Owl And Pussycat Go Bananas

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“I love the Banana Splits, Owl,” Pussycat said as he watched a clip from his all time favourite TV show on YouTube and wolfed down a bowl of his wife's home made soup with huge wedges of crusty bread. “I often wish we could be as zany as they are now and then instead of being boring and predictable day in and day out.”

“Funny you should say that, Eugene, because I've laced your soup with Dead Man's Fist, a powerful psychotropic fungus that grows wild in the woods behind the house. I've had some too, just to see what happens, because I'm bored, bored, bored.”

“You little tinkerer! Will we experience hilarious and possibly horrific hallucinations, slip into a coma and eventually die in unremitting agony as the caustic alkaline toxins from the fungus destroys our internal organs?”

“I don't think so, but I'm not entirely sure because the physical and psychological side effects of Dead Man's Fist have never been properly documented. The local bumpkins eat it in huge quantities during their abominable pagan rituals, they brew it into a sickly sweet tea and smoke it in bongs made out of plastic bottles – the Mother of Magic Mushrooms, they call it - and they don't slip into comas and die in unremitting agony.”

“Oh goody, I'm all for having a bit of fun, but I don't particularly want to die in unremitting agony.”

“Nor me, Pussycat. Are you experiencing any strange symptoms yet?”

“Just a weird tingling in my groin and a stiffie like a baby's arm holding an orange..... How about you?”

“I've just had a vision of you wrapped in slices of pineapple and rashers of bacon, sprinkled with curry powder and roasted at gas mark six for forty five minutes, and you smell yummy.”

“What's pineapple? I've forgotten because my mother dropped me on my head when I was a kitten and-”

“And you suffer from occasional memory lapses, I know. Pineapple is a tropical fruit that's absolutely delicious, and I like it with savoury things, particularly curry.”

“I fancy a dabble, Susan, even though all of a sudden you look like a huge, wibbly-wobbly yellow blancmange. Let's dance the Fandango, cover each other in fresh cream and hundreds and thousands and then nip upstairs and make mad passionate love.”

“Oh, go on then, you've talked me into it, you smooth talking bastard.”

*************************

“Susan, you great rippling love trifle, my legs feel funny, my ears have turned into handles that you're hanging onto rather violently during your wild throes of passion, and my nose had turned into a Strawberry ice lolly.”

“That's not all, Eugene, your penis has changed into a large wriggly Codfish, and it's making my lady bits go all shuddery.”

“You're my favourite thing in the whole wide world, Owl, and you've made my testicles explode with sheer joy. I love you more than trombones, I love you more than any beautiful pea green boat we ever travelled in, I love you more than veal and tuna flavoured Kattomeat, I love you more than vanilla ice-cream smothered in chocolate sauce.”

“I love you too, Pussycat. I love you more than I love rambling roses and the concept of ectoplasm and the word Popocatepetl, I love you more than freshly butchered aardvark in garlic sauce and corn on the cob, I love you more than mouse livers and sizzling sparrow kebabs and Monkey Puzzle trees sitting in the middle of sprawling, neatly mown lawns.”

“Oh, Owl!”

“Oh, Pussycat!” And then they both burst out crying.

“Oh look,” Pussycat said, drying his eyes on Owl's pillow. “The window has melted in a shower of multicoloured psychedelic bubbles, and a large inflatable pink giraffe has floated into the room and invited us to jump on its back for a ride to strange foreign lands.”

“Shall we go?”

“Why not? The kids are round their friends houses, and they won't be back for hours.”

*************************

“We're flying very swiftly over Flibber-flobber land, Owl and Pussycat, where the midget cows invariably talk gobbledegook, the wombats are nearly always drunk and the ruling anorexic Puff adders build vast concert halls in which they sing songs about the shortcomings of their sewage treatment system twenty four hours a sodding day,” Mr. Giraffe said as he flew through the air with the greatest of ease. “Oh, my name's Norman, by the way.”

“Hi, Norman,” Pussycat said as he licked cream from between his toes and tentatively eyed the oddly shaped clusters of buildings following the meandering course of a river half a mile below. “Do the Puff adders play thingummies?”

“I assume you mean trombones, you consummate cretin. No, as a matter of fact they only play cymbals and xylophones, and they do it quite atrociously – grown men have been known to pour boiling lead into their ears rather than listen to the racket that Puff adders call music.”

“Do they like curried pineapple?” Owl said, hanging onto Pussycat, who had his arms wrapped tightly around the giraffe's neck.

“Unfortunately not,” Norman replied. “As far as I know they only eat slices of watermelon sprinkled with salt and pepper, but they prepare various curried treats for their guests on the rare occasions that they allow visitors to despoil their sovereign territory.”

“Are we landing there?” Owl said.

“Certainly not! Puff adders are psychotic and unpredictable and their bites are nearly always fatal, so we're flying over the mountains and landing in the kingdom of Whibble for a little while, I think you'll like it better there.”

*************************

“What's that big red shiny thing over there?” Pussycat said as he climbed off the giraffe's back onto the grass verge.

