The room was spinning–in part because Plumpy was well drunk and in part because she was on a Sit ‘n’ Spin. The disreputable German sailors had stepped forward with furrowed brows and funnels for mouths into which poured libations both secular and sacred (a Jesuit had established a mission in the men’s bathroom and was blessing wine).
Plumpy was a born leader. She had led her school in days absent and canker sores spread on the playground during Kiss or Kill. She also played the role of Judas in Jesus Christ Superstar, but took over the role of Jesus after killing the actor who played him. Her middle name was Usurper and her favorite movie was Rebel Without A Cause but didn’t understand it.
She was never afraid to bring home the bacon when telling a joke or ham it up when telling a tale or find out if a room had enough space to swing a cat or find out of it was true that there was more than one way to skin a cat.
She was to Chicken In A Biskit what Bizarro was to Superman. She was a clarinet in an oboe world.
“Come gather ’round sailors wherever you roam
and sip the head of your beer glasses’ foam!”
She blinked slowly and moved herself like a tranquilized Teddy Ruxpin, deep in the grips of Sweet Lady Alcohol. The demon of Lightning Drink wound about her synapses and smoked her sinews like sausage links before a mid-winter’s nap.
“Travelers of sea, and seamen of hither and yon, heed me!
I sing praises to the strange brew before you.
It loosens lips and sinks ships.
It takes your worries and drowns them
while washing ashore new ones.
It gives sea sickness on land
and land legs of lead to the swimming.
It is the eraser of memory
and the recorder of regrets.
Hear me, my drinky crows!”

They watched on with the unblinking but mind-sick eyes of Cabbage Patch Kids and mewed like kittens for a Zebra Tale.
“Speak forth, you Waste-Of-Stripes!” they chanted.

“….And Thus Spake Zebrathustra:
When Zebrathustra was 30 years old, she left her place in the zoo and went into the Striped Mountains. There she enjoyed her spirit and her solitude, and for 10 years did not weary of nary a single stick of Fruit Stripe gum.

But I could not be satisfied with the great riches given me. And my servants saw my face downcast in the reflection of my well-polished hooves.
“O great mistress. Why dost thine eyes ooze such?”
“Plumpy Usurper Zebrathustra does cry, my wenches. And since you nor anyone on these blessed mountains have ever had a moment of strife let me explain tears.”
“Wait!” said they, with bowed heads now raising. “You think we like being servants to a zebra with irritable bowls and much trapped wind? Are you a egoist or what? Each night we expect that perhaps you will set us free or at least say thank you for our marionette shadow puppets and each night we are disappointed.”
Thus spake Zebrathustra–“It is time for zebras to fix their goal. It is time for zebras to plant the germ of their highest hope.”
“Yeah, that highest hope would be that you displayed courtesy or gratitude at least once in your miserable life.”
Well, as you can imagine I left that Mountain immediately to travel somewhere I would be appreciated–Hollywood. I left a message for my zebras in my Etch A Sketch that looked like square scribblings and I “upper deckered” in the bathroom. Off I set for a new future of fame and fortune.
I realized that the life of a zebra in Hollywood was not that of the sort I’d had in the Striped Mountains. No one was impressed by my early detection of prowling female lions or my head shaking in dust clouds.
I turned to drink. O! Demon Alcohol!
Soon, I was taking bit parts in Canada Dry commercials. I formed bulimia, used spray-on tan, and was seen partying with Tara Reid. My life was hell.
I drank more and more until I pooped pickles. This got me a job in a Deli down near Santa Monica and I made tips by giving zebra rides in the pantry.
I met a drug dealing toy manufacturer and part time swindler. I trusted him–I shouldn’t have. He promised me that he’d make me famous. I thought he meant through porn or making my hide into Benetton pants.
Rather, he offered to make me into a toy. He took my measurements and dipped me into liquid plastic and created a mold of my body which he was going to scale down to create a toy called “Cirrhosis Liver Zebra.”
Well, he got tired of me, betrayed me–backstabbed me (actually he front stabbed me right in my chest. If I hadn’t had a liver swollen to four times its normal size I’d been stabbed in the zebra heart). He took my form and repackaged it in a non-stripe color scheme and called them “My Little Pony”. He made thousands at least. I should be a thousandaire right now, but instead I’ve got little more than a box from Little Caesar’s as a hat and a Zima bottle as a scarf and Silly Putty as a tampon.
I’d wanted to see my name in lights–meaning either the marquees of Paris, the dreamy lights of Broadway, the billboards of St. Louis, or the Lite Brites of Phnom Penh. Instead I’ve just got my name in a couple of warrants for arrest, and many ‘failure to appear’ letters from the court. I also have my name tatooed across Reese Witherspoon’s forehead along with unabridged text of Don Quixote.
My life is a failure because of booze and I drink booze because I’m a failure and I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired and I want what I can’t have and I still haven’t found what I’m looking for, and hell no I won’t go, and where there’s a whip there’s a way, and nothing’s worth doing sober that can be done drunk, and where’s Waldo, and desperately seeking susan, and follow that bird and so on and so forth. Thus Finished Spak-ing Zebrathustra………”

The German sailors sat sucking their thumbs like a pod of dolphins dressed like Monchichis. Sheila, Tanya, and Dee Dee (the Three Friendly Ghosts or the Trinity of Techy Gods, or the WiFi Godhead) sat dumbfounded like She Ra under Shadow Weaver’s spell.
Nibb was as silent and Smurfed-out, Mutha Smurfin’ Smurf on black tar Smurf.
h0m-R had passed out.

“What a Smurf!” The sailors said in unison. “What a waste of stripes!”
but h0m-R dreamt of Plumpy’s future. Only because he was drunk, he dreamt wrongly of a future where Plumpy wouldn’t betray him. In that dream, the twisted god of Gone Wrong Dreams, Demon Alcohol, appeared.
“You think that Waste of Stripes won’t turn on you as soon as she can?”
“Maybe she will, maybe she won’t. The future is unwritten. Mayhaps she will have a change of heart.”
That night, Plumpy did have a change of heart as she received a heart transplant from a baboon and a liver transplant from David Crosby and a hair transplant from Carrot Top and the mole from Sarah Jessica Parker’s chin attached to her retina. Other than that, she just became a little bit more evil–if that was possible.

“Now hear, this!” Said Nibb as she lifted her See and Say, and pulled the string with the arrow landing on ‘horse’.