The Pickleotopus Monster

Down in the valley of Pickle Green,
where the bumpy grass grows strong and tall,
and wind whistles through
with a scent so sweet and vinegary,
blending in like bi-level chameleon,
and waddling along near the dirt,
is the much fabled member
of the mammalian family,
the Pickleotupus Moster.

Zig-zagging with his furry belly,
just inches from the ground,
anyone lucky enough to spy him,
would wonder if he knew his
destination,
or had become drunk on fermented crabapples,
but if you could pan out
with your wide camera lens,
you would see the clever creature
eluding a very strange man,
in a tin foil hat,
scanning the ground for any sign
that the storybooks or tabloids were right.
He pushes before him
a razor scooter
with a wheel of old sharp cheddar cheese
taped to it’s front
in hopes of attracting
this wily beast,
and most curious of all,
having once read that the mating call
of the Pickleotupus Monster sounded so
he shouts in high pitched tones,
“Supercalifragilisticexpealidotious”
over and over.

For a brief moment,
he becomes hopeful,
when he suddenly hears
a hissing sound from behind.
But the stories never told him,
and nor will any stories he tell,
for Pickleotupus Monster spit
travels very far,
very quickly,
and is fatal.

--

All I know is that Dani O, winner of one of our Poetry Smackdowns, wrote this tasty little hallucination. I think she may have been an early afternoon arrival the second Saturday, so this might have been written for one of the little tykes enjoying Kids Fringe events that day. ("Supercalifragilistic" HAD to be a request word.) Either that, or it was the other end of the spectrum, because it's just the sort of title somebody would request if they were tripping their nuts off.

And now I've got the "Hiphoppapotamus" song from Flight of the Conchords stuck in my head.

The Adventures of Herpo

Bzzzt. Bzzt.
The florescent lights buzzed in and out above Herpo’s head,
and he sighed and said,
“Stupid lights, stupid job, I hate it all.
I really and truly hate working in this pet shop in the mall.”

Petey the Python peered from underneath his half log,
blinked his eyes, flicked his forked tongue,
to which Herpo said,
“Petey, my friend, you and I both,
should be out in the jungles of Congo south,
not wasting away where we can’t even see sun!”

Herpo was just placing the lid on the habitat of George Gecko,
when his manager burst in with two uniformed men in tow!
“Herpo my boy!” yelled the manager vociferously,
“Your expertise is needed! This will fit you perfectly!
The ferret is loose! Help the mall police find them!”

Herpo, being an expert on such things,
followed the trail of toilet paper,
out of an open back door,
and then sniffed the air outside looking for the right odor.
“There’s droppings over there,” said the dopey mall cops
but Herpo knew better,
and moved toward some rocks,
Sure enough, there were sets of tiny ferret tracks on top.

“It’s headed toward the dumpsters,
I’m sure we’ll find it there!
Ferrets love boxes and bags-
In fact, listen! What is that I hear?”

The four of them rounded the corner,
to the sounds of “Scritch, scritch, scritch”
and there in front of the big blue dumpsters,
was the very ferret that had tried to play hooky and ditch,
trying to get out of a cardboard box,
which he himself had flipped
and trapped himself,
victim of his own curiousity.

And it’s hard to say if that fateful day,
is what rocketed Herpo to fame,
but a whole line of Herepetological and Pet Supplies
still bears his face and name.


by Dani

--

See, you sick bastard? This is a cute story written by Dani for a young reptile enthusiast, not a poem about about a heroic herpes virus.

Oh. That was just me thinking that? My bad.

But seriously, Dani, you're a hero. On one of the few afternoons I was away from the booth, she rescued my lappy from a rainstorm and wrote half of this in the hallway of the Shakespeare Center.