Dacron, Polyester, Acrilan - Poof - Norman A. Rubin
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It was a pleasant morning in the merry month of June; the day was clear, sunny with a whiff of a balmy breeze that sent peaceful rays of complaisant warmth over the town of P..., situated in the center of the New Jersey swamplands. As it was a Sunday morn, the majority of the natives were enlarging on their literary knowledge by tidbits of journalism wedged in by reams of writing on bargains, white sales, etc., written in a massive missive, the Sunday newspaper, which was spread on the reading arena - the bed. Some, a rare few, risking the scorn of their intelligent neigbors, devoutly made their way to sacramental offerings. Here and there a few stout and heartly souls gallantly trudged to their respective clubs for a bit of golf or a refreshing dip in tepid pools.
But all was not sirene that Sunday morning; a reported malfunction in the ‘rectilineail transmission thermophile’ caused a buildup of a burdened overload (blocked pipe) at the Frisbee and Zilch chemical plant. It was in the state of blowing its stack, threatening to belch into the balmy breeze cloudlets of gaseous fumes that delighted in the taste of synthetic fibres.
This established firm, which provides the mainstay of life to half the minions of the town, concocted the production of Aqueous, Saturated, Cornmash Spirit that is a boom to the cosmetic industry - a nail polish remover and an excellent solvent for cleaning ovens and chafing dishes. The firm was founded in 1886 by two astute industrial barons, Theophelius Zilch and Ed Frisbee, as a byproduct in their distillation of the state’s well know brand of white lightning. Gentlemen, who’s generous and charitable endowments are landmarked by the Zilch Memorial Library, the Zilch High School, the Zilch Home for Unwed Mothers and Ed Frisbee Bar and Grill.
At the plant, admist an agglomeration of power tools, pipes, left-handed wrenches, bent pins,
bolts and nuts, and assorted wreckage a well versed team of expert incompetents were at work – Denis Mcman, chief maintenance technician, a brawny Celt of a man – Yosep Zapathasvilli, top echelon engineer, a canny Scot of Georgian heritage with thin, wiry hands nimble in weaving carpets – Ole Andersson, a wizened old janitor, twenty years overdue for pensioning. Both Denis and Yosep were refugees in technical mishandling with accumulated knowledge for such mishaps from their last position at a power plant in Penslyvania at a place called Three-Mile Atomic or something contrast.
Denis, with the help of Ole Anderson, removed from the innards of the unit - valves, shafts, tubes, chewing gum, etc. as Yosep, consulting blueprints, belched forth instruction in scientific Yiddish. And as fast as one can spew out promises of a politician, the job was completed to the satisfaction of the three men (Parts that were left over were carefully collected by Ole Anderson in a nearby trash bin.).
Yosep, with the flair of an artist, pulled the starting lever sending the unit in a test run. With clashing and grinding of gears, the machine burped, belched and roared into life. After a second or two, it gurgled, sighed, coughed and burst its innards in one splurge spewing forth gears, bolts, cotter pins helter and skelter, and sighing out a cloud of gas into the atmosphere. Shrugging their shoulders, both Yosep and Denis trudged merrily home for an intensive study of the classified columns, leaving old Ole Anderson to clean up the mess.
Now this gaseous cloud drifted contently on the balmy breeze devouring every bit of synthetic fibre that is espied and left everything and everyone in a state of disarray and dishabille.
The venerable Father Leary, officiating at the baptismal rites of Ayloius Patrick Hermonius, newly born son of Mr. and Mrs. Donnelitch, was disturbed by an offensive odour that permeated into the vestry. Pausing at his Latins, his myopic eyes gazed at an angelic site - lovely Matilda Donnelitch was standing in her all together holding her cottonly swathed baby: Her husband was attired in a linen bow tie, leather belt and shoes. Next to the couple were the child’s grandparents strangely clothed - grandpa in woolen underwear (he had a touch of rheumy.) and grandma in a silk corset, silk bloomers and a dainty straw chapeau. The old boy’s eyes popped as he gazed at the other guests attired in the latest African jungle fashion ornamently decorated with belts, shoes, hats and cotton underclothing. He felt a chill on his ancient frame as the vestments of his office barely covered his carnality. With a yelp of pandimonium, the guests, realizing that they were not in the proper fashion for a baptism, skeltered hither and yon in search of covering for their alien appearance. The good Father, sensing the urgency of the hour, hastily ordained his flock in choir robes, cassocks, cowls, surplices, altar cloths and other linens and cottons.
