I am Rolled Through a Pasta Machine

I remained shackled to the “recliner” in Lady M’s living room for the better part of the afternoon, a small “tee-vee tray” parked in front of me. I was forced to nourish myself with only a Morey Amsterdam sandwich, cheese tray, chocolate cake, mashed potatoes, macaroni and cheese, a vegetable plate and tea for lunch. (See photo - notice how thin I have become!)

Presently, I was distracted from my repast by the arrival of Mr. Johnny Sixguns or “J6G” as he had most recently begun referring to himself. Johnny Sixguns was in his usual disagreeable mood but was caught up in some type of self-examination which consumed his entire attention.

“Sixguns .. Sixguns .. Johnny SIXGUNS” Lady M repeated, “I need you in the kitchen, I think I’ve tracked down the spatial-temporal coordinates of the Ur-Gin in China … Oh good grief, is that a bacon necklace you’re wearing?”

I groaned, as I am not a fan of the food of the chinaman; and bacon, though delicious, gives me wind.

Sixguns interrupted, “Isn’t the Arabic word for ‘lamb’ the same as the Persian word for ‘lamb”

Of course, the Persian (pronounced “Per-zee-an) vocabulary is quite different from Arabic even though both are spoken widely in jolly old arab land. Additionally, Persian is spoken with a refined British accent where as Arabic is not. (Having taken A levels in classical history at Cambridge, I was aware of this critical piece of knowledge that neither of these two Yankees could hope to know.)

Lady M responded derisively as only she could “How in Hades should I know? Now, I need you to pay close attention.”

By now Mr. Sixguns had returned to his previous activity and announced that he had ‘a bat in the cave’ - whatever that meant. I strongly suspected it was another one of Sixgun’s foul habits.

Indeed, I was about to find out as Sixguns strode out of the kitchen and began menacing me with the product of his industry, the proverbial “bat” from the “cave.”

“Heh, heh” chortled Sixguns, threatening me with his filthy index finger, “How ‘bout I stick this one on you, Woodpecker-Snot!”

“First of all my name is not “Snot” its Woodpecker- SMYTHE and I’m certain Lady Marzipan will not let you get away with this!” I announced loudly, hoping to draw my host’s attention.

Again, I cried out for help, “Lady Marzipan, help, this rogue is about to besmirch my fine traveling jacket with some nasty bit of goo.”

As luck would have it Sixguns tripped over a rather large cable between the kitchen and my recliner. As he did so I heard a familiar sound, the spinning down of a pot lid as the power to the Q-Device was interrupted in mid-stream.

The scene of the living room oscillated in and out of focus about me. I felt the familiar queasiness as if my body was being extruded through a high quality Italian pasta maker.

I knew it was a bad idea to connect the Q-Device to that flimsy extension cord!