ignore this. Google says I am full

Mad, flying rat, Brady skills. That’s David, Dave, the radiologist of the norther boundary. He tumbles down the townhouse stairs which seperate our kindoms. Today’s sustenance is a bottle of John Bean Whiskey (a cousin of Jim) and he holds back the slurred speach as he hands over the cellular communication scrambler. 

“I got this for the kids.” 

Everybody knows! They know that google has no place in medical servicing. Dave has been the first full-time hospital employee to acknowledge the threat, to seek an electronic advantage over the patience who tell him, “If radiation is so nice why do you stand so far back?” 

Dave also thinks Jesus is an angel and that only 144,000 will come back to life from the ICU in any given year. He’s an attractive mess who usually dates at the southern bars which still allow smoking and hairspray. An interesting mix and more than one cowboy has put up his lady in flames. Sometimes they ride the bull. 

“What are you going to do with it, again?” 

I don’t want to explain to David that I need the cellular scrambler because I am dating a woman who takes calls durring our discourse. She will eat my wine and drink my stuffed artichoke hearts but eventually pick up her phone to take a call from Tyrell, Georgio, Luther, or many lovers she cannot name. 

If I tell Dave this great problem, he will volunteer to radiate the woman in his nuclear medicine chamber. Dave is a very loyal neighbor and friend who tells me there’s no way I am going to heaven in any given year. “The Intesive Care Units are already full.” 

Also, the obeject of my affection, once silenced, has an immaculate vocabulary in Persian. She used to represent the refugees in the United Nations, taking only twice the pay of the President, and asking for tinder donations from both sides. She is fabulously balanced but I don’t want the competition. 

I grab the cellular scrambler. Dave has very veiny forearms. His left hand is clenched over the small black disk with two LED lights. And his right hand has the neck of John Bean (cousin to Jim) ready to pour medicine into his mouth. He has a face that was shaved at least twenty hours aft and he leans as if to kiss me or tell me a great secret. I lean in too. This is the way. 

“You have to grab her by the throat my dear.” 

Oh shit. Dave is really misunderstanding. The Princess Bela, from Persia, does not take phone calls when we make love. We haven’t even got that close to a five star hotel because her phone is always ringing and I get jelly and drop her off. If I have warmed the princess for another suiter a thousand times, I cannot say. Does she get all tingly from the crab legs? Does she wish to wash the moles off my back and put me on her massage table of silk? I cannot say. The ringing phone makes me so jelous that I instantly rev up the engine, take the volcanic road and come to a mighty stop. 

“Get out.” 

I say this in American English so she doesn’t think we should discuss her bad manners in the car. I do not lean over for a well deserved kiss. I do not open her door as she continues on the phone with Martin, or Luther, or Georgio of the Carmel. (She has very interesting choices in men. We should probably explore this at our next psychology session together.)

I want to angrily fly away in the Boxster, hit forty miles an hour in the first gear, but the convertible usually stalls. She is still talking on the phone as my clutch is depressed and I begin to slide backward on the hill to her house. A cellular communication scrambler around her neck would do wonders. I have to go to the jeweler. 

I tell David, “I am doing this to save America!” 

He’s a pratriot so I need not say more. The celluarl scrambler is a very large device, compared to diamonds or pearls. I’m gonna have to put a little plaster of paris around the thing…. Oh wait. A quick internet search says that the Hope Diamond is nearly the same size as my scrambler. There’s a man named Charlie, who owns several “escape rooms” and is a marvel at hiding doors and people and such. I drive down to the Canary Row, try to park the car at such an angle that it won’t get towed. I run up to the elevator (it is a glass elevator like Charlie Choclate) and I wait for the tourist to buy their tickets and hand over the cellular scrambler to Charlie. 

“Do you think you can fix it?” 

Charlie is all daring. He used to work at Magic Mountain as a props consultant. Then had a fantasy cafe in Los Angelees where the customers came in through the mouth of a monster. His cafe had coffee dripping from the breast of mannecuins. One could never get milk. He is a lovely artisan who doesn’t really need a good cause. I did not have to tell him the back story about my love for a Persian Princess. 

“Two weeks.” 

