Cat Stevens once sweetly crooned that morning had broken. At ‘Bu House, it was morning and everything in sight was broken. There comes a time when the reveler must recompense-in-full the staggering price for his or her unconstrained jollification. That ugly, torturous – and quite often liquid-infused – occasion was “now” for the sorrowful survivors of this ‘Bu bash. The glorious rising sun only spotlighted the sheer worsomeness and carnage on display. Moaning, stricken bodies were strewn about the room like the French after the Battle of Golden Spurs. People were passed out in limpid pools of snack food and cold cut vomit. Some their own. Some donated by strangers. Dionysus had fled the building and only damned Oizys remained.

The room was awash in nausea and regret… and garbage. Mound and mounds of seriously wiffy whoopee waste filled every nook and cranny like rancid, fly-infested butter on a Thomas English Muffin. A dripping IUD hung from a torn lampshade. An unconscious woman’s head was making it somewhat tricky to effectively utilize the toilet. Luckily, the bathroom seemed to have been most attendees’ last resort when it came to matters of the bladder. This is what D-Day would have looked like had it had been fought with whisky bottles and Clonazepam instead of rifles.

David clattered and banged his way into this den of never again, and sighed. His trusty broom, extra-thick garbage bags and Mr. Clean would be no match for the multifarious abominations abominating before him. Spanky was just bending down to pick up something that looked an awful lot like a dog penis when the doorbell rang. Whoever it was, it had to be better than Monsieur Fido’s phallus… n’est pas? Davie Boy happily dropped his aseptic impedimenta and toddled off to answer it.


A decidedly wan-looking Switch Siksay was up (though Weeble-Wobble unsteady) and attempting to ply his magical wares to a dribble of early risers. While a select few of his fellow celebrateurs could afford to lay deathly still and await forfeited eupepsia’s return, Switch was never more than 32 minutes away from irredeemable bankruptcy and an oh-so-deserved creditor stabbing.

“You, Madam,” he hoarsely croaked. “Do not deny yourself these acts of the unexplained that have left the crown heads of Europe and the scientific community agog.”

Apparently, the legal assistant from Estherville, Iowa didn’t really care about the metaphysical concerns of the European scientific community. She clutched extra hard to her Younkers-purchased handbag and rushed on by. But Ms. Midwest-Stuffy-Tits was the least of our mediocre Mandrake’s problems.


It felt for all the world like he had a parliament of psychotic magpies flitting around in his skull. Things whipped in and out of focus like a Walmart television. Vile and noxious acidic compounds bubbled and brewed deep within the sweaty crust of his enormity. The thick, alien-asshole-like pong of uncongealed deep fat fryer grease at Sinbad’s Restaurant swarmed around him like a swoon-inducing SWAT team with their aromatic armaments drawn.


The corpulent magician was just readying himself to texturize the walls of the Skee-Ball Emporium with the Pillsbury Toaster Strudels he’d unwisely consumed for breakfast when BAM! Jesus, with his arm around Desi Arnaz, Jr., suddenly appeared before him. Mr. Siksay was perilously teetering between the diametric worlds of the temporal and the sacrosanct. Light and dark intermingled to form “daright.” It felt like Switch’s doughy doppelganger and a medium-sized Scout troop were sitting on his non-functioning ribcage.

Now, Jesus had his arm around Desi Arnaz, Sr.! Things were looking pretty dire. Something indecisive had to be done.

Staggering backwards and collapsing like an umbrella made out of fish sticks seemed like a good bet. First onto his foldable chair, and from there, it was simplicity itself to crash to the ground in a pallid, blubbery heap. A flip-flop fell off his left edema-ed foot. A five of diamonds tumbled out of his sleeve. He swallowed the 25 feet of silk handkerchief he had hidden under his tongue. Then, everything went as silent as two mimes having sex in an invisible box. Uh-oh!

The supine sorcerer lay motionless and without breath as the color of life drained from his body. It was obvious to even the most happy-go-lucky observer that time was of the essence (and we’re talking the half-life of Flerovium, here) and the slightest hesitation to act was sentencing yon bluing busker to death’s foulest sting. A seagull landed on Switch’s shaved head and started pecking at his nose hairs. Unconcerned fishermen with their Styrofoam cups packed with dew worms and squid parts casually dawdled past. A schoolboy from Micanopy, Florida pocketed the $1.29 out of the insensate hocus-pocuser’s unguarded tip jar.

Oh well.



Leslie and Alison

David cracked open the front door warily. There were enough illegal substances scattered about the residence to have half the population of Los Angeles County frog-marched down to the hoosegow. But it wasn’t The Thin Blue Line in search of The Thin White Line that greeted our unlucky Canucky. It was The Very Appealing Bustline. Leslie and Alison, arm in arm, were perched on his perron and smiling like a coupla Cool-Aid jugs. The girls were always trouble, but at least they weren’t a calcified dog penis. His day was on the upswing.

