Aboard My Train Of Thought, Scott C. Endsley [reading comprehension books .TXT] 📗

late; Ira had already bluntly whacked the General right smack in the middle of his face with the chair he was sitting in. "Get this maniac off of me Mr. President, he broke my nose!" the General bawled as he hastily attempted to put his schnozzle back in shape with his hanky.

"Mr Higgenbotham, Sir... Why don't you take the rest of the day off, huh?" I suggested. What I really wanted to say to the childish General was it was his naptime, and did he need anyone to pat him on the rump to help him fall asleep?

"I'll get you for this, Stippens... Even if it's the last thing I do," he threatened right before he ran down the hall to be consoled by his wife, who just happened to work in the Press Secretary's office.
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(Episode 12)
The colossal junebug epidemic all across America, once thought vanquished, had flared up again after the recently 'waterlogged pests' larva left behind, hatched in extensive numbers. Once again, fields of grain were leveled, phone lines gnawed in two, and traffic halted from coast to coast as the six legged monsters sought to avenge their parents.

Having once tried but failed to bribe the British rock group, The Bugs, to do a nationwide tour-- in view of the fact that the rabid monsters couldn't stand their music-- I was successful in talking them into at least doing a live interview and performance on a worldwide television appearance. John got busy and wrote what would be the worst Bug song in history, titled, Free As A Bug. "This will make them quit begging us to get back together," John boasted as the other three sighed in relief.

The day came not any sooner when exactly 1800 hrs UTC, live from Paul's kitchen in his London flat, the interview began. "So tell us Paul, when was it you decided to be a rock star?"

"I think I was six months old at the time, and me mum was changin' me diaper..." Paul began.

George butted in, "You're such a wiseacre, you always tell that same dumb story, get real, Paul!"

"I can tell whatever bloody story I want to, Georgey Porgey!"

"Do you have anything to add, John?" the interviewer asked.

"Yeah," John smarted off, "I think it's wee past Georgey and Paul's Beddy-By time..."

"John," George fired back, "when you open your eyes, do you see anything besides the inner walls of your colon?!!!"

John, Paul, and George evidently hadn't seen or spoke to each other in over 26 years and were finally letting out some anamosity on one another. As they eventually began brawling on the floor with each other, Pete took center stage and completed the interview with an intricately detailed discussion about his 25 plus years of touring as "The Bug."

With only five minutes to go until the song, Free As A Bug, was to be performed by the pop-combo, the three others were too bruised and bloodied to play. John was missing an index finger, but found it later betwixed George's teeth. Paul had a slight concussion. And, George had had his digeridoo shoved down his throat. But the show had to go on.

Luckily The Bugs had recorded a rough demo of the song, and the producer imposed the reluctant studio engineer to roll the tape. With the very first few measures of the song's intro, the warlike insects all over the country took no notice. But when the first verse began, they stopped chomping on phone lines, they stopped robbing the fields of grain, they stopped reeking havoc... and joined in singing... while they became even more vicious and tried to eat their way into the homes of millions of Americans to get a better listen! The switchboard at NBS studios rang off the wall with people informing them it had failed...

But, there was still the last desperate measure.... They had no choice whatsoever, so they held their noses and asked Pete to fill in. Of course, Pete obliged.

He only knew one song on the guitar and that was a song by the 1960's pop icon, Bob Dillydally, called, "Blowing My Nose In The Wind." The creepy crawlers, once having eaten through the walls of homes all over America, merely caught a glimpse of Pete tuning John's guitar, and cried out in unison, "OH MY GOD, NOT HIM!!!"

They all conglomerated in the skies like birds of a flock in such dire terror that they voluntarily drowned themselves in the deep waters of the Pacific.

It was a success, the world was rid of an impending potential exacerbating excursion of suffering (the junebugs were pretty bad too), but Pete begged the producers to let him sing anyway. He finally backed down when I personally called him on the phone (at the network's urging), and offered The Congressional Medal Of Honor instead. He'd always wanted a Grammy... but the "small token of appreciation would suffice."
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(Episode 13)
Vice President Ross Parole, and his comrade, Gerg Ydarb, had just entered the Earth's outer atmosphere as a few fleeing terrified junebugs hit the spacecraft's windshield. Gerg turned on the wipers as Parole, opening a Rand McNally road atlas, guided him toward Washington DC as the headstrong two fought over directions.

"You wanna drive?!!" Gerg yelled.

Finally pinpointing the South lawn of the White House, Gerg slowly lowered the craft and a deafening siren sounded as a guided missle system rolled out from under a camouflage, tanks steered their gunnery, and about 100 armed Navy Seals took aim in their direction as they landed. Parole swiftly opened the hatch and commented, "By golly, if you'd been that prepared in Nam, we would've won the stupid thing!"

"Mr. Vice President!!!???" the comanding officer questioned puzzledly.

"Now," Parole demanded, "Y'all get the luggage. Oh, this is my friend Gerg, he's sorta the big G on Apathonia!"