A pageant of pleasant life was to be seen at the Zilch Country Club - lithe nymphs clad in postage stamp size acrilan bikinis and athletic young men with a strip of polyester covering their nudity were frollicking and splashing in the pool. The elders, after a romp on the golf course, were encouched near the bar enjoying a whiskey with a dash, and engrossing themselves in a gabble of gossip. Viscount Horace Throtly LLD, DDT, English to his British woolens, was thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of humans of the lower order engaged in these orgiastic rites. A cloud disturbed his view of lovely Cynthia, great granddaughter of Ed Frisbee, on the high boards. When the cloud lifted, the young lady, naked to the core, eeked and screeched, and with one hand to her opulent breasts and the other to her ex-virginity, tumbled headlong into the pool. All around tumult reigned supreme; a re-enactment of ‘Oh Calcutta’ was in progress with eeking and screeching. The gallant lifeguard, draped in a knee length cotton sweatshirt and shoed in wooden clogs, was rushing about distributing rough cotton towels to the participants. “Gad Zooks, these Americans, what next?” mused the Queen’s Own as he gallantly placed his deerstalker on the nearest center pole.
An offensive odour disturbed the Bernstones at their groaning board forcing the corpulent elders to desist at their labours. The darling of their eyes, a pimply brat of nine years that should not be allowed to enter into the tenth year, faced his mother and screamed out, “Mommy’s got her tits in the chicken soup.” Before he was able to finish he received a blow from ma that would put Tyson to shame. The force overturned a bowl of hot soup on pa’s circumcision compelling him to retire admist howls of the hounds of hell.
All was in chaos at the municipality - His honour, the mayor, draped in the city’s colours was besieged by the angry citizenery costumed a la Mardi Gras (and some clad in the king’s new clothes). Police chief Winter and his stalwart men with their guns in central position, attempted at order, but to no avail. Crisis prevailed.
The governor of the state, upon hearing of the catastrophe, instituted an immediate call up of the National Guard to preserve order and to prevent looting - troops were placed at Moe’s Pawn Shoppe and at Flynn’s Shroud Factory.
The Red Cross sent wide gauze bandages.
The following day Congress met in special session to vote on an emergency bill fowarded by the senators from Mass., N.J., and Conn., amended by the senators from Minn. and Cal., with opposition by the senators from Miss., Va., and Fl., with the senators from Wa., Col., and N.M. abstaining.
The press secretary of the White House informed the public at large that a special announcement would be forthcoming.
A special session of the United Nations was called by that august gentleman from a third world continent, after an interruption of his fact finding mission to Sadam and his cronies, to discuss the present situation. After many debates, with a considerable amount of verbal umbrage, it was voted upon by a resolution fowarded by Yassi of Iran to condemn both Israel and the United States.
Abdullah and Housni paused in their refereeing the never-ending Near Eastern talks to discuss with various government leaders on the (ahem) pleasant crisis. Jeorg of Tyrol stated those boys in the beer halls did better in their research... and Tony from the little house on Downing called for unilateral talks while Gerry disagreed.
Prince Yourmoney of OPEC announced an increase of 150 per cent to the barrel and welcomed the Irish peat boggers to its fold.
Admist the flurry and excitement, the metereological service quietly reported that the obnoxious cloud of gas had been dissolved by a blast of hot air emmitted from the vicinity of Washington, D.C..
And from the warmer Oral Office - an announcement would be forthcoming...
Norman A. Rubin