March 1993
These are words to bow down to and die for as I almost did. To make a long story as short as I know how, I'm going to lead you, dear reader, on a tour of my chapter to that Go Go's masterpiece.
As the faithful know, my equinoctial editor, Fisty, has always been something of an albatross around my neck preventing the Spimster from reaching the infamy that he deserves. The latest dropping on my walk of fame befell me when I came across an excellent scoop: "The Caravan of the Sweating Foal". I could, as the Lashu Ahpsu monk, Julio (Hoo-lee-oh!) said, "Enlighten all of mankind and lay a few bets on some sure things." However, Fisty said there would be no expense money until he won the Canadian Lottery. In retrograph, who could blame him? When you consider the first prize of the lucky 'Maple Heat' was one week with 'the hottest sap' of them all: world famous tongue wagger, Anne Murray, in Lake Louise. Nevertheless my wrath had been incurred and I needed some roaming space to come to grips with this latest blow to my destiny (and wallet, since I had already paid Brother Julio a few ñú (man) for exclusive rights to the sweaty foal story that would carry me into household namedness.
With that behind me I searched for an adventure that was both reasonable and rejuvenating. What I found was chrome and woe.
At ÉQÉäÉgÉâÉxÉã (Gary Toraberu) my search came to a screaching halt. My travel specialist took the trouble to explain to me that with the latest round of airfare increases, 2000 yen would not get me to any destination except to some guy named Charles Lobison or Lobinson's house by train. So I told him to find me the best deal he could to anywhere; so long as it had dancing until sunrise, exciting and happy-go-lucky people, and inventive local hangover cures. No more of this hair of the dog that bit ya stuff either. He told me of a nation, fresh from under the oppressive thumb of Communism, a land as crisp and frozen as a fishstick, and of a people stretching and yawning as they opened their eyes to a new dawn called - freedom. And of a round trip air fare less than the limit on my Discover card, I said 'sign me up'.
It was about five a.m. when the sturdy DC-3 (circa Indiana Jones) lighted onto Albanian soil. As I stepped off the plane, all eyes stared at me as I strolled through the gateway to this unspoiled tourist's paradise. I looked to the horizon and could see no palm trees. I looked across to the mountains and could see no ski lifts. I looked down and could see I was wearing no pants. Back to the john on the plane to correct a big oversight.
After scouring the town for several days, I finally found one tourist attraction. The People's Chrome Museum of Albania. Albania's main export, as everyone knows, is chrome. And the museum rivals the Smithsonian, at least the part of the Simthsonian dedicated to chrome. Especially the display on the ancient rayon/chrome caravans. The first merchants to come to Albania brought with them bolts and bolts of Rayon. They would return with enough chrome to make the Swiss alps all shiny. The caravan's wagons have been replaced with big trucks, but they use the same roads.
On my way to the museum, I noticed something strange. Every dog, every cat, had a crazed look in its eye. People were taking the dogs for walks, but the dogs weren't walking. It was heartbreaking to see picanese in baskets, collies in wagons, or labrador retreivers in the backs of pickups; just staring at the sky and tracing tiny circles with their paws. I asked several people in the museum what was up with the animals. I could only find one person who would talk to me. She said that that was because the average citizen didn't want to talk about the national shame. "The days of chrome and glory are over," she said, "I can remain silent no longer; noone should be silent." She started into a horrific story. It seems that the main religion in Albania, a Christo-Buddhist sect known as the Spandelarians, forbids all mind altering substances. The only way the Albanians can experience a buzz is vicariously, by watching it mirrored in the eyes of innocent pets. The mystery was, noone knew how the drugs were getting into the country. The border is sealed tighter than the skin on Liz Taylor's forehead.
When the old woman found out I was a member of the journalistic society, she fell to the ground and kissed my Hush Puppies (no irony intended). About that time the state police showed up to drag her away before she revealed any more of the nations horrid secret. Her cries will echo in my skull for four to six weeks: "Poodles on acid, Beagles on coke, kittens on crack for crissake, where's it going to end. My precious little hamster lying in a rehab unit, begging for one more hit of hash, as soon as he gets out of there, it starts all over again. Spim, make the world see our shame so we can stop turning a blind eeeyyyyyyyyeeeeee!" I was taken in for questioning, of course. But I convinced them that I had been raised in a monestery in Japan and could speak no English. And thus, didn't understand a word the hysteric woman had said.
I disguised myself as an old Albanian woman. I didn't want to shave off my moustache, so I covered it in flesh puddy and pretended it was a big wart. I took a little tour of the People's Kennel/Rehab Unit. Horrible. Dogs and cats were forced to share rooms. All the animals were tied to the beds with their feet pointing in four different directions, bellies up, no efforts were made to preserve modesty. They were playing 'Waiting for the Sun' by The Doors over and over and over. Some of the more alert ones howled along to the base, or the absence thereof.
I went to a pet store, and was invited to a back room where they had the special pet treats, if you know what I'm saying. I asked them if they had catnip, the owner called me a 'pussy' and chased me out with a broom.
Imagine my frustration, one man standing in a sea of pet-drug addiction; wanting to help, but powerless. One thing puzzled me. All that rayon coming into the country, but everyone was wearing cotton/polyester blends. Still sporting my clever disguise, I decided to pay a visit to the rayon caravan.
My Uncle Gustav was alergic to rayon. He tried to use that as an excuse to keep him out of the war, but they said he could wear the fabric of his choice. What did keep him out was a little known problem called Triviosomnia, a rare condition that causes the victim to sit up in the middle of the night and recite trivia. The first night of basic training, he sat up and recitied America's 50 States, and corresponding State Birds. The next morning he had no reccolection and could only name four states and one bird. Generals met with Kolonels, analysts met with specialists. They decided that it was not dangerous to have a triviosomniac in the troop, it was just too wierd. He spent the next seven years popping Sominex and playing Trivial Pursuits for money. He's dead now. But I digress.
Luckily, the caravan was at a truck stop when I caught up with it. As expected, I could see a line of people leading dogs and cats, and a few shetland ponies to the back of a truck. They were carrying away stoned pets. Of course! Nobody wears rayon unless they have to.
I broke into one of the trucks and, as expected, found the bolts of rayon filled with drug-laced doggie snacks. How low can humanity sink?
I ducked a few gunshots as I left. I zipped into an alley and threw my diguise in a dumpster. I walked in a care-free manner to the Canadian Embassy as the local drug lords were looking for a woman with a large lip wart.
It's a sick world, dear reader. I regret that I have to be the one to tell you that; but I was happy I could do something to stop the madness. Damn pleased that I could give the pets of Albania a chance at life. I'm Spim Ramsley, and these are my thoughts.