PORFLE!“MR. CLAY’S LABORATORY” — THE DAY I MET ANDREW “DICE” CLAY

One day I was out for a walk, and I got really thirsty.  So I went up to a house to ask for a drink.  The mailbox said “Andrew ‘Dice’ Clay” on it, so when a man answered the door I asked, “May I have a drink from your water hose, Mr. Clay?”   He was standing there in a bathrobe and flip-flops, and he had a really big, black, oily hairdo.  There was a...
August 5, 200816 min

One day I was out for a walk, and I got really thirsty.  So I went up to a house to ask for a drink.  The mailbox said “Andrew ‘Dice’ Clay” on it, so when a man answered the door I asked, “May I have a drink from your water hose, Mr. Clay?”  

He was standing there in a bathrobe and flip-flops, and he had a really big, black, oily hairdo.  There was a cigarette hanging out of his mouth and he was holding a floor lamp.  “Knock yourself out, meatball,” he replied, so I said “Thanks!” and ran over to the water faucet and turned it on.  

As I was getting a drink out of the hose, he came outside and stood there looking at me.  Between gulps of water I asked him, “Why are you carrying that big lamp around, Mr. Clay?”  He said, “It’s broke, and I’m tryin’ ta fix it, idiot.  But maybe I should just shove da whole f***king thing up your a**hole instead.”  Then he laughed, and it sounded kind of like “TUH, huh-huh.”

(P.S.  You may have noticed that I’ve had to censor some of the language!  Holy smoke, did this guy like to use cuss words!)

Well, I didn’t know what to say to that.  He sounded mean and he looked kind of like a bad guy from “77 Sunset Strip” or something, so I turned off the water faucet and said “Well, thanks, Mr. Clay” and started to leave.  But he said, “Wait a minute.  I want you should see something.”  I didn’t want to, but I followed him inside anyway.  He led me down into the basement and held out his hand like he was really proud of what was in there.  I looked around, and there were a bunch of naked guys along the walls in these big glass tubes, who looked like they were asleep.  When I took a closer look, I found out that all of the people looked exactly like Mr. Clay.

“Dese are my clones,” he said in a really proud voice.  “When da time is right, I’m gonna unleash dem all on the world and take ovah.  TUH, huh-huh.”  When he said that, I looked around the room again and realized that it was a laboratory, just like in the Frankenstein movies.  And it was at that moment that I also realized that Mr. Clay wasn’t just some normal guy, but was really like a mad scientist or something!  

“Right now,” he said, pacing around me, “you’re probably thinking about notifying the FBI, and tellin’ dem about my evil scheme for world domination.  Well, you better not, because if you do–”  Then he aimed the floor lamp at a potted plant that was in the corner and pressed the “on” switch.  A crackling beam of light blazed from its tip and incinerated the potted plant instantly.  It wasn’t really a floor lamp at all–it was a disintegrator ray gun!  It only looked like a floor lamp to fool people!

He started to point the ray gun at me, and I got really scared.  So I kicked it real hard, and the “on” switch must’ve gotten jammed because the disintegrator beam went haywire!  Mr. Clay tried to hold the ray gun still but things were either incinerating or blowing up all over the room.  One really big machine with flashing lights on it blew up, and Mr. Clay screamed, “No!  Not da control panel!  Da clones haven’t been programmed yet–”  Suddenly the doors on all the big glass tubes sprang open, and the clones starting lurching out of them with blank looks on their faces.  

“Now look what ya done, ya f***ing mook!” he said.  One of the clones muttered, “Ya f***ing mook”, and then they all starting saying it.  They began to lurch toward us with their arms outstretched, saying “Ya f***ing mook”, and Mr. Clay shouted, “Let’s get outta here!  Dey’re gonna kill us!”  Well, he didn’t have to tell me twice!  We ran up the stairs as fast as we could and out the front door.  I looked around, and the clones were lurching out the front door, too, and out into the street.  There must’ve been about a hundred of them.  And somewhere between the basement and the front door they must’ve found some cigarettes, because they all had lit cigarettes hanging out of their mouths.

