Friday, January 4, 2013

Little Billy and the Polka Dotted Trousers

A look of utter malevolence and contempt crept across Tom Cruise's broad face like a communist spy as he approached the Orange Julius cart.

"It's been a while," he said, his voice hollow as an abandoned dumpster as he took off his sunglasses.  It had indeed been such a very long time. The flashbacks were stark, polarized, black and white; a grainy image of a much younger Tom, his lips stretched into a far less malevolent, open-mouth smile, his nubile hips, clad in Daisy Dukes, wrapped around the bulk of a pink, merry-go-round emu, his young abs bulging through his Pac Man tee as he waved to the camera.

"You've done well for yourself," said Tom, shaking the grainy image from his head.

The cart, predictably, said nothing.

"Saw you now and then when I took Suri to Taco John's or Panda Garden."  Tom walked around the side, running his fingers along the metal corners.  "She's that age, you know.  You remember when I was that young?'


He flashed back to his own perspective; the coolness of molded plastic between his legs, the merry-go-round pole in his right hand, his left waving back at an Orange Julius cart holding a Polaroid.

Tom laughed.  "Yeah, we went to the pinball arcade.  You got me that  posh Hawaaiin shirt from Chess King.  Yeah,"  Tom chuckled, jabbing a finger at the cart.  "Yeah, yeah I guess I did look just like Magnum PI.  Then you took me back to the food court for my first smoothie."  His smile was rapidly decelerated, like a Lamborghini plowing through a soup line of orphans.  "Yeah, I sure was green.  Never had one before."

"You have to mash the blender buttons harder."  Said the Julius cart.

"I'm trying," spake Young, Monochrome Tom, "but I find I have to bend over and gyrate my hips a titch to get my arm at the proper angle."

"Oh yeah," the cart mumbled as the ice sloshed about.

"I'm terribly sorry for the trouble."

After a further moment of gyration, its voice was husky, its breath heavy and humid as an abandoned refrigerator.  "Yeah, now pull the cup out of my dispenser."

"Shall I put in a straw?"

"Right through the lid, kiddo. Slide it in nice and deep and suck that sweet, sweet nectar."

'Slide it in nice and deep.'  The seemingly kind words sank into Older Tom Cruise's brain folds like a burning pirate ship that had herpes.  "I was just a kid," he seethed through gritted teeth.  He took the napkin dispenser and launched it  five, six feet, maybe even a yard, across the food court. "How could you do such a thing?"

The cart remained stolidly silent.

"I'm kind of a big deal now," Tom said.  "I was in Far and Away.  And Days of Thunder."  He swept his arms across the service counter, scattering oranges for tens and tens of inches.  "I threw a grenade into an alien ship's vagina!  I can take you down, Orange Julius Cart!"

"How does it feel when someone does THIS?"  He demanded, opening and shutting the minifridge door.  He moved the juicer to a slightly oblique angle.  "Doesn't feel good, does it?  Don't like it, DO you?"

He vaulted over the counter, running his fingers over the yellow molded plastic exterior.  "Don't have much to say now, do you?"  he jabbed his crotch into the metal corner guard.  "You jerk!"  His voice cracked against the tennis ball in his throat.  He ground his crotch in deep, running his hands across the sticky counter.  "How do you like it now, huh?  How does it feel?"  Despite the torrent of tears and mucus, his bunny was close to the train station.  "Ergh!"  He cried.  "This is how you made me, Orange Julius cart!  This is how you made me!"

There was an explosion of colors in his mind, and a torrent of one very specific color in his pants.  "Who's your wingman NOW, Goose?  You want me to show you the money, Cuba?? WELL HERE'S THE MONEY SHOT, YOU CRIMINAL!"

"Hey yeah," said John Travolta, behind the camera.  "That was pretty hot, but, uh, wasn't it the Orange Julius cart in Long Beach that did all that stuff?"

"What?"  Tom asked.  "Aren't we in Long Beach?"

"No dude.  You told the slave -- I mean chauffer -- to drive us to, uh, Oakland!"

"Oh," said Tom, dabbing his zipper with scattered napkins.   "Well, sorry about that."  He spake to the cart,"But what you just saw was SLANDER!  And we'll SUE!"  You could still hear him cry as they dashed away from the encroaching security guards "We'll SUUUUUUUUEEEEEEEEE!"


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