Monday, June 16, 2008


                “Hi, kids!”

            “Hi, Bumbly,” the rabble of restless children screamed in the crowded TV studio.

            47 year-old veteran of stage and screen, Hud Gamble, stepped out in the “hobo bee” costume he’d worn for so many years as the hundreds of children cheered.

            This seemed to be the closest he’d get to the tier of fame he’d previously had in the past.  No more comebacks, no more all-night parties in Canyon Valley, no more orgies with the Farmer Quintet.  Hud had peaked years ago and God wasn’t letting him fall quickly.  This was a slow descent.

            “What time is it?” he asked the crowd while he chewed on a plastic cigar.

            “Pollen time!” they screamed back.

            It was the part of the show that he always dreaded.  Midway through the live broadcast, Bumbly the Hobo Bee would always scamper over to the oversized sunflower, land face-first into its center and reach deep down to pull out a letter that had been sent in by one of his faithful viewers.  Bumbly’s “drones.”

            “I’m gonna’ do it this time,” he thought.  “This time, I’m gettin’ out.”

            Hud shook his fat, bee ass comically towards the flower and took a flying leap into it, face-first.  The pre-pubescent howls shook the studio’s walls, as if the kids hadn’t seen this happen week in and week out.  As if it were the funniest bit in the history of comedy.

            And that’s when Hud held his breath.  Motionless on the flower, he worked his hardest to fake his own death in front of the studio full of children and the millions watching at home.  In his mind, he was already dead, so what was three, four or five minutes?  This was the role he was going to play to the hilt until everyone watching believed that Bumbly the Hobo Bee was truly dead.

            “10-Mississippi, 11-Mississippi, 12-Mississippi, 13-Mississippi, 14-Mississippi . . .”



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