Sorreal

 

“Another smash and grab has occurred at White Shaft diamond store in Kinship, Connecticut. Its other branch in Richfield, Connecticut, had already been robbed,” says news analyst Dianne Boyer, reading from the teleprompter.

“It was reported an unmasked Caucasian couple entered the jewelry store in suit and dress. The woman is said to have distracted the store’s security guard, Toby Ray Lincoln, while her male accomplice clobbered the unsuspecting Mr. Lincoln over the head with a rubber mallet then used the mallet to bash the glass counter and make off with over one hundred thousand dollars worth of jewelry. This pair has been identified in several jewelry store robberies and are possible suspects in last spring’s big heist at ChinAmerica National Bank in Manhattan. The couple is compared to the notorious Bonnie and Clyde, who in the 30s committed a string of robberies and murders, leading up to one of the largest manhunts our nation has ever faced. Law officials haven’t confirmed whether the couple are responsible for several bank robberies in Bushville, Michigan.”

The strawberry blonde news analyst pause for the pre-recorded tape: Police Sergeant Wimfrey Williams name flashes on the TV screen. The Caucasian Sergeant’s thick moustache made his words come out muffled.

“We’re looking into this couple being in connection with a sting of bank robberies — ” The camera cuts back to Dianne Boyer.

“Whether they’re the modern-day Bonnie and Clyde,” she says promptly, grazing her hair, “havoc is being wreaked in peace-loving Kinship Connecticut. Representatives of White Shaft Incorporation have offered a reward to anyone willing to come forth with information leading to an arrest of the couple. The couple was seen getting into a Yellow Caravan. The suspects are believed to have a third accomplice, an African American woman, possibly a senior citizen.” Dianne Boyer makes a humorous face expression. “This story may prove to be more bizarre, yet.” She turn and face another camera.

“On to other news. A family’s dog is stuck in a tree: find out how it got up there. You wouldn’t want to miss it. Wow! Bruce,” she says to her co-news analyst, Bruce Jerkoff, sitting next to her. “I can’t wait to see what happens.” she pause to build suspense for the viewers.

“Neither can I Dianne. Speaking of bizarre,” Bruce Jerkoff says, “Mom Barker and Lassie would make quite the pair. Maybe she drove the dog up the tree?” Both news analysts laugh.

“Bruce, maybe the dog was driving the get-away car?” They both laugh some more.

“I don’t know,” he says,” but stranger things — ” The music comes on. Dianne Boyer turns to face the camera.

“Stay tuned, I betcha wouldn’t want to miss what’s coming up next after the break.

 

“Honey, why don’t you ever buy me things like that?” The Red Headed Woman wearing pink pajamas says to the swarthy complexion man next to her in bed, counting money.

“Buy what?” he says.

“Buy me diamonds and stuff?”

“I buy you stuff.”

“Like what?” she says and folds her arms.

“Like, the new stove,” he says, with fixed eyes counting.

“Yeah, so I can cook for you!” She pouts, pressing her lips together tightly, forming wrinkles on the side of her mouth.

“Well, what about the TV?” He scratches the carpet covering his chest.

“You watch it more than I do. Sports, sports, sports! That’s all that’s ever on. A bunch of grown men playing like kids!”

“It’s entertainment, baby! And test of will and strength to overcome — “

“Overcome what?”

He hesitates, then says.

“Overcome adversity.” He raise up his chin dramatizing the pride in his words.

“Adversity? What does it have to do with you? You only watch sports!”

“Ah um,” he scratches his head, “what’s that have to do with me?”

“Yeah, what’s it have to do with you?” Her words mock him as she stand hands over hips, tapping her foot to the floor.

“It’s a man thing, you can’t understand!” he snaps at her, “What about the car I bought you?” he says in a hurry, getting back to his original point.

She twists her lips at him, stifled by the question.

“You know damn well I can’t drive a stick shift — ooh! She stomps out of the bedroom with the other bag of money.

DIAMONDS: THE SELFISH GIFT

“Today is the annual orange festival in Citrusville, Florida,” Dianne Boyer reports, “where the local farmers and aspirants have brought out their best oranges. These aren’t your ordinary oranges; they’re humongous! Every year these orangists — what they call themselves — bring out their best home cropped and treated oranges to be weighed on this gigantic scale here.” She hand traffics TV viewers to the oversized foot scale. “The folks at Citrusville are celebrating its seventy-fifth festival today. Its tradition was started by the late Sir Rindthorn Orangman, the fourteenth. He was an Englishman whose forefathers settled in Florida over two hundred years ago,” Dianne Boyer spots an interesting looking middle-aged man. “Excuse me sir. Can you tell us about Citrus Day?” The long gray and tree-bark brown bearded man stops in front of the camera. “Sir, what is your name?” she asks, holding up the microphone.

