Hot Summer Binkus Blues

It’s amazing how the straws of life weave together to make a hat. Or a broach. Or a little pterodactyl. (100 points if you get the reference.) This whole summer I’ve been in a funk. Tourists walking the long stretch up to Alcatraz hoot and holler at me like I’m some penny-slot attraction. Booby Muffin hisses at them as they walk past, snapping photos, stealing our souls, but I can’t muster the strength for a singular threatening hee-haw. They’d probably just laugh and continue on to the gift shop anyhow.

And Binkus. Just as I was getting somewhere, really making progress, smelling the ink on the contract, summer hits like a bomb and Binkus is down in the keys, sailing his cigarette boats, knocking back margaritas, and eating peel n’ eat shrimp by the pound. Bev with a glass full of pricey sauvignon blanc, ice cubes, and lime by his side, the freckles on her ample bosom darkening into strange little country shapes. I bet Binkus’s skin has blistered hot red like a ketchuped tomato by now (my god that beast loves ketchup) and I’m sure Birky and Billy and all the other chicken-scarfing Binkuslings have made the trip down, on Unkle/Granddaddy/Daddy’s dime, breathing that balmy hurricane air, ingesting hot sauce like it’s water, comparing every quesadilla and spring roll to a Binkus Wing, shouting the glory of that chicken empire that may crumble if it doesn’t get a massive advertising revival headed by me, strong noble Donkey Pegasus of the fog, of the City by the Bay, where summer is a notion, not a rule. Crumble Binkus empire, crumble. Crumble like the waxy blue cheese you hope to scatter like pebbles over the iceberg piles you wish to serve in your national restaurant chain. Chains! Chains! These chains that bind me! Binkus! Binnnkusss!

I was nearly ready to quit. Not just Binkus, but advertising altogether. Work the fields maybe, over in Salinas. Plan a trip. Find Vook and Pepé. But sure as I was ready to do it, just yesterday, the fax machine spat out an ugly fuzzy roll of paper onto my office carpet. I unfurled it, like a scroll sent from faraway that spoke my future, and there it was—scrawled in the hand of the dark lord himself:

DP you old git,

Summer is over and man am I glad. Lots of ideas, hundreds of em, are swimming around in my head like those marlins we were catching in the keys. Hope you’re all rested up because it’s time to get to it. Let’s do some business. Have that commercial sketch to me by next Wednesday (see how relaxed I am?) and don’t worry about Billy’s ideas. That little turd took some job overseas, probably one of those hotty totty cities where chicken wings are considered too American to serve. The time to rise to the occasion is now Donkey. Autumn is the time for chicken! 

Sincerely,

Baron Binkus

 
And there I go, getting sucked back down the Binkus black hole. Someone save me. 

Blood is Thick in the Binkus Bunker

It’s been days, weeks even. Yes, I know. I’m not the blogger I used to be. But what is there even to share? Romance? Don’t patronize me with such questions. Exciting reports from the road ala Vook and Pepe? No, jackhole. For all I know they could be roadkill on the side of a hot lonely interstate. Impressive new tricks Booby Muffin has learned? Maybe, but how would I know? She’s going through her natural adolescent rebellion and only gives me sharp, monosyllabic meows in answer to my queries about her day. She’s also been bringing dead island mice into the nest, and she knows that I’m afraid of them…. teenagers.

And what, ad world domination you ask? Bah. Hiss. Grumble-b-bumps. Check out this MEMO I received from Binkus in the mail today. It had globs and smears of barbecue sauce and mustard on it. That man must be stopped:

I guess I’m gonna have to see what Billy Binkus is made of, since lately I’m not made of much when it comes to winning the Binkus Wings account. Last night I had a dream that I was sitting in my nest eating a chicken and I had forgotten to pluck its feathers. Binkus is slowly killing my soul.

Weekly Session with Dr. Lynn

With trepidation I clopped my hooves downthe linoleum hallway that leads to Dr. Lynn’s office.  She told me over email this past weekend that she was looking forward to catching up on my blog before we met. Great. Get ready for scrutiny of every last minute detail of every single experience I share with the world. I would block her IP address if I only knew how.

Dr. Lynn: So… Booby Muffin. That’s an interesting name for a cat.

Me: Thanks. It just jumped out at me.

Dr. Lynn: And why do you think ‘Booby’ jumped out at you? Have you considered that maybe you’ve got pent up sexual frustrations?

Me:  Actually, it refers to the Blue Footed Boobies of the Galapagos. Jeez Lynn, your reading comprehension must not be what it used to. Didn’t you read Kitten Lures Sex Kitten?

