Mid-Januinary Radio Jam ~ fiction by Jim Meirose

Back City, crank your evoluminations.

All gosh to the great God Yul.

Tangling. The way head’s tangleteening for a taking.

Some sort of sport seems to be playing out back over here.

So, look on. Let’s a’ look at yer radio.

Breaking news this unprecedented eighty-degree late Januinary daytime.

So, you say this squareradio’s not clashing correctly?

Bataan College’s acting spokesbooster answered first, clearly, Pumpmasters! Blessed be! Jahwol! Yes ‘specially these and any o’ those Spanny-yards these, including them’s manies sporting fully erected angiotenners; all final marks granted by those thar Kings o’ shortwavery lined up out that pap-hind the fragile wall into its backside down there. It’s right here in our logs. Kink to them they, Verne’d it, by ‘ules.

Then the Model Nation-in-Residence tilted her head resurrectionally, all gaining, Yes, I iterate really, that they’ve said they’re actually there coming at us—hey, that’s big post of them didient’d, ain’t it—from France’s light center from which eternally radiates thin chocolateen radial lines so delicate, and under my microscope so detailed that the reporta’ what scribe-bled ‘dis must snot actualall-titty be a God angel. Hot Poppa! Reginal’ das o’ any o’ ‘ll tomthuggery. Job’s dried, but I must try, because. Blessed be! They pay me. Sie bezahlen mich—

At that some cried out their backgallery, Wook! Ah! So, by his gland we shall know him? Can it be all so simple?

Blaze the Stout II cried all ‘oco, That’s right, yes, it is! Bless that man’s hot rod immediately, Chief! Yes—heat well your monitors, while ‘memberneening all ‘dat before those big power-up tubes way back in the dark, plugged tight to their orange-glow back there go hot, there will be nothing to hear on that radio which could mean; there is nothing out there for the tubes to deliver though they themselves are working correctly, or; there is something out there for the tubes to deliver but they themselves—or the either or other of them—are not providing you anything to hear, which could mean; they are working correctly and the problem behind the backa’ or out frumpf’ o’ dem or; elsewise someplace else in the radio, of which there are many. They are not correctly working correctly not working correctly working—and, by all that spans Willy, this or that could b’ of the either, of the other, or even the all, of them. If this keeps, Job’s dried dried but I must try because it all starts to fray over disraveling out that far—

No! louded Vit’ Tupratorian, blithely interrupting, saying, Yes Blaze, too crude that’s put somewhat, but damned appropriate it will seem, once you see the full blare of it, out in the light. They pay me. Sie bezahlen mich. Wait, sit, stay, she sprouted, passing me a rumplesheet—

Huh? Do I Horace you correctly, that? Wait? Sit? Stay? That? For a rumplesheet?

Yes—for a rumplesheet; a rumplesheet that somebody may have poured fast liquid story down, then balled it up, pulled it open thirty-five times a’fore its dried, but I must try ‘cause. They pay me. It’s dried but I must try, ‘cause. If this keeps up on in our dries. Spot-on, Beast! Job’s dried slab-hard, but I must try ‘cause. They pay me. Do they pay me? Perhaps now they will pay me. Which is two? Sie bezahlen mich. Sie bezahlen mich. They pay me—so you lose! If this keep up past our dries, we’ll go vertical. That there l’show we mean there, baby! All vertical. Vertical yah; all wise, s’not this. Blessed be! We’ll go vertical like Fedrico’s cabinet. Hier geht; need the radio to know ‘tuff ‘s as-that Tsar Valentino Big-star, of The Show, rededicated to ensuring the healthies of his upper-men, across this un an all other un’s o’these kinds of Sub-Arabias, invented the Gobchute, after imagining, in his son’s heat, the rhythm, and beat, of our spot-down-here, blessed into our keeping so’s long back, by our and by our and and by ours and our very-very great God. There’s a proof for you. Dos’s Arabias be stomp’d tuh that ground if it will nots’a be h-hot in the cellar, where or whoa-ever wherever over the ever where ever ‘r ever we crank-down to hawk it! Alles vertical. Heck Critical Fact. Giving in now to a purpose of a kind; heat blanket. But on proseo-type we’d multistructed at great hotspence, we booled out the sponserinians. Necessary at ten. Blessed be! Let us watch that all, this evening. Dos: Blessed be! Sie bezahlen mich. Yes, sie bezahlen mich. It’s dried out, and burns hot, but, I must try because. In that place right there, that Arabia. Blessed be! In Arabia. Heck! So what, it’s dried; I must try just because. Sie bezahlen mich. ‘f I were you, I would write that directly down. Eh vertical into the land of many Arabias, wit yo’ and ‘rs. Hoop. To the land where Arabania Gobchute und sein Keachypeen die musikalische Gruppe goes hot an’ throws all around ihre Taschen. The evergrowing mystical loop-all-dance bouncin’ a’bounce to my fat protean beat; ten beats to a throw zehn Schläge zu einem Wurf at the pleasure of one distinct Mister and Mrs. Jack Hamm and ‘er distinctly differentiated fan club, whatever they call themselves something, like the PeterPaulian nancywagger’s of what ‘ll butt. Hey Snapper! One’s been ll’llill’iminationed by the Jack Hamm big special environoquism team. Blessed be!

Thank you.

No problem. Think your squareradio’s still not clashing correctly?

Nothing of that type-kind, no; not geezeriamundo, geezeriamindi, or whichever’s the mandated direction for today.

So, you say.

Jim Meirose’s short work has appeared in numerous venues, and his published novels include No and Maybe – Maybe and No (Pski’s Porch). Le Overgivers au Club de la Résurrection (Mannequin Haus), Understanding Franklin Thompson (JEF pubs), and Sunday Dinner with Father Dwyer (Optional books). Info at www.jimmeirose.com and @jwmeirose on Twitter.