“Flavius Sherbert, ma’am,” he says and smiles. His dental plan obviously was with Tropicana Orange Distillery.

“Wow! What an interesting name, Sir-”

“You can call me Sherb, everyone else do.”

 

“Well, Sherb,” she blushes at saying his nickname, “what can you tell me about the contest?”

Flavius Sherbert plucks the suspenders of his overalls. The snap draws attention to his low button shirt broadcasting orange freckles on his man boobs.

“Whoever grow the biggest orange wins,” he says. “I came in second last year to Mrs. Peels. Julius and Orangthal, right over there.” Flavius Sherbert points at two huge, gravy-fed boys. “They’ll put the oranges right here on the weigher and it’ll tell us who won.”

“Wow, Sherb, thank you! It sounds like lots of fun.”

“Oh, it is ma’am, and I plan on doing the citrus two step with my wife here after I win.”

“What is your name, Miss?” Dianne Boyer asks the woman on Flavius Sherbert’s arm.

“Sedeana Sherbert, but everyone calls me Seedy, ma’am.”

“Okay, Seedy,” Dianne Boyer slides Sedeana’s nickname down like a thick peanut butter sandwich.

“Are you excited about your chances of winning?”

“Yeah ma’am, Sherb almost won last year. He worked hard and –”

“And I have my special mix.” Flavius Sherbert cuts her off.

“Special mix?” Dianne Boyer says, intrigued by it sounding magical.

“It’s a formula my family had for generations”

“What is it? And how did it work for you at last year’s contest?” Dianne Boyer asks, excited. She thrusts the microphone up to his mouth, anxious for his response.

“Well ma’am it takes an entire season to make, and it wasn’t ready last year.”

“Oh, I see. So, what’s in it?”

“Well, ma’am, that I can’t tell ya. But I’ll tell you this much. It’s good and natural.”

Somewhat disappointed in not finding out the mystery ingredients in his special mix, a smile of understanding lifts Dianne Boyer’s cheeks, and she thanks Flavius Sherbert.

“Anytime, ma’am,” Flavius Sherbert says, and he and his wife leave.

“As you see, this festival is filled with participants and festival-goers eager to show their oranges and win. Excuse me?” Dianne Boyer stops an orange-headed girl passing by. “Miss, what is your name?”

“Are those real? Am I really on TV?” The girl asks shyly and rubs the goose bumps sprouting up her left arm.

“They sure are and you’re on Channel 555 National News.”

“Wow! Um, my name is Tangerine Delight.” Dianne Boyer gives an amused expression.

“Are you in the contest?”

“No ma’am, my brother, Sunny, is. This is his first one. He got the recipe from our great granpa, Capt’em Cidar.” The camera cuts to the weigh-in.

“Justice Tang orange weighed in at 8 pounds 11 ounces,” Dianne Boyer announces the top three contestants, “Our buddy Sherb came in second at 9 pounds 7 ounces. And Citrina Jubilee weighed in at a whopping 11 pound 10 ounces! You got it folks — bright names, a sunny day and juice for months to come. This is Dianne Boyer signing off for Channel 555 National News. The pre-recorded tape ends.

“You had one heck of a day, Dianne.” Bruce jerkoff says.

“Yes Bruce, the folks at Citrusville are a fun-loving community.”

“I would think they’d have to be, enjoying oranges as much as they do.” Bruce Jerkoff says humorously, taking the opportunity to work in his signature smile — three hula hoop rings stretching from the dimple on his chin to his earlobes.

“They have some fruitful names, Bruce.”

“They sure do, Dianne. I was waiting to hear a “Nectarine”

“I believe there was a Nectarine, Bruce. There was a Pure Juice.”

“Unbelievable,” Bruce Jerkoff says, shaking his head. “Their great great grandparents must have had too many sips of that ole cider.” Both news analysts laugh.

“Did you see the size of those oranges, Bruce?”

“They looked like bowling balls, Dianne.”

“And they were heavy like them too, Bruce.” The music comes on.

“A hundred tons of marijuana was found at a California zoo during a school trip,” Dianne Boyer reads from the teleprompter. “Still up to come, the heroic rescue of a little dog stuck up in a tree. Stay tuned.”

 

“Toss me another beer will ya, buddy? I’m still thirsty.” The Fat Guy says from the couch, mimicking Al Bundy with his hand partway inside his pants. Flabs of hamburger meat hung from his underarms as he blindly reaches for it from the Mexican man in the sofa chair next to him.