Dr. Lynn: Yes, I read it. But I’m afraid that was just a cover. A donkey’s self-aware attempt to conceal the true origins of his actions. Only a trained can see it. I actually don’t believe that you’ve really been to the Galapagos.

Me: I’m sorry you don’t believe me. I can fly though Lynn. I thought we had covered this.

Dr. Lynn: Let’s move on to something that concerns me greatly. And this is your relationship with Mr. Binkus.

Me: Binkus…

Dr. Lynn: I think the money and prestige that the Binkus Wings account would bring you is not worth the demoralization that your relationship with Binkus inflicts on you. I mean, are you really going to dress up like a chicken? And I didn’t know you went to Texas.

Me: Yes you did, I told you.

Dr. Lynn: No, you didn’t.

Me: Did too.

Dr. Lynn: No, you did not.

Me: Did too.

Dr. Lynn: Okay, let’s move on to Lisa. I think you must subconsciously have known that Lisa wasn’t a candidate for romance Donkey Pegasus, and that’s why you chose her.

Me: That’s redonkulous Lynn.

Dr. Lynn: I don’t think it is. I think it’s time you consider the fact that a relationship with a human might not be a well thought-out idea. For one, your relationship could never be accepted by society. And you could never have children, which is a meaningful life experience that I think you shouldn’t miss. Especially given your affection to your new pet and the obvious issues with your parents.  Issues, I will add, that you’re too blocked up to discuss.

Me: You really think that society would shun me? I mean, they accept me at restaurants, don’t they? IKEA thinks my money’s good. My work sure thinks I live up to human expectations. So why can’t I have a romantic relationship with a human? I mean, why not?

Dr. Lynn: I… uh, well. That’s… that’s a difficult thing to…, uh, well. There’s not much of a precedent her. You’re sort of an anomoly Donkey Pegasus.

Me: Maybe I’m a precedent setter. And I am not an anomoly.

Dr. Lynn: Yes I’m afraid you are.

Me: Am not.

Dr. Lynn: Uh, okay. How about Vook and Pepe? Haven’t heard from them in awhile. Is there something wrong?

Me: No Lynn. I’m just trying to live in the present like you told me. And Vook and Pepe could be a million miles away at this point.

Dr. Lynn: No, actually they couldn’t.

Me: Sure they could.

Dr. Lynn: No, that’s impossible.

Me: Not it’s not.

Dr. Lynn: Time’s up. Sorry. To be honest Donkey Pegasus, I think our session today was a setback.

Me: I didn’t.

Dr. Lynn:  Well I did.

Me:  Did not.

Dr. Lynn:  Goodbye Donkey Pegasus.

Weekend Binkus Brainstorm

Hell. It was beautiful this weekend. The sun shimmered upon the wind ruffled bay and the sailboats dotted the oceanscape like little paper hats. It was bliss. So I’m told.

I was in the office all weekend, burning brainpower over the commercial challenge Binkus hurled at me on Friday. It was useless. I sat brain-dead in the darkened office, the air conditioner humming, a pigeon flying desperately towards the window of the building across the street. No pigeon, it’s a mirror! That’s not your friend! That’s you—ohhh. That poor dirty bird slammed beak-first into the highrise and slid down the vertical death slide slow at first, then gaining speed, so that by the time the poor little guy was nearing the sidewalk he was probably pushing 50 MPH. I ran downstairs to help him (as if any person walking by would help a dying pigeon!) but the bird was nowhere in sight. Vanished. Crashed into nothing? Incinerated completely on impact? Caught by an awning? Netted by a giant butterfly collector? (No, the collector isn’t giant. The butterflies he catches are…) Caught by an open-trailered cotton haul? Oh I hope so… I couldn’t get that pigeon off my mind. I skulked back up to my office. It was 2:15pm on a Saturday. I could almost feel Booby Muffin’s anticipation for me to fly home and play. I wanted out but at the same time, with the Binkus account, so badly I want in.

But I couldn’t get the pigeon off my mind. Sure, this bird died by accident (or was it volition?) but so many others don’t get the chance. On Saturday I was especially thoughtful of brother chicken. With that in mind, here’s all I was able to muster in my Binkus Wings commercial brainstorm. Bev Binkus had some “complications” with a “procedure” she had “done” so luck tossed me a few extra days. But I’m not sure, in the end, that they’ll help. Here’s what I’ve got for the 30-second Binkus Wings commercial. Let me know what you think:

Hi kids and parents! I’m Binky the Binkus Wings Chicken. I made up a song! Do you want to sing it?

When you bite into my flesh and bones
And eat my skin with pleasure groans
Then dip my meat into the sauce
Discard my leg with just a toss
Don’t forget I died for you!
So parts of my body you could chew!

When You Eat Binkus Wings…. I hope you don’t have bad dreams.

