Please send as far and wide as possible.
Editor, The Konformist
Jaye C. Beldo
*Please note: The McHajj series you are about to read came to me
directly via a series of disturbing dreams, dreams which continue to
haunt me at present. These dreams, more like interminable nightmares,
have resulted from life long exposure to advertising in the
relentlessly predatory, capitalistic society that I'm haphazardly
posited in. In order to deal with the severe psychological trauma
such exposure has caused me, I have translated what my unconscious
mind has directly conveyed to me into the story below. It is the only
way I know how to cope with the constant trespassing into my psyche
by the corporate powers which loom about in a most menacing and
merciless fashion. Thank you for understanding my dilemma. BTW: I am
currently starting a twelve step support group for those who may
believe that they are victims of a similar kind of corporate
psychological terrorism. I will provide more information in the near
future...if there is one. Thank you!
"Grandpa Aleister...I'm scared." The Pillsbury Doughboy says,
trembling as he is tucked in for the night. "I think I might get
psychically attacked again."
"Psychic attack? What on earth is that?" Aleister asks, feigning
wonderment as well as dismay.
"Oh Gosh! Well, it usually happens around three or four in the
morning. These icky demons bleed through into my brain and I have the
"I dreamed that...." The Doughboy starts to cry. "...that Mark
Pauline sent one of his awful robot spiders to eat me alive. I tried
telling him that I didn't do it..that it was..."
"Do what?" Grandpa Aleister held the Doughboy's hand.
"I tried to tell him that I wasn't the one who took off with SRL
ticket proceeds after one of their performances." The Doughboy starts
sobbing. "I have enough of my own dough as it is. Is this some kind
of kooky weirdo Eye of Horus mind control that's homing in on my
brain in the middle of the night?"
"That is a weird dream indeed." Aleister observes. "Did you confront
"I couldn't. It scorched me with a musical flame thrower. It
played 'Hamburger Lady' by Throbbing Gristle when it baked me to a
crisp. Then I woke up. I was covered with sweat. I vomited up this
little rubber Satan squeaking doggy toy."
"I don't think it will happen again. I'll simply reverse your current
93 and you'll wake up fresh as a rose in the morning. You need to
take it easy. You're in your third trimester now....I mean any day
now! Now hush my favorite little mother to be, it is time for your
nightly placenta enema."
From under a gown, Aleister produces a turkey baster filled with some
ruby hued alchemical douche and inserts it into the Doughboy's
rectum. He waves a wand and bathes the moonchild fetus in this
ambrosial mixture, then retires to his library to cram for his bar
"I don't want this moonchild turd." The Doughboy pouts as he tries to
retain the quintessential liquid in his ass, face growing more and
more purple. Unable to incubate any longer, he throws the covers off
and climbs out of bed. He sneaks behind a wax replica of Jimmy Page,
climbs up on the neck of the musician's guitar and then darts out of
an ivy covered window. He climbs down the side of the mansion, walks
across a fog laden courtyard. After a time compressed segueway, he
enters the Tower of Inverness and works his way up the spiral stairs.
At the top, he starts yodeling like a Muezzin, beckoning to his
compadres still hanging for their lives, far away, on Mount Arafat.
But no one answers his calls, for his friends have not risen yet. He
scans the skies for an egg that could rescue him but nothing can be
The Doughboy is about to break water. He finds a water closet in the
tower. He goes in, sits down, squats and grunts. He looks between his
legs and sees a shaft of light coming up the chute. It is a malignant
green color. He can see that something is at the bottom of the hole.
It is a revolving CIA logo. The light filters through the racks of
blood filled vials.
"If you don't retain your moonchild until the proper astrological
alignment...I'll eat the thing right now... like it was dog do
sushi." The Charmin Teddy Bear says, spinning around on the stage,
leering at his lover.
"I don't care what you do." The Doughboy yells down between his legs.
He listens to his voice echo and then grunts some more and feels the
moon child enter into his rectal birth canal. "I'm not looking
forward to being a single parent when I get back to America.
Besides....I'll have no visitation rights once you get me into
divorce court and pressure me for alimony. You think I get paid to
push dinner rolls on the American public?"
"That moonchild is needed to keep an astral gate open in our country.
Hold it until the planets insure that baby's rising sign will be in
Cancer and the sun sign will be Capricorn. The alignment is only a
few minutes away as a matter of fact. " The toilet paper bear
warns. "Grave consequences will come your way if you do not retain
your baby until then."
"Like what?" The Doughboy challenges.
"Like being Martha Stewart's fall guy when K-Mart goes under and she
has no place to dump her product line. Good luck filing for
bankruptcy with Bush's new laws."
"That's grave? I'll play the stock market any day over this. I'll
even become a day trader specializing in intangibles." The Doughboy
grunts until his face is purple. The moonchild starts to emerge. It
is a breech birth. The Doughboy reaches around and grabs onto the
slimy fecal baby and yanks it out, defying the portent waiting at the
bottom of the well. When he feels his progeny firm in his grip, he
pulls it out from under his ass to inspect. It is a G.I. Joe doll.
Only the martial figurine is bald and has a neatly trimmed goatee.
Nothing standard issue about this toy. Nothing worth replicating en
"Say the kabbalistic formula....and your child will come to life."
The Doughboy looks up and sees Grandpa Aleister in the water closet
"It's icky. My child is icky. I don't like it at all. Certainly not a
chip off the old Ka'Ba if you ask me. Besides...it smells...like a
beached mermaid after three days in the Andalusian sun." The Doughboy
holds his nose for emphasis. "Now throw this in the Loch so that
Bessie can eat it."
"You're a bona fide Zelator Doughboy. You were merely being tested by
the Charmin Teddy Bear. He spoke the truth. And now you only have to
utter a few words and your goat child....will..will rule the world."
"Can I enter him into a child beauty pageant someday like Jon Benet
"Your moonchild is already 'Best of Show'. You can milk the Crab Cake
Kid for all it is worth....just make sure you start your tour in
Hollywood....it is imperative. There's a certain fountain I suggest
you go to for starters.
The magic incantation is uttered by Grandpa Aleister. The G.I. Joe
comes to life and the Doughboy turns it over and gives it a good
"Where's Uncle L. Ron and Uncle Anton? Time to pass out the cigars!"
The Doughboy examines his baby. "Are you sure this is our child.
Doesn't look like either of us in my opinion. Kind of looks like
Mr. Whipple particle beam accelerates from Brookhaven, materializes
in the tower, takes the baby and swaddles it in toilet paper. The
baby screams, revealing its Northern Pike like fangs and serpentine
tongue. The plastic scales are so life like and the eyes glow red and
green, blipping on a radar screen at some secret NORAD installation.
"Where's Roman Polanski when we need him? This could be the next
global blockbuster. We could rake in more profits than Titanic did.
Then I could afford to bribe the officials at the National Academy of
Sciences to get my statue put in their foyer." Aleister dreams. "We
need to get Ronald McDonald and the Marlboro Man off those crosses
before they die. Let's go...let's go....to Allah Land we go!"
The Pillsbury Doughboy starts to cry again. "Oh....lord...why has
thou forsaken me? Why couldn't I have given birth to a SMURF?"
To be continued
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