“Holmes, no more beer.” The Mexican Man says in a heavy accent, looking inside the empty cooler.

“What!” belches out of the Tall Fellow in a flannel shirt and deer cap.

“No more beer in the cooler, ese.”

“Speak English! I then told you already I don’t have no book report.” says he Tall Fellow. The Mexican Man repeat it in English and hunch his shoulders to the Fat Guy whose jaw is dropped to the floor.

“What the hell you mean all the beer is gone?”

“Yeah, Sombrero. How in the hell we’re out of beer?” The Tall Fellow says.

“Compadre, no beer in the fridgerator either.” He shows them.

“I’m dying of thirst over here.” The Fat Guy cries, then massages his throat and swallows a hard lump down. The Tall Fellow sifts through the pile of empty cans on the floor, drinking the swallow of suds where he can find them.

“Save some for me, dumb redneck.” The Fat Guy says and snatches a can from the Tall Fellow.

“Gringos, look what I find.” The Mexican Man says and holds up a gasoline can. The two other men stare at it. The Fat Guy says,

“Ah what the hell. Bring it over here, Muchacho.”

“Yea, Burrito.” The Tall Fellow says, “you’re alright with me!” showing few teeth between a crooked smile that could had been the work of a drunken pumpkin carver. “Bring that hooch here.”

DON’T DRINK AND WATCH TV

“In Smuggleston, California, two zookeepers were arrested on their day off for possession of a hundred tons of marijuana,” Dianne Boyer reports. “The two used Smuggleston’s zoo as storage place for the marijuana. Spokeswoman Monika Connors of the Justice Department, says the FBI has linked the two zookeepers to a larger drug ring they’ve been investigating. Another zookeeper found the marijuana, which he thought was hybrid grass for the animals and fed them the marijuana. It has been reported the animals began to act strangely, and the zoo’s veterinarian was contacted. After examining the animals, the veterinarian found a high level of THC in the animal’s blood. THC is the hallucinatory chemical and most active ingredient in marijuana. Zoo officials called the Smuggleston Sheriff Department. In the report to officials it stated: the elephants were dancing on their hind legs and the camels were doing, what one zookeeper says, a dance called the Humpty Hump. Children from Canibus Elementary were on a field trip that day at the zoo. A teacher stated the children thought it was a part of the entertainment. One little boy is reported to have said, “it’s the greatest show on Earth!” The music comes on. Dianne Boyer continues, “stay tuned for the national bingo picks of the night.”

“Yo, my nizzo, change the channel,” says the white guy wearing a doo rag.

“For what!” his fat Mexican buddy says, quick and sharp.

“Cuz I hate those type of commercials. They’re buzz killers,” he says, sprawled on the couch in front of the TV.

“Yeah, dude. That’s so truffmondo,” says the black guy holding a broken TV antenna.

“Well, I like it,” the fat Mexican guy says. He grabs and secures the remote control from his conspiring pals and falls back into his Lay-Z-Boy recliner. “…it gives me something to think about.”

“You mean other than food, my nizzo!” the White guy jokes.

“Nice one dude,” the Black guy says and puts the broken antenna on the coffee table to give the white guy a high five.

“Ha ha. Very funny,” the fat Mexican guy says. His sarcasm is dry and hard. “No douchebags, it raises a lot of possibilities in real life.”

“My nizzo, what you talkin’ bout?” he says, confused and looking for support.

“I think I know,” the Asian girl says, raising her head from the coffee table. “It intrigues our minds because we know it’s fake, but can it happen?” She gives a questioning expression that penetrates their learned thinking.

“Can what happen?” the White guy asks with his eyes wide opened.

“Can fiction turn into reality?” she says and eases her face back onto the table.

“Whut!” he scratch his doo-rag.

“Here bro, stimulate your mind some more,” the fat Mexican guy says and passes him a funny looking cigarette, “marinate on this. Does the person who makes these commercials base them on real life stuff or create them from their head?” He sinks deep into the hard and worn leather recliner.

“What’s the difference, if there is one?” the Asian girl adds.

“I don’t know — “ the White guy says.

“That’s right bro!” the fat Mexican guy cuts him off.

“I get it dude, we don’t know!” The White guy says inhaling realization from the white substance dissolving on the aluminum foil off into the broken antenna.

“Aw,” marijuana smoke comes out the fat Mexican guy’s mouth, “if a person creates it in their mind, then it is real, right?”

“No! He’s imagining, my nizzo”

“Everything starts within the mind, right?” Everyone agrees. “Then, that makes it real.”

“I suppose,” the White guy says, loosening his doo-rag.