Me and Mr. Clay ran and ran, and some of the clones came after us, while the others started lurching after everyone else who was walking by or out mowing their lawns and stuff.  Up till then, it had been a mostly normal day in the neighborhood, so the people were pretty horrified to see a bunch of naked Andrew “Dice” Clays coming after them saying “Ya f***king mook, ya f***ing mook.”  Old lady Wilson was just passing by in a housecoat and fuzzy slippers, walking her dog, when one of them caught up to her.  She screamed, but it seemed more interested in the dog.  In fact, it took the leash away from her and started walking the dog itself.  The dog, a French poodle named Milkshake, went nuts to find that instead of Old Lady Wilson, it was suddenly being walked by a big naked guy who was lurching after it like Frankenstein.  But the clone pressed inexorably onward down the street as Milkshake yapped and leapt frantically at the end of his leash.  

Another clone came up behind Mr. Shapiro, the retired bank president who lived across the street and enjoyed tinkering in the yard on weekends, and grabbed his lawnmower away from him.  It started mowing the lawn as he looked on, aghast.  But instead of properly mowing it in a back and forth pattern, it simply went in a straight line onto the next lawn, and the next, until it had mowed a path all the way down the street and around the corner.  Mr. Shapiro ran after it to try and get his lawnmower back.  

“Hey, Mr. Clay,” I said as we were running along.  “I don’t think they want to kill people at all!  I think they just want to do what the people are doing.”  But when I looked over, Mr. Clay wasn’t there.  I turned around and saw that he had run out of breath several yards back, and had been overtaken by four of the clones.  But instead of killing him, they hoisted him up on their shoulders and started carrying him around.  I could see a broad smile cross his face, as though he thought the clones were honoring him as their rightful master, and he basked in their adoration.  “TUH, huh-huh,” I could hear him say, right before the clones dumped him into the back of a cement mixer that was parked by the curb and turned it on.  The big round container began to twirl and churn the thousands of pounds of cement inside it as Mr. Clay’s screams echoed from within, and one of the clones climbed into the truck and drove it away.  

I realized that I had run all the way out of the neighborhood and into a small business district, and the rest of the clones that had come after us were lurching into laundrymats, bowling alleys, and strip malls.  I could hear all sorts of terrified screams coming from inside as the clones started taking things away from people and doing what they were doing.  Bowling balls crashed through plate glass windows.  Large washing machine motors groaned horribly from the weight of a number of clones that had set them on “spin” and climbed inside.  Three more clones suddenly burst through the front door of a sporting goods store driving golf carts, still chanting “Ya f***ing mook” and chasing people around. The rest of them lurched into various parking lots, got into different vehicles, and drove away.  It looked like most of them were headed downtown.

That night, I turned on the evening news to see if there would be a story about the Andrew “Dice” Clay clones that were running around all over town.  But instead of the regular anchorman, one of the clones was sitting at the “NewsCenter” anchor desk with some papers in its hand, looking into the camera and saying “Ya f***ing mook, ya f***ing mook.”  

I found out later that Mr. Clay’s house had exploded, burned down, and then exploded again, and that he had finally been found in the back of the cement truck when it eventually ran out of gas somewhere outside of Cincinatti.  There was a picture of him in the paper, encased in a large chunk of cement with just his head sticking out as a bunch of guys with hammers and chisels were trying to get him out.  The headline read, “Once-Famous Comedian Enjoys Spotlight Again”, but it didn’t look to me like he was enjoying it much, and I never did see any spotlight unless they were talking about that ray-gun lamp.  Anyway, next time I go for a walk, I’m going to take one of those plastic squirt bottles of water with me for when I get thirsty, because you never know when some kind of goofy stuff like this might happen again.

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