I see.

J: Alfonzo!!! It's time! Ooooh!!!

D: Time for what?

J: I'm going into labor!



D: Um . . . are you okay, sir?

J: *plop* Aw, bloody hell! Another half-dog! Oh, don't cry Alfonzo! We'll have a normal baby someday.

D: What are you going to name it?

J: I'll call it Alfonzo.

D: Isn't that your wife's name, sir?

J: Really? Wow! That must be a popular name!

D: Dear Lord . . .

J: DON'T SAY THAT!D: Say what?J: Don't give me that! You know very well what you said.

D: No! What?!

J: Trying to fill my head with that religious talk. I know what you're trying to do!

D: What?

J: You're trying to convert us atheists, that's what. I bet you're one of those Jehovah's witness people, banging on doors, scaring the children.

D: I can assure you, sir, that I'm not a Jehovah's witness.

J: Fine! Whatever you say, sir. You know, I have a good mind to hang up on you!

D: Please! Feel free!


D: What rats?!


D: What do you mean?!

J: Back you vicious little animal! I mean, my half-cat daughter . . .

D: You have a half-cat daughter, too?

J: Yes, sir! As I was saying, her natural cat instincts forced her to kill this rat, and now every summer this herd of angry rats comes and tramples my precious weed patch.

D: Weed patch?

J: They're so much easier to grow than flowers.

D: Ok . . .

J: Is Johann in yet, sir?

D: No, sir. I told you, he's in Peru.

J: Still?

D: Yes, sir. And even if he was here, he would have terrible jet-lag.

J: Good point, sir. It is a long flight.

D: He also has to . . . uh . . . take the economy flight because . . .

J: Darn it!

D: What?

J: We're out of SPAM.


J: Yes, sir. My second cousin Emma-Alfonzo is coming over tomorrow and apparently she uses it for everything she does.

D: Everything ?

J: Yes. She eats it , sleeps on it, and even bathes in it.

D: What about drinking, sir? You can't drink SPAM.

J: You haven't had SPAM, have you?

D: No, sir, I have not.

J: Have you ever heard of SPAM juice? Well, it's the juice at the bottom of a SPAM can.

D: Yuck! That's disgusting, sir! How can she do that all of the time?

J: Oh, she doesn't do that all of the time. She can't do that very easily in Japan.

D: What does she do there?

J: She studies vortexes.

D: Vortexes?

J: Yes, sir. You know, tornadoes, black holes, blenders . . .

D: Blenders?

J: Yes, blenders. She's trying to make one out of SPAM. Hey, you've been awfully quiet lately, sir.

D: Oh, sorry, sir. I've been watching some TV. There is a really interesting documentary on the gases from Uranus---


D: Yes, sir, the gas---

J: Damn it! I told those bastards at PBS to stay out of my private life!

D: Huh?

J: I said . . .

D: That's not what I meant, sir.

J: You didn't mean to say 'huh'?

D: No, I meant to say that, but I was talking about the planet, not you butt, sir.

J: Oh! Whew! I would've had to sue, or send my Amazonian wife's piranha after them.

D: I thought you didn't have a second wife.

J: I don't, but I do have a third wife.

D: I see. What is so "different" about your butt, sir?

J: You swear you won't tell anyone?

D: I swear.

J: I have an ant factory in my, uh . . . hole . . . down there.

D: Don't you mean an ant colony?

J: No, sir. Apparently these are genetically enhanced ants. They have evolved to build an ant factory. The pollution is terrible.

D: Iím afraid I donít understand sir.

J: Donít understand what? Itís perfectly simple, whatís not to understand?

D: Is the factory run by ants, or do they build ants?

J: Itís run by ants, what are you some kinda moron?

D: It was a perfectly ligitimate question!

J: .....well...I guess youíre right....but please understand sir, itís very traumatic to have an ant factory in your ass. Whenever I sit down, sand squishes out of my crack.

D: Yeah, I guess that would be pretty upsetting....

J: Thatís not all though! Whenevr I ake a dump, the a bunch of the ants come out with the dung, and the ones that are left get all mad that I crapped out their friends, so they start biting, and they have this war bite plan thatís just a big organized bite sequence, so it feels like one long constant bite up my anal passage, and by the time they finally calm down and stop biting, I have to dump again, so I do and the whole thing starts all over again.

D: ................OH! Iím sorry, what did you say sir?

J: Have you been listening to anything Iíve said sir?

D: No sir, I got distracted. You see.......


D: Well, all I heard was something about dung, and that doesnít sound very deep to me sir.

J: YOU BIG STUPID PIECE OF....oh...well, I guess dung isnít very deep...sorry...AHHH!!! CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP CRAP!!

D: Whatís wrong sir?


D: What?

J: Emma Alfonzo is here early! SHIT SHIT SHIT POOPY POOPY DUNG SHIT!

D: Arenít you happy to see her?

J: Ofcourse Iím happy to see her! SHIT SHIT CRAP CRAP CRAPPY CRAPPY SHIT!

D: Then why are you saying crap and shit and poop?

J: Itís our song! Every time I see Emma Alfonzo we sing our song! SHITTY SHITTY CRAP! CRAPPY CRAPPY DUNG SHIT!

D: ummmm.......CRAP!!!!!!

J: Hey! You canít sing our song! You bastard!

D: Iím not singing your song! My pet thimble just nibbled me!

J: Your pet THIMBLE sir?

D: Well, Itís not really a thimble. Itís a small Afghanistanian Aviary Alligator and when it nibbles it really really hurts.....OW! YOU CRAPPY LITTLE THIMBLE!

J: Why do you call it a thimble?

D: Thatís itís scientific name sir. OW!!!!!!

J: Are you ok sir?

D: Yes thank you, iím fine now. I took out the Demonic Scotch Tape of Hell and it calmed right down.

J: OH! You have some of that too? I love that stuff! I use it all the time when I go to Dorothyís house. Whenever Alfonzo asks for an eggroll I threaten to use it on him and he goes directly to his Cuban Missle Silo.

D: Dorothy lives in Cuba?

J: No, Why would ou think that? She lives in Uvula, Madagasgar, in the county of Epiglotis.

D: Then how does Alfonzo have a Cuban Missle Silo?

J: ....well.....they arenít very BIG......and why shouldnít he have one? He's got a Lithuanian Cumberbund, a Djuboutian shoe horn, and a set of Portugese flatware, so why not a Cuban missle silo? I think youíre a turd!

D: Well, after all sir, Cuban missle silos are MUCH too phallic.

J: oh yeah, they are arenít they.....hmmm....that would explain it.......
To be continued . . .

By Enrico Valdez, Enrique Valdez, Ezz Valdez, and Rob (not a Valdez)

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