Great job kids! Now let’s go eat my body!

So… uh… what do you think? I mean it, give me your honest opinion. I might… you know… be a little too close to it.

Another Binkus Friday

As if the stiff hot tension in the office wasn’t enough, what ten gallon-hat-wearing, chicken-wing-empire-building, ad-donkey-soul-bruising Texan do you think called me on the video phone today just as I was sitting down to enjoy a banana?

Alright, I admit it… the tension with Lisa in the office is one-sided. Truth is, I don’t think Lisa has one iota (what is that anyway?) of an idea that I, Donkey Pegasus, ever hoped or dreamed or cradled the possibility of our romance like I cradle Booby Muffin when she eats a spider. No, I’m sorry to report that all those early morning showers and dangerous flights to IKEA were all for nothing… except, I suppose, to reinforce what deep down I already knew: humans are great at disappointing you. Dr. Lynn says that means that Donkey Pegasus-es (don’t know the plural of this because there’s only one of me) are disappointable. When she said that, I told Dr. Lynn that was by far her dummest psycho-noticing ever. Anyhow…

“Donkey PP!” said Binkus, his big red mug slowly materializing, pixel by pixel, as the old dinosaur video conference monitor warmed from its slumber. “I’m gonna make this quick cause I’m gonna run out for some ribs and golf.”

“Good morning Mr. Binkus,” I said into the microphone. “You look like you’ve got a sunburn.”

“Well God damn it’s summer DP, the sun is a shining down upon us! Alright, let me get down to it. I got your latest proposal and I gotta tell you Donkey P, I’m getting closer to dipping my quill in the ink pot if you know what I mean.”

This is good. Good good good.

“But I was thinkin DP… I don’t really like the commercial you’re proposin. I want to do something bold. Something surprising and fresh and exciting. Something that people are going to talk about at the poultry counter or water cooler or whatever you kids say. So… what’s more exciting and fresh than a donkey that can fly? You DP, I want you to be in my commercial. It’ll be a way for you to make up for that time when you lied to me about eating chicken.”

“Sir, I did not lie.” Binkus’s face contorted on the monitor and looked straight at me, straight into my soul. “It wasn’t a total lie. I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings or make you think that I didn’t believe in Binkus Wings.”

Binkus’s face bloomed into a big Texas grin. “Well, then it’s redemption time DP. Listen here. I know you fancy San Fran ad folks like to start with a metaphor. So how about something along the lines of pigs flying? You know, I’ll try Binkus Wings when pigs fly. Well guess what, they do! But only, it’ll be you DP, and I’m not calling you a pig. I don’t know, I haven’t worked it all out. Hell, that’s your job! So write me up a little script when you get a chance and have it to me by tomorrow, and maybe just maybe you’ll have yourself a deal.”

Binkus, there in the monitor, pushed with all his might to raise his heavy body up from the chair. Then he leaned down so his big face was in the monitor, his red cheeks shining like oversized cherries, and waved, “Bye bye DP, wish me luck on the links!” and then his image slowly disintegrated into a static, snowy white.

Pigs will fly and Hell will freeze over before I schlep Binkus Wings in a 30-second national spot. No freaking way. I’m pretty sure. Probably not. Well, maybe.

Low, Low, Low and Behold

It’s only taken me two straight weeks of therapy intensives with Dr. Lynn to get me to the point where I can talk about it. Oh yes, it’s been a long, difficult process through which Lynn and Booby Muffin, apparently the only two females that I can trust, stroked my mane and scratched my ears and looked me square in the eyes and said, “Goddammit Donkey Pegasus, pick yourself up off my new Indonesian wool ceremonial chastity rug and get over it!” (That was Dr. Lynn who said that. Booby Muffin thinks wool is itchy.)

Lisa, she-devil kitten lover. Lisa, oh I can’t wait to come to your nest Donkey Pegasus! Lisa, the one who I thought, really thought, might be the one. Turns out Booby Muffin’s not the only kitty-kat that Lisa’s been petting.

Friends, emotional counselors, Kerstin (my #1 fan somewhere in Oregon): here’s how it went down.

Remember how I was tidying up my nest, preparing for Lisa’s Saturday visit to my Alcatrazian nest of paradise high atop The Rock? Remember how I went to IKEA in loving preparation so my little turtle dove Lisa might have been more comfortable, felt more… oh, I don’t… at home?

It was the Friday before and Barney, my gouty nightwatchman pal, harnessed me into his homegrown shopping sleigh and I took flight, clumsy at first I admit, the lawnmower bucket bungee cord rig twirling unsteady behind me. But soon, I was prancing through the air, over the Bay Bridge, my sleigh steadied by my expert flightsmanship. (Shut up, it is too a word.) And there, there it was, like a giant yellow beacon calling me home, IKEA.

