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04/22/09 - (1)
Trabalaba
One highly otherwise-normal morning, He awakened to a great tumultuous din of cacophonous uproar, In the form of a catastrophic meltdown of his lexical apparatus.
Instead of yawning, sneezing, turning over, to greet his wife, Heidi, With a gentle, loving "Good morning, my sweetie pie," He vomited what sounded like a rapid-fire volley of dry heaves,
Upon opening his mouth, to speak, as Heidi stirred from dreams, Into what she interpreted to be a rapid-fire volley of dry heaves: "Garoundagropholia gadarampus gaddadamnbuscarrumba, allah,"
Which, had either he or Heidi been capable of translating Trabalaba, His completely unbidden, newly acquired lingua primordialis, Would have meant "Good morning, my sweetie pie."
As it was, both of them just lay there, side by stiff side, In a state of abysmally suspended animation, Too stupefied, dazed, dumbfounded, terrified to move a muscle,
Each waiting for the other to say something, Until, finally, Heidi ventured a diffident "What did you say, Bruno?" "Catterwaulamanasta widget-gizmo fastratz!"
Heidi had absolutely no clue that Bruno was crying for help, Believing his tongue had been possessed by devils, the Holy Spirit, Or alien creatures from the moons of Gizmo and Widget.
Not having any other sane recourse, and fearing for her life, Bruno's wife, Heidi, dressed, called 911, Expressing her fervid concern that her husband was speaking in tongues.
From the kitchen, she could hear him muttering, to himself, "Watchamadoodle gazumscribbleskitch, glumdalclitch, bitch, Farfignutengazitz gazellschaft heilhitler gridriche!"
Bruno was flummoxed, as to the origin of the language he uttered. "What the fuck!" he would have exclaimed, on any other day. Within half an hour, the sanitarium SWAT squad stormed in
And marched Bruno out, in his rumpled pajama bottoms, to a barred car, As he shouted, "Rumblecuntacontatuna!" and "Birkebuna cuntaloona!" Over and over, all the way to State Hospital No. 4's "Radical" ward.
For weeks, forensic speech pathologists studied Bruno's progress — Monitored his progressive deterioration, that is — Concluding, ultimately, that he was beyond help, needed to be Thorazined,
Sequestered in a soundproof cave two hundred feet below the basement, Where he could babble to himself, in Trabalaba, all day. Heidi gave her consent to have him indefinitely committed, beyond life.
Guards delivering, to his door's slot, his three squares a day, Would overhear his "Dumbaflunkyditzo"s and "Whoreascoptisnachtis"s, Unaware that, methodically, logically, persuasively, patiently, hopefully,
He was explaining, to someone, anyone, something significant — His most latent abomination, forever lost to humankind: "I hate my wife! Will somebody rape and deform her, for me, please?"
04/22/09 - (1)
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