“It's a transit van, you absolute tool,” Norman said. “You must have seen one before, but knowing you you've probably forgotten. The occupants of Whibble import them from Flibber-flobber land. I believe the drunken wombats build them in a rather primitive factory, which is probably why that one's parked at the side of the road with a working class Whibblite mucking about under the bonnet and sighing because it won't bloody start.”

“He looks like a common or garden bullfrog to me,” Owl said.

“Yes, the working class folk of Whibble are mostly frogs and haddock, apart from a handful of nasty yellow geese that are invariably lumped with the roles of traffic wardens, police officers, tax collectors and the like. The ruling class are rather handsome ginger Pigs, and I've heard that they rule quite fairly, but this is an isolated rural community and I doubt if you'll see any around here.”

“Hello Mr. Giraffe,” the frog said. “I love visitors! Who are these two odd looking creatures?”

“This is Owl and Pussycat from Hog's Bottom, Dullsville, Mr. Bullfrog,” the giraffe replied. “The silly tarts have been feasting on Dead Man's Fist, and after what they perceived as a rampant sex session though it was actually quite tame they agreed to come for a ride with me.”

“How splendid! We don't have owls and pussycats in these parts. There were a few many years back, but they were all brutally murdered during the pogroms of 1684. Don't worry, my friends, Whibbleites abandoned racism and violence decades ago..... I'm Mr. Bullfrog, and I'm afraid this damned heap of junk is giving me a headache. Would you like to come into my humble abode for tea and scones? My wife Mrs. Haddock would be delighted to meet you.”

“That would be lovely, Pussycat said, licking his lips.

*************************

“We've run out of scones,” Mrs. Haddock said a little while later as she poured the tea. “Greedy old Bullfrog has scoffed the lot, so I don't know what to give you to nibble on. I have some chicken and pineapple vindaloo left over from our dinner last night, would you like to try that?”

“Oh yes please!” Owl said, delicately sipping her tea. “I love curried pineapple, but Eugene has never tried it.”

“None for me, Mrs. Haddock, thank you,” Norman said as he stirred fifteen heaped tablespoons of sugar into the steaming contents of his mug. “I'm trying to lose weight, I've only flown nine thousand miles and I'm completely knackered.”

“Would you happen to know anything about engines, Pussycat?” Bullfrog said. “I'm buggered if I know what's up with the sodding thing, and I need the van to get to work in the morning.”

“You can't ask our guest to fix your rundown old van, Bullfrog,” Mrs. Haddock said, “it's downright rude! Let him enjoy his curry in peace.”

“Oh, I don't mind,” Pussycat said. “I'm a bit of a wizard with anything mechanical, I'll take a look as soon as I've sampled your curry and drank my tea.”

“I'm putting the TV on, I hope you don't mind,” Haddock said when she had given Owl and Pussycat their plates of curry along with a mountain of freshly toasted poppadoms. “Eastenders is on in a minute, and if I miss it I'll simply die.”

“We interrupt this programme for a very very important announcement,” the news goose hissed. “The ghastly Giant Wren people from Thunderland have declared war on Whibble, and as we speak millions of the evil shits are storming across our border from the north. As you'll all know if you've listened to recent broadcasts the Wren people are utterly merciless bastards, and unless our army counter attacks pretty swiftly we're all going to be enslaved or horribly slaughtered. A counter attack is most unlikely if you ask me, as our troops are extremely cowardly and they'll probably all surrender and submit to the most horrendous treatment imaginable. You only hope, Whibbleites, is to flee south, head for the mountains and hope the Puff adders in Flibber-flobber land are willing to take you in – there's a chance, I suppose. Good luck, citizens, and may God have mercy on your souls.....”

“Oh bum!” Bullfrog cried. “It looks like we're all fucked. I worked in Thunderland for a while when I was with the telecommunications company, and the Wren people are the biggest bunch of wankers you're ever likely to meet. They're unhygienic too, they wet their nests and they stink to high heavens.”

“What are we going to do, Bullfrog?” Mrs. Haddock said, flapping her fins around in undisguised terror. “Quick, rescue the tadpoles-cum-fry from their indoor pond and put them in a couple of jam jars from the recycle bin, we have to travel south with unprecedented speed!”

“You can all jump on my back and I'll fly you to safety,” Giraffe said. “It won't be in bloody Flibber-flobber land though, I can't see those dastardly Puff adders accepting any refugees, so I really don't know where to take you for the best.”

“They can come and live with us for a while,” Pussycat said. “Our government are amicable towards immigrants, and before you know it Mr. Bullfrog, Mrs. Haddock and their brood will be given a council house and put on benefits until Frog finds gainful employment. That's if you don't mind of course, Owl.”

“It's fine by me,” Owl said. “There's plenty of room for you in our house until you find somewhere else to live, but you'll have to keep your tadpoles-cum-fry in the bath, I'm afraid.”

“Are you sure it's OK?” Bullfrog said.

“Positive,” Owl replied.

“Hurrah!” squealed Mrs. Haddock.

“That's sorted then,” Mr. Giraffe said. “All aboard, chop chop. Tally ho!”