Mojo - 39. Post Scriptum

.

Post Scriptum: A Curtain Call

P.S. Oops. After finishing the summary that ends chapter 35, Gordon – my eternally smarter better-half – reminded me I should fill you in on some of the other ‘characters’ we’ve met along the way. After a little digging, I found out that adding a post scriptum to an account has a long and colorful history. For example, Jonathan Swift’s Tale of a Tub is blessed with a damn funny one. [1]

Although “Mojo” is no Tale of a Tub…or tub of a tale, for that matter… this is what Gordan and I have found out about some of the other people mentioned in our adventure. Please stand back and let them take a curtain call.

Let’s see, we learned that….

– Trọng naturally took the death of his partner hard. After six months of isolation, he sold all his designer earthly goods and joined a monastery. He occasionally posts status updates under the name of Brother Moon and Stars. Gordon and me suspect the Brethren secretly worship the cock as well as the cross, just like that old-timey pope mandated.

– The news for the so-called religion about an alien, a volcano and a beauty college is mixed. Seems the Internal Revenue Service was sniffing around, and the FBI opened a RICO case – or a Racketeering Influenced Corrupt Organizations criminal investigation. The last we heard, Sprag, McFearsome and the rest of them had already moved to a glorious tax haven, the Caribbean Island of Turks and Caicos, where they’ve cornered the market on the local supply of asses’ milk. We’ll see if they are ever brought to ‘justice.’ And if so, maybe they’ll get a pardon from the Great Pharmapseudocologist in the sky.

– On a much happier note, ‘Burgeofftron’ continue to be adorable together. They decided to stop collecting frequent flyer miles and outright move to Washington. The Gay Grapevine has it that the Racial Kink Cult leader was given space right in RNC headquarters. He turned it into an atonement chapel, and evidentially it’s fast becoming the most frequented house of worship in the D.C. area. At least Burtron tells me that with a smile. Geoff, bless his heart, stated his strong desire to “make a difference” in these uncertain times of transition and disappointment, so he started a Names-Project-type charity for disillusioned Dump voters to send in quilted squares. From the pix, Geoff’s “National Duvet of Regrets” is already big enough to cover half the Washington Monument – condom like. “Ah, healing,” he tells us. Let’s hope so.

– Speaking of Hope and Glory, you may not believe it, but last we heard, my ex and Hojax have been permanently reunited. Assauer made up for our pilfering, but in the process, convinced the captain to take up a different hobby. Now they can be found any Sunday of the year at the Rose Bowl Flea, liquidating Hojax’s war knick-knacks and nazi what-nots to focus on a joint collecting endeavor: Hollywood treasures from the age of drunks. Kitsch items dating between the death of James Dean and the demise of Jim Morrison is what they buy…. It’s still morbid if you ask me. We’re glad they’re happy, but I imagine my Exfreund often has an angry bottom, thanks to the captain’s form of corporal love, hehe.

– Red and puffy also reminds me of beef-cheek, nitrate-laced hotdogs! The Sparks are still roving the California countryside in the warm-weather months, feeding contented people contented corndogs and ye olde jalapeño poppers. Seems they found a new employee who likes Alisoun’s bedroom proclivities, and probably gives Karl’s backside a well-earned rest now and again.

– And then we come to Angekwekwa. The power-saluting days of Ms. Umfume-Kintay are officially over. As Maggie once more, and by a process of guilty workings unknown, she woke up one day and decided to embrace her inner honky. I suppose she regretted turning her back on her own inborn nature as a through and through dull person, for with no qualms at all, she became a meditative candle and soap maker in the Green Mountains of Vermont. She and her partner – Candice Hargrove-Whipplemeyer-Stapleton-Johnson-Smythe III {Man! How white can you get} – opened a Lesbian bookstore-coffee-clutch center in Burlington, and spend weekends canvassing for voters to Feel the Bern in upcoming elections. {Oh, yeah. That white!}

– As for the rest of the cock god people, who knows. They are perhaps still meeting in hotel ballrooms to indulge in wand envy and dummy fisting. All the best to ‘em.

– But what of Maggie’s former employer, the disgraced ex toady tool of the Grand Old Partisans you ask…? Unlike Smythe III, he did not mend his ways, perhaps preferring The Hammer’s correcting blows, but instead went farther to the dark side – um, I mean, to the ultra-pasty side – and hooked up with David Duke to be technical advisor on the Wizz’s scheme called “Let’s get ‘em all out to the middle of the ocean.” So far, according to the project’s webpage, a swamped pontoon boat and a pair of dinghies have been donated to this “voluntary” effort.

– Despite the way they were raised to always stay out late, and never think of the consequences, Claude and Domingo Germaine-Klaassen are early to bed, early to rise type folks. They have their own tube channel now on heritage farming to give other fast-lane city boys an aspiration to hold on to. In their videos, they show how to farm with oxen, and rig horses to go logging in winter with sledges. Claude tells me they sleep with a new Amish girl every other night, and reminds me wickedly that lights go out at 6 PM most evenings. They are living the Ohio dream.

– In terms of dreams – or maybe sleepwalking fits better – Napoleon Trueblood and Neil Campbell moved from L.A. to the ‘next it spot,’ Topeka, Kansas. They discovered unmotivated people with cash can be found outside of Hollywood too, and also learned their self-actuated dollars go further in the Sunflower State. Plus, Napoleon informs me the clogged drains are just as shitty. Ca-CHING!

– And then, I think, that only leaves us with Tre-Princely Knight and Prospera Texas-Ivy. Tre’s missus keeps busy promoting her own line of celebrity gin, called The Husband Pacifier™. She hawks it online and on home-shopping cable channels. Apparently Melania Trump was an early advocate, endorsing the elixir on-air, but of course that was before the So-Called got dragged away. Other than that, Prospera still enjoys cooking Mexican food with all the best chefs born above the 40th Parallel. And as far as her husband goes, from what we read in the news, the former biggest male bottom in porn accepted a job from the new Democratic Administration to head up programming over at PBS – the Public Broadcasting Service. Perhaps he got the job by pitching a new puppet show, à la Mr. Rogers-cum-Wes-Craven, or said “There just aren’t enough wolfman acrobats on TV….” Who knows. The only thing that’s for sure is he’ll have to change that part of his epitaph assuring mourners he took no job in The Capital, unless it’s too late and Gavin Coruptti has already carved it in stone. If so, then once again, the truth be damned.

finis