“Well, hey there, girls,” he becheeried them. “Somethin’ I can help you with?”

“Greetings, my dear Spanky,” Alison beamed like a goddess. “And may I say how fine of fettle you are looking on this beauteous matin.”

“Well, a big Canadian thanks! You’re lookin’ pretty resemblent there, yourselves.”

“That’s resplendent. And she is, isn’t she?” Alison turned to her stunningly comely sibling and licked her neck all the way up to her tempting temple.

Leslie giggled and aromatic candles began to smell twenty percent more soothing. “We heard about the party. Alison thought you’d be upchucking your feet meat by the time we got here.”

David looked back over his shoulder. “That was probably Dack or Patti that you were hearin’. They were sicker than a butter eatin’ hedgehog.”

“It matters not, for we bring an epistle of unprecedented jocundity.”

“Absolutely wonderful news,” Leslie affirmed. “You are going to be sooo thrilled.”

David hesitated. “Well, I sure would like to be thrilled in a goodly sorta way for once, but I haven’t checked yet to see if Amos is still alive. That’s pretty much yer touch and go situation at the best of times.”

“But you have to accompany us this absolute instant,” Alison faux admonished. “And thus be apprised of this wondrous happenstance or we shall verily burst!”

“Don’t make us verily burst, Spanky,” Leslie sexily pouted and endangered species all over the San Diego Zoo began to insanely copulate. “We’re way, way too cute to verily burst.”

“Well, there’s no way, fer sure, that I wanna burst your cute. It’s just…”

Young David Sobanski, rugged and redoubtable native of The Golden Horseshoe, was torn between his ludicrous and self-defeating sense of duty to the indisputably undeserving and a desperate longing for something slightly uplifting and fun in his life. And those two girls were more fun than eating fried chicken through a chain-link fence.

Traditionally Fried First

“Just give me a second or two to slip on my dungarees.”


A gentleman of no fixed abode, gripping a well-glugged 40 of Olde English, and a pair of Santa Monica’s Finest hovered over an unconscious and stripped-to-his-moth-eaten-underwear Switch. Coincidentally, the homeless man-about-town was swimming in the remainder of the stricken sorcerer’s XXXL apparel. The crumpled clothing hung gigantically off him like Donald Trump wearing a condom.

They say your whole life flashes before you when Death parks his coal-fired Honda in the driveway of your soul. As if Switch didn’t have enough to be depressed about! The sum total of his days on this Earth amounted to a couple of fat-stretched tattoos and a framed half-eaten onion ring that Ruth Buzzi left on her plate at a Bob’s Big Boy in 1986.

“I just found him there, exactly like that,” the concerned do-gooder unsteadily testified. “Unconscious as a son of a bitch. So, is there, like, any type of reward?”


“Cantabo Domino” by Ivan Lukačić warbled devoutly throughout the room. The nexus of divine inspiration and purloined billfolds and reticules had never been so spiritually energized. Tiberius, Fawn, The Widow Rita and the toothsome twins euphorically surrounded the über-blessed vessel within which they had just poured their epically massive glad tidings. By the expression on David’s face, the tidings weren’t nearly as massively “glad” as he had hoped or envisioned.

“I know I’m pointing out the oblivious here,” he minorly quibbled. “But this kind of thing, it just ain’t anatomically possible.”

Anything is possible with The Great One, Spanky,” Alison reassured him.

“What a proud day this must be for you,” Leslie nodded.

“Congratulations, old man. And may it be one of many,” Tiberius exulted, burying David in a colossal Great One bear hug.

Fawn pulled two doves of peace out of her pockets and released them into the air.

Rita attempted to further sweeten the glad-tidings pot. “Of course, as the biological father of my unborn child, I would not be able to deny you any of the Epicurean amenities my womanly body could provide.”

Despite everyone else’s unbridled glee, David still had a semi-scintilla of canonically unsanctioned doubt. He pointed to her far-from-insignificant belly bulge. “I’m not wantin’ to cast any aspirations on your exalted codifications there your infallibleness, but when Rita here was getting’ that family bun in her oven, I was still in Oshawa… with my pants on!”

Alison came to his ecclesiastical aid. “Don’t you see, you giddy-headed Tom Noddy? The Great One replaced his own blessed seed with yours. What an honor.” She slapped him congratulatorally between the shoulder blades. “You’re in there like Flint, proud Papa!”

“So! Do you have any names picked out yet?” Leslie glowingly inquired.


A 40,000 Dollar Stove

Dorothy grumpily stirred a pot of $2 oatmeal on her $40,000 stove. Dack was in his usual chair, looking like ten pounds of shit in a five-pound asshole. Keith Richards looked better most mornings. The man was suffering on a scale that should only be reserved for Montreal Canadians fans.