“Do you know how it makes it real?” the Asian girl says. No one answers and thinks nothing of the white powder on the tip of her nose. “When somebody puts it in our heads,” she says, slowly going around the room, eyeing them, “now we’re thinking about it and seeing it in our minds. Eventually, we’ll end up doing it or believe it.”

“Dude, that’s kick ass shit!” the Black guy says as he zips around the room with the antenna sticking out of his back pocket.

“Like how these commercials have us buying what they have to sell; like guns and orange juice,” the fat Mexican guy says.

“Whoa, that’s bananas my nizzo! Pass me a joint and the remote control so we can catch some more commercials.” he says excitedly and gives the whole room some dap: fist over fist handshakes.

THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON CHANNEL ZERO

“The Vannerbilt family of Rockbottom, Georgia, received a trampoline from the Blackfist Baptist Church’s Toys for Bubba Program,” Dianne Boyer reports. “The Vannnerbilt children were jumping on their new trampoline behind their trailer home, having a good time, when little Katherine-Elliwese saw that the family dog, Winston, was alone and looking sad. She decided to let little Winston in on their fun. Well, the trampoline had too much bounce for little Winston and he bounced right off the trampoline and up into a tree — 20 feet off the ground! Yes folks, little Winston flew up the tree.” The pre-recorded taping comes on.

“I can’t believe that happened,” says the little blonde-haired girl. “All I did was drop him from the fence.” The camera zooms in on the fence. It’s fifteen feet high. The footage cuts to the Saint Klux Fire Department rescuing the little dog. The music comes on and the news goes to break.

“Hon, I’m glad they saved that lil dog.” The slender black woman says to her boyfriend, who has his head resting in her lap on the couch.

“I’m glad too, babe,” her boyfriend says and calls for their dog, Rascal. “Come here boy!” A Bullmastiff comes running to him; its head is disproportionate to the rest of its body, especially its back end. Rascal is always smashing his snout to the ground, being so top heavy. Rascal licks the boyfriend’s head and face, dog slobber drips from the boyfriend’s hair.

“Now you don’t have to use hair gel, hon.” she says jokingly and wipes it off him with a tissue.

“It’s a lot cheaper and keeps my hair way slicker.” he jokes in an native New Jersey accent. She laughs with her Italian boyfriend at the wise crack.

“Hon, I’m hungry.” she says and rubs her stomach.

“Me too! What you got taste for?”

“Chinese food.”

“Chinese food? So do I, babe!”

“Really?”

“Ain’t that some ‘em?”

“Sure is, hon,”

“SIPEN’s!” They say together and laugh at their like minds.

“They have the best Coney dogs, babe!” She agrees and dials Sipens Coney Island.

DOG ISN’T JUST MAN’S BEST FRIEND, BUT FAVORITE TREAT

“Tonight’s bingo number is B-52. That’s it for your national news. Stay tuned for your local programs.” Dianne Boyer says, holding still while the music plays until the news goes off the air.

 

“God damn it! I didn’t get bingo. I guess we gotta go rob another jewelry store the Old White Woman says to the Old White Man, who’s putting his dentures in his mouth.

“Coming dear.” He gums the words out.

“Don’t forget to grab the masks,” she says as she stuffs a rubber bazooka inside a Toys World shopping bag, “hurry! We gotta go pick up Lucile.” she whispers. The Old White Man takes light steps behind her as she peels the front door back, peeks both ways to see if the coast is clear. They tip toe out of the Senior Citizens Complex.

EPILOGUE

“Say, Mr. Radio,” says the TV, “are you up?”

“Yes, Mr. Television, I am.”

“I don’t mean to trouble you with this, but it never ceases to amaze me how humans misconstrue real from unreal.

“It’s no trouble at all, Mr. Television. I often wonder the same myself?”

“They imitate what they see on TV and when it doesn’t go accordingly in real life, they blame it on me, the television, imagine that! Like I caused it to happen. They’d give me a few choice words and a couple well-placed hits. One minute I’m just a thing transmitting fake broadcastings. The next, I’m their best friend that they can’t live without because what they’re watching is soooo ‘real.’”

“I know about such things all too well, Mr. Television. They listen to me, snap their fingers to their favorite song of the week. Then when that ole love bug wears off, they want to change the radio station whenever the song comes on, or worse, swat me off the table, sling me across the room or toss me into the closet with a bunch of funky clothes.”

“Yes Mr. Radio, humans just totally abuse us out of their own confusion. Sometimes their delusion affects me. I can’t tell the difference between what’s on TV from those watching it.

“I quite understand, Mr. Television, indeed I do.