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T H E M c S W
E E N E Y' S
A L L E G O R Y C O N T E S T
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Some weeks ago, we announced a
contest calling for allegories. Entrants, encouraged by some samples
we had received, were to submit an allegory about, well, the interesting
pickle everyone seems to think we have gotten ourselves into.
Yes, we will admit, the entries didn't fly through the door, or port,
or however it is that things get into this computer of ours. That doesn't
mean, however, that that we don't appreciate the fine, fine entries
we did receive.
The McSweeney's contest-manager-persons have toiled through the weekend
to select a winner, presented below, courtesy of Harry J. Tipple. As
promised, he will receive a photo montage of a scene of a Woody Allen
film of his choice, as interpreted by the McSweeney's Players. Thank
you all for participating, and we look forward to your participation
in future contests.
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BY HARRY J. TIPPLE
Recently I ran into the colossal
ballerina hip-hop artist known as MC Chuckle-Face in the parking garage
behind Royal Chaw. Her career had taken a nosedive so she’d accepted
the role of spokeswoman for the out-of-favor company. Recent magazines
featured a new ad: an enormous MC Chuckle-Face covered in glitter, pirouetting
in nothing but a large tobacco leaf, spitting Royal Chaw juice into
an ornate cuspidor. Unfortunately I was daydreaming when I ran into
her.
What happened was something like a BB chunked at a beach ball. The beach
ball was there first—building a sand fortress near the incoming
tide with little sticks in the moat for spikes—when someone waltzed
out of the shadows of the boardwalk dragging a closed pool umbrella,
an air rifle hidden inside. This person opened the umbrella as rain
suddenly fell from the clear blue sky, but guess what? The rifle was
clogged. So a single BB was tossed instead, the person still thinking
that maybe the beach ball would roll into the ebbing tide and give up
the sand fortress. This person hoping to transform it into an alligator
sculpture with wooden stick fangs, one that was also, at the same time,
still a sand fortress. In other words, I simply didn’t see the huge
body of MC Chuckle-Face trundling in my direction. It probably doesn’t
help that I was blindfolded.
When I awoke on the concrete sometime later, Chuckle-Face had multiplied.
Now there were three of her, each massive mouth sticking out a big wet
tongue to lick my face. That large body was kneeling all around, humming
different parts of a hip-hop song. Somewhat blurred in the distance
were the ballerina slippers of yet a fourth Chuckle-Face, busting the
rap portion of the rhyme, conjuring up memories of the days when I too
aspired to be a hip-hop star. I wanted to rap along but instead I just
laughed, clapped my hands and feet, and watched. Could I have been somehow
responsible for this wonderful spontaneous quadruple cloning of a major
pop star?
"Hey Chuckle-Face, you must be that performer I heard about," I said.
"Thanks for hanging around. You have given me a very special free show.
I used to smoke 83 cigarettes a day until I quit 3 to 12 years ago."
Chuckle-Face reached into her leather fannypack and brought out a tin
of Royal Chaw. "You ready to bust a little hop?" she said. This was
the original one speaking, I think. She was making me an offer to bust
some freestyle. I was not ready and shook my head to indicate no.
"How about some dip?" said one of the Chuckle-Face clones. They were
passing the tin around. "This shit’ll get you hummin." I shook my head
more vehemently. It did not look appealing the way the Chuckle-Faces
were packing their cheeks and communally spitting into the sliver can.
Then we made small talk for a while. The Chuckle-Faces and me. And finally
I was okay to leave. I wanted to pick Chuckle-Face’s brain to discover
what made her tick—perhaps I’d discover a small clock in there—but
now I didn’t know which was which. Also, it was time to find my car
and return home for dinner. My wife was preparing a meatloaf.
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