THE LITTLE AGIT-PROP THAT COULD

Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob stared at the package placed before him by an aide-de-hippocampus -- a birthday present from his best friend forever, Yuegogurl Chavez. Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob studied the wrapping, a now-banned opposition newspaper carefully selected by Yuegogurl Chavez for this auspicious occasion.

Ignoring the admonitions his father used to beat into him as a boy (to save the wrapper for re-gifting), Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob tore open the box -- grasping the contents with all two of his hands -- and furrowed his substantial uni-brow.

What was this his friend had sent him absolutely, positively overnight? A pair of monogrammed elevator jackboots? Was this supposed to be some kind of an insult from his portly amigo? But, wait. There was a card:

“Dear MaMamood; Do you believe in magic? Try these on for size, make a wish, click your heels together 3 times, and your wish will come true. Caveat: You will not be able to make anyone fall in love with you. Your pal, Yuegogurl.”

Trembling, Little MaMamood
Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob slipped on the boots. They fit him like a glove. More to the point, they fit him like a pair of monogrammed jackboots with magical powers. Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob closed his eyes and clicked his heels together 3 times murmuring: “There’s no place like home with all my friends gathered round to celebrate my special day.”

Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob opened his eyes; he couldn’t believe it. There, before him, stood his bestus pals: not only Yuegogurl Chavez, but also Robbby Moocowgabee, Kim Jong Dontfeelsogood, Omar al-Bash-yerhead-in, Basher al Donkeyhad, Kaled Mess Hall, Hassan Nostrilhairs-allah, and MarMar Igad-fee.

The whole room was festooned with balloons and streamers. Blindfolded college students from Europe and North America wearing conical hats passed among the guests with trays of little morsels called “hypocrisies,” which turned out to be inedible, but sure looked slick from a distance.

Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob was in 6th heaven. The whole gang had arrived in a raucous mood.

“This is the best birthday ever!” exclaimed Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob to Yuegogurl Chavez. “What should I wish for next?”

Kim Jong Dontfeelsogood said, “Let’s have a blast, a really big blast!”

“That’s a capital idea,” shouted Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob.

“Yeah,” said MarMar Igad-fee. “Let’s party like its 999 and really put this place on the map!”

‘I’ve got a better idea,” said Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob. “Let’s wipe another place off the map!”

“I second that,” said Kaled Mess Hall and Hassan Nostrilhairs-allah in unison.

“But someone will call the cops and say we’re making too much noise,” worried Omar al-Bash-yerhead-in.

“Oh don’t you worry about that,” said Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob, comfortingly. He closed his eyes, clicked his jackboots together 3 times, and murmured: “Send us a protector and a guardian!”

The guests looked on with awe. POOF! An op-ed columnist for the New York Times appeared out of nowhere, and began to sing:

“Oh, Boys, I know your intentions are good

Please don’t let you be misunderstood.”

“Jumping Jehoshaphat!” exclaimed Kaled Mess Hall, clapping his hands to the beat. “Where did he come from?”

“I conjured him,” said Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob. Then, to no one in particular, and sotto voce, he added, “With a sleight of hand and a click of jackboots, some people will believe anything.”

“I hope your crashing this party won‘t be a drag,” complained Hassan Nostrilhairs-allah to the newspaperman.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” replied the scoop. “I’ll just sit here by myself in the back in the dark.”

“Now that’s what I call a martyr!” said Kaled Mess Hall approvingly. “Jolly good show, old man!”

“I almost forgot!” remembered the New York Times fellow reaching into his pocket. “I brought a bunch of letters from several of our progressive readers who think you guys are the bees‘ knees!”

“Yippee-Yi-Yay!” squealed Omar al-Bash-yerhead-in.

“I’ll say!” shouted Basher al Donkeyhad.

And they formed a ring around the newsman and began to skip and dance making a joyous sound:

Strollin’ bold ‘n stark
Watching Winter crush Prague spring
Dancing in the dark!
Letting Newsmen do their thing!

Ooh-ooh, that's the time
I feel like making war on you.
Ooh-ooh, that's the time
I feel like making whoopedeedoo
ohh baby.

The merrymaking was interrupted by a knock on the door. The man from the New York Times opened it. There stood Benjy Nut ’N Honey looking mighty sore. The dog, UNCHR, began to growl loudly from under the dining table.

The room grew silent. Then, inexplicably, the newspaperman began to jump up and down waving his arms all crazy-like.

“You!” he shouted. “It’s all your fault!”

“What is?” asked Nut ’N Honey.

“Everything! That’s what!” screamed the newspaperman, and he slammed the door right in Benjy Nut ’N Honey‘s face.

“Hoo ha!” remarked Omar al-Bash-yerhead-in. “Let the games begin!” UNCHR rolled over and went to sleep.

Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nose job strode up to Kaled Mess Hall and Hassan Nostrilhairs-allah and showered them with party favors. “Here boys!” he chortled with delight. There’s plenty more where that came from!” Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his manservant, Big Bad Comico, looking the other way obsequiously.

“I’m hungry,” whined Robbby Moocowgabee.

“Me, too,” cried Kim Jong Dontfeelsogood.

“You would be,” retorted Yuegogurl Chavez. “Grass; You call that a nosh?”

I could go for a bissel cheesecake, myself,” sighed Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob. He closed his eyes, and clicked his heels together 3 times, murmuring:

Eye of Walt, and toe of frog,
Mersheimer tongue and brain of fog ,
Easy oven, Easy Bake
Send us all some Yellow Cake!


POOF! When the smoke cleared, the guests beheld a giant cake in the shape of a mushroom. (You can really do wonders with fondant).

Topping the cake were two edible figurines: a man in a business suit wielding a massive sword and stomping on the fingers of a woman. The woman whose fingers were being trampled was clutching a notepad, and she was hanging on for dear life, her legs dangling down the side of the cake.

“What are those figurines at the top of the cake supposed to be?” asked Kim Jong Dontfeelsogood.

“This sculpture is called, “Triumph of the Bonus,” answered Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nosejob with a wink towards the New York Times correspondent.
“It’s my little homage to Riefenstahl, although of course, in a different medium. The creature hanging on for dear life is the backstabbing writer’s union, whose selfish benefits would have strangled the lifeblood of the whole Empire had not the glorious Executive Board galloped to the rescue with the sword of Just Us to sever the slimy monster’s greedy tentacles.”

They all agreed it was a beautiful thing.

Then Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nose job raised his fist, shouting: “The people are revolting!”

“Yes, aren‘t they?” rejoined Omar al-Bash-yerhead-in.

“Robbby Moocowgabee and Kim Jong Dontfeelsogood are hungry,” reminded Yuegogurl Chavez.

“Let them eat cake!” yelled Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nose job. “In fact, cake all around!”

He saved the little figurines for the man from the New York Times and handed them to him bowing low.

“I love you!” said the New York Times man to Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nose job.

Little MaMamood Imegunnaneed-a-nose job was stunned. He turned toward Yuegogurl Chavez barely concealing his mirth: “I thought you said…”

Yuegogurl Chavez scrunched up his shoulders holding his palms upwards with a goofy grin.

Everybody laughed uproariously.