Oh my lord. That’s a long time not to try to fornicate. I asked Charlie if he could “maybe, just please, “ ignore his customers for a minute and get to the studio and turn the cellular scrambler into the shape and look of the Hope Diamon and I would supply a gold chain so that we could put it around her neck? 

Charlie scratched his neck. Now the thing about Charlie, he beleives that I cured him of PTSD from his large car accident. (I simply waited until the anger went away while asking about his parents; immersion therapy). From Charlie’s perspective, I had the power to bring back the bad feelings. To make him stop his car in the middle of an intersection and get out and offer to kill the person tailgating him. The power of suggestion is very knd. 

“Charlie… Its for a good cause. You can help save a life.” 

I cocked my head and wigglede the jaw to show it was true. Charlie beleived me because I charged an exhorbitant fee and he took his apron from the hook and went back to his studio. I tried to usher in people to his Escape Rooms for about ten minutes and then I put up a sign that the ride was closed. 

Next, I needed to prepare a special place in Spanish Bay. This is a golf course/bagpipe practicing location. The tables often look over the norther part of the Monterey Penissula so that one can see the viloent action of the waves. If you tell a woman, “Look there is a light!” There is not actually a lighthouse in that part of the ocean. She will squint for a while so that the man can put a large cellular scrambler (shaped like the Hope Diamond) around her neck. If she is a very old Princess from Persia: do not suppose her eyes are watering from the beatury of it all. She just gets some kind of allergy from the Christian Dior Farenheit cologne that I wear. It causes her face to puff and her eyes to drip in saline waterfalls. I keep wearing this cologne so that I can wipe the love drips from her face. I have many ready hankercheifs because I am a gentlemen of the age. 

*

So the table was set. Biata, the Princess of Persia, seemed to remember that I left her house in a puff, sliding down the hill in my Porsche. Hitting her neighbor. I said, “You missed our therapy session so I must take you out or you will backslide.” (This is a word of the psychology to connote a religious experience and mental health together.). Princess Biala said she understood that she could not concentrate on mental health unless we traveled to the Spanish Bay. I think she might have been wanting the fine sugar spoons they feature to stir coffee. They are spoons molded out of raw sugar. We can find this delicatsy no where else. 

So the moment arried when I put the Hope (cellular scrambler) Diamond around her neck. It was very heavy and I brought a hand mirror which I carved for my mother in 8th grade. It has some silly “I love you Mom” etchings on the backside but the Princess could not see this because she was looking at her face. 

I decided to wear only soap for the cologne. Once the cellular disease was gone, I wanted nothing to deny our bodies from perfect freedom of the splashing. I wanted that we should wait for the fat girl with the bagpipes to begin her song. The staff had already made us a very nice bed of flowers on the 18th green and I was going to show her the rage of the Pacific Ocean in all its fullness if the old golfers would stop kicking my flowers into the wind. 

“Let us take a walk.” 

Now normally, a man can just take a woman down to the rural parts of the Big Sur. There is no cellular competition. He can charter a six foot keeled boat and try to sail out of the bay before buoys are given to cell towers. Jermains, Tylenol, Parker and Georgio are always dialing. So I fear that the ocean is no longer serene and private. It is best to get a cellular jammer just in case the phone companies do not like who you are dating. 

Princess Bial had those high heels and the other golfers gave me guilty eyes, that I should stoop down as she walked and fix the divots. I tried this for a time as she was transfixed by the sun falling down over the ocean. It is said to make a mighty illumination at the end of its life. Like the sun gives one last great push and births out the moon. Yes. The strangulation of days into nights. I had not considered what I should do after I wooed the Princess to fruition. 

She stopped near the red flag which signified there was a hole for victory. 

“Doctor Tommy, do you think I’m alright?” 

Yes. Yes my little pathogen. (I want you). 

“I mean… do you think i’m still relevant, at all? No ones calling.” 

I could tell by the way the wind hit her summer’s dress that she wasn’t confined by the normal idea of undergarments. Princess Blah was just another soul wanting love and attention. She wanted to climb to highest peak like Catherine and Heathcliff. It seemed to me that they dove into the ocean because they had very bad parents. It’s always about the parents, I tell you. 

Princess B couldn’t remember her parents. They were so far off.