I'd been given the all clear once the secret service verified that it was for sure the Vice President. I rushed out to greet Mr. Parole, though secretly I had wished they'd left him on Apathonia. I was a little queasy, in view of hoping his friend Gerg wouldn't recognize me from my former dealings with the small planet.

Parole was basking in the glow of all the attention he was receiving. "Mr. President, good to see ya. Smith, how the hell are ya? Say, General Higgenbotham," Parole smirked, "what the hell happened to your nose?"

"Uh, it was a golfing accident, sir...." Higgenbotham blushed. "Mr Hipwing, er um, Mr President, how do we know this is really the Vice President? And has Mr Gerg here had an FBI background check?"

"Why don't you go play a round of golf, General Higgenbotham, sir!" I suggested.

I made plans to start negotiations with Gerg, The Greatest Of Greats, for that evening. However, I had lost sight of him or the Vice President shortly before lunch. Little did I know but the General had both of them incarcerated downstairs in a makeshift holding cell, while he interrogated them. Higgenbotham was about to release the Vice President until he mentioned Area 51 & 1/2.

"What do you know about that place!!" the General demanded.

"I know that there are 100 or so innocent people who want nothing more than to go home to their planet, sir. We art to be 'shamed of ourselves!"

Pacing the carpet of the oval office later before noon, all the while puzzled concerning the where abouts of Gerg and the Vice President, General Higgenbotham nervously followed me while assuring me not to worry about them. It was then that I caught on. "Where are you hiding them, General?"

"Ok, Mr President, I assure you they're safe down there!"

"Oh, they're in the basement, thanks Higgenbotham..." I said while in immediate pursuit of the elevator.

Higgenbotham followed me down to the storage room/wine celler, nervously arguing his case. As the elevator slid open, I quicky took notice of all the jail cells apparently recently erected. "I wonder who could've put these here, Mr General..."

"Well, I uh... you see... I.. uh...um..."

We rounded the corner just as I spied the V.P. together with Gerg, playing a hand of poker. Gerg must have been a quick learning being that Mr. Parole was stripped down to his Fruit Of The Looms. "We're in a fine pickle, Mr. President," said Mr. Parole. "Seems we got into this mess cause we've got some of their people in confinement at 51 & 1/2... at the General's blessing! We art to be 'shamed of ourselves."

"I thought it was known as just Area 51, Higgenbotham?"

"Oh all right, President Hipwing," the General pouted, "Area 51 & 1/2 is a top secret strategic world command center for the Trilateral Commission.... it's so secret, that even the aliens at..."

"Ok Ok, we get it... enough already!"

The General had a lot of explaning to do, but it would have to wait until after lunch, as Gerg, Parole, Higgenbotham, Ira Stippens, and myself, waxed the presidential limousine, then headed to Gert's Greasy Spoon to pick up some chicks.
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(Episode 14)
Prior of the start of negotiations that evening, everyone except for General Higgenbotham was gathered and seated in the room. Ira couldn't help eyeing across the table at Gerg, who returned with a quick smile. Stippens made an obvious attempt to look away. He'd never dreamed he'd ever see the likes of the Apathonian. I called the meeting to order, in spite of Higgenbotham's absence.

"Gentlemen, we're all here today representative of both sides of this issue," I began while the General entered the room and quietly sat down. "As all here know, there are 144,000 Americans being held against their will on Apathonia. At the same time there are 100 or so Apathonians being held at Area 51 & 1/2 also..."

"May I add," Gerg interjected, "against their will as well? Some of these drudes and prudes have been held for decades!"

Higgenbotham jumped on the small extraterrestrial like a dog spotting a bone, "Look, your greatness, or whatever... Area 51 & 1/2 is a very plush resort. The captives... um, the occupants have everything they need or want. Why, there's even a Burger King there! So they are VERY comfortable!"

Vice President Parole quickly whispered into Gerg's ear explaining what a Burger King was.

"I don't think you all can appreciate what it's like to be held against your will for so long on a foreign planet. I do!" Gerg explained. "I was in the Apathonian Guard at a young age for most drudes. We were defending a friendly planet called Van Gogh, against an evil empire from the planet of Di Vinci. Our outfit was captured. The lucky ones were let go if they chose their right ear to be severed. The rest of us were taken back to Di Vinci, where we were made into foot servants by their Queen, Moaning Lisa. For 5 years we busted our bones to make her happy, but all she ever did was moan, and moan, and moan. I tell you the truth, gentlemen, I will never be the same..."

Even stone-hearted Higgenbotham had a hard time keeping a dry eye. The room became loud with sudden silence. Ira, wiping his glasses, then spoke up... "Gerg, I uh can't say I uh ever been in your situation. But look at all the trouble your people have caused. The junebug thing, kidnapping our people, and scaring everyone into thinking all this was part of an apocalypse..."

Stippens had just barely made his point as a White House staffer barged into