Keith Richards Most Mornings

“Out all night with those unemployed, alcoholic actor friends of yours?” Dorothy sneered. Her Jane Fonda trained-and-sculpted biceps popped as she murderously wrenched a Jonathan’s Flame Blackened Spootle around the thick wad of steel-cut stomach calking.

“I don’t think I can eat that,” he greenly surmised.

“I donated half a million dollars in your name to the Beagle Foundation of Wisconsin this morning. Just so you’ll never get your hands on it.”

“Do you have an address for that fine institution?”

Dorothy filled his oatmeal bowl with a violent, deafening plop. “Too late, shithead. It’s already spent. Like the best years of your life, you flabby, drunken plague rat.”

“I just thought, you know, after you’re dead, a place full of dogs could probably use a few extra bones to gnaw on.”

With all the power of a Justice League superhero, Dorothy kerranged her mighty designer spoon off the back of her son’s gormless bonce.


It hurt him even worse than the summer they cancelled The Hogan Family.


Helmut Sturch dug his manly choppers into the most important meal of the day. It was a truly regal repast that the unkindly copper couldn’t have afforded in a million years – even with overtime and taking money instead of blowjobs from female speeders. Luckily, like almost everything else this strong-arm-of-the-law desired in Malibu, it was free of charge.

Patti Chapkinski cheerfully poured him a rich steamy cup of premium quality jagged juice. Our winsome waitress had also been compelled to orally gratify the good officer on numerous occasions over the years. Thus, she kept a small jar of her stinkiest urine handy to add to Sturch’s complimentary carafe whenever he dropped by, and he never had to wait for a top off.

“Have you seen my brother around?” he enquired, taking a big long swig of her ranky stanky pee pee.

“Ain’t seen Donny in days. But, he could just be off on one of his benders. I once saw him try to snort a noseful out of a dead mule’s ass.”

Sturch sighed like a fez-less Shriner. “Donny is a lost soul, but he’s my brother, goddamn it.” He wondered if he should add a little sugar to Patti’s piddle potion, but decided it tasted just right the way it was.

“You were the best bro a guy ever had,” she smiled as he gulped down her micturatory-mocha java.

“I remember when he was four and I was nine,” he reminisced. “I used to dose him with Mom’s Vicodin so I could hit him harder.”

“Well, maybe the second best bro a guy ever had. More coffee?”


An alarmingly serious David stood before his theoretical employer. The only thing Amos was serious about at that moment was seriously drunk. He teetered before his official chronicler like a one-legged giraffe.

“I need a raise,” Spanky bravely asserted.

“From what?”

“Well, that’s pretty well the point of my darn meaning, there. As of present, I’m havin’ to rely on the kindness of strangers for my daily crust, but now that I’m gonna be supportin’ others…”


As David approached the detonator to his bombshell news, Rita bumper-carred into the room carrying a suitcase and a potted rubber fig plant. Without acknowledging either fellow, she continued on into the back of the house, firing off periodic anal toots as only a severely pregnant woman could.

You’d have to be a dimmer hombre than The Amos Drawling to not instantly cotton to the grave metaphysical implications of what had just transpired right under his gin-blossomed schnoz. He pointed to his new houseguest within a houseguest. “Did Tiberius replace his sperm with yours inside her womb?”

“Well, that’s what I’ve been tryin’ to – not that I don’t have my doubts.”

“Why, that’s the oldest divinely ordained, indisputably omniscient prophet trick in the book. He should be ashamed of himself.”

“I’ll admit, it came as a bit of a scratcher, especially considerin’…”

Amos took a momentary pause from libationizing his larynx to set his woefully innocent ward straight. “Well, you’re really going to have to pull your Stanfield socks up, young man. Fathering a child is a catastrophic responsibility – an inviolable duty that should not and cannot be eschewed. Have you thought about getting a second job?”

“Now, as to this whole zygotian whodunit. According to the familial fathoming of Mr. Plue, in his highly vague and frustratingly inexplicit Health Class…”

“Listen to yourself, you avaricious, vainglorious gorgon! Her beloved but admittedly homicidal husband was needlessly slaughtered to save your know-nothing neck. Is this really the appropriate moment to be quibbling over biological semantics?”

“The baby is Jewish?”

Amos sighed like a piggy-starved wolf. “You really are a micro-cephalic pinhead, you know that?”


Get the entire epic tale here from a very thrifty price!


Now available in paperback!


But best read Vol. One first.


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DBAWIS_ButtonDarrell Vickers started out as one half of Toronto area band, Nobby Clegg.  CFNY fans may remember the cheery song “Me Dad” which still gets airplay.  From there, he valiantly ventured to L.A. and eventually became head writer for The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson.  Since then, he’s created numerous sitcoms and animation shows in Canada and the U.S.  He still writes music and has an internet band called Death of the Author Brigade (members in Croatia, Canada and the U.S.)   Mr. Vickers also had a private music mailing-list where he features new and pre-loved music.  Anyone who would like to be added to his daily mailing list, just write him at Radiovickers1@gmail.com 

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