The "Jo Mhama" Case - Entry 9

It made sense, in an ass-backward kind of way, that whatever parturient gene/infection that created the tumefaction of these godforsaken fedoras would manifest itself in the appendix; said organ has been widely critiqued by many a backwater-comic for having no purpose other than leaving open the possibility of rupturing and killing its host. Randy, ass-backward himself on my put-upon toilet, was having himself a noisy, sporadically terrifying birth ritual that conjured up a harbinger of labour-plans involving the walling-up of said bathroom with whatever hardening agents I had lying around my humble, yet classy, abode. Throughout the yelps and groans emanating from my bathroom like the petulant screams of three cats trapped under a lead-weight down a 100-foot open well, I managed to centre my focus on the implausibility of a fedora not only thinking for itself, making plans to adapt to a human society, while also possessing the wherewithal to just...well, grow into a human. I was no closer to any sort of rationalization when a massive, heaved sigh shot out from Randy‘s direction, followed by a startled "C’mere!" There was nothing in the world I wanted less than to see what Randy had deposited in my poor, beleaguered throne, and yet the tone in his voice traversed the histrionic plains of emotion like a sherpa hanging onto a rock-face by his fingernails only to find that said sherpa was, in fact, safe on a ledge after all; I meandered over with a grimace of curiosity clouding my face and found Randy with his hand on his chin, his eyebrow raised in the classic "thinker’s" pose. I swallowed hard, imaging that it would be the last time I did so for some time without tasting the bile of repugnance, and looked into the toilet: there it was, like a cream-cheese ball covered in macadamia-nut crumbles, Randy’s appendix.

Defying all medical logic, my longtime sidekick had excremated this useless body part using the same amount of effort as one who had passed a kidney-stone, and was now not only not any worse for wear, but downright confused as to how any of this could’ve happened, and, actually, proud of what he had accomplished...in the same misguided manner in which a paratrooper brags of taking only a bullet in the arm during combat - as if it had anything to do with they themselves. I agreed with the assertion that said expelled appendix shouldn’t be just flushed unceremoniously, but disagreed with the idea that I should be the one to fish it out of my soon-to-be exorcised, never-to-be-used-under-normal-circumstances-again toilet.

As Randy got together the supplies necessary to plunge-out his appetizer-like offspring, it occurred to me that this sequence of events meant, more than likely, that the human body will eventually reject whatever contamination this fedora-virus had the capability to inflict; and after hearing that Randy had consumed some eight cups of the hat-tainted coffee, compared to my one, I knew I was in no real danger of baptizing my own appendix, as Randy was then doing using my removable-head shower nozzle with all the care of a mighty mother sloth sweeping away the curlicues of her spawn’s infant hairdo.

I cleared my head of the strange events that had just transpired by circling Randy’s fedora/Jo Mhama like a gang of heathens around a bible-clutching peasant, staring into it with the hard, yet intensity-ebbing eyes of a professionally-trained, but personally bedraggled Lawson Detective Agency © Brand Detective. I had reached both my charisma’s and wit’s end, and, dizzy from all the circling I was doing, I let the discomfort in my eyes tell Randy to take both his appendix and Jo Mhama away from me, and let my waning-equilibrium take me into a long, rejuvenating nap.

Entry 10