I landed in a vacant patch of parking lot with a screech of metal, stowed my rig behind a bush, and walked inside.

Did you know IKEA sells something called applecaka? Get it? Apple-caka. Caca? I knew it! You know that book, Everybody Poops? Every time I see that book I say, “Apples poop?” and laugh and hoot and elbow the people standing next to me. Of course apples don’t poop, that’s the joke you imbecile! But that evening, the bay mist still dewy on my coat as I stood before the IKEA snack bar, I wasn’t so sure anymore. Hold on, I told myself. Humans eat apples and poop. Humans eat animals and poop. Apples poop. So what do apples eat? Aaaah! I jetted away from that scene fast.  Those Swedes are sickos and I guess apples are sickos too. Funny though, I saw some fat kid taking out a big slice of applecaca and it looked like a slice of cake.  Applecaca… it’s a crazy world. But I digress.

I packed the following purchases into my rig:

1 Torenia quilt cover and pillowcases – $12.99
1 Gosa Blinka ergonomic pillow – $19.00 (neck issues)
1 Bellinge rug (nice colors) – $19.99
4 Pralin drinking glasses (nice wide bowl, I can lap the water with my tongue if I’m careful) – $12.99
2 Felicia throws (in case she got chilly) – $13.99

$78.96 I spent on home improvement.$78.96 so LISA would be comfortable. Saturday came and Booby Muffin and I trotted down to my vegetable garden to pick some fresh peppers and watercress for a little salad I was planning on putting together. Humans like dressing on their salads, so I even picked up a bottle of Annie’s Green Goddess dressing, which is yummy, but must be refrigerated after use so it’s down in my crab-pot cooler  in the icy bay. Anyhow, Lisa came indeed. I heard her sweet little voice calling for me Donnnkkey Pegasusss! Donnnkkey Pegasusss we’re heeere!

We? We’re here? My immediate thought: multiple personality disorder. And it would have been better! I tell you, it would have been better than this.

I peered over the side of my nest, Booby Muffin excited to see Lisa given all that she’d heard about her. Lisa stood there looking up, looking lovely, wearing a little pink spaghetti strap dress and holding hands with some woman who looked like a man. This dudette was wearing some strange mechanic’s outfit and was built like a brick shit house, no doubt.

“Whoja got down there with ya Lisa?” I asked her.

“Oh, DP, hope you don’t mind, I brought my new girlfriend Perry. So should we come up?”

Girlfriend? Perry? Excuse me? Lesbian? Lisa’s a lesbian?

“Uhhhhh,” I seemed to be saying.

“DP, can we even get up there?” she asked, looking for a ladder or an elevator I suppose. “You might have to bring that little kitty down here. What’s her name again? Muffin?”

“Uhhhoohhough,” She didn’t even remember Booby Muffin’s name. And you’d think Lesbian Lisa would remember the name Booby! I mean, come on.

“Our tour starts in ten minutes DP, so come on, bring her down! Perry loves kitties.”

Oh, I bet she does…

I bit Booby Muffin by the scruff of her little disappointed neck. To be honest, I’d began referring to Lisa as your new mommy when talking to Booby Muffin. BM’s confusion was palpable, as was mine I’m sure. I flew down to meet them. Perry gave me a thrice over. What’s the matter Perry? I wanted to say, Haven’t you ever seen a Donkey Pegasus? I’ve never seen a love-stealing lesbian mechanic so there!

I stood there like a dumb tree stump while Lisa and Perry cooed and purred and petted Booby Muffin. When a large group of camera-toting tourists came shuffling by, Lisa gave me a stiff hug and said, “Thanks so much for showing us your kitty DP, she’s a real cutie.” Perry gave me a grunt and turned to walk away.

And then they were off… up the hill, to see the canons, to see the lockdown, to see where the Birdman of Alcatraz slept. And up in my nest the salad sat wilting, just like the promise of a romance with Lisa.

Tidying up the Nest

Lisa.  Tall, long-legged Bakersfieldian, grilled cheese with the crusts cut off and french fries dipped in thousand island dressing Lisa.  She who gets me coffee with three creams and four sugars. She who dots her i’s with hearts when she takes messages. She who tells me to, “Forget about that fat hog” when Binkus makes me feel like some dumb mule working the trails in the Grand Canyon.  She, I’m happy to announce, who’s been practically begging me to come on over to Alcatraz for a play date with Booby Muffin. Besides an extremely bewildered IRS auditor last year, no human has ever been to my nest.

Sure, it’s spacious.  Comfortable? Check.  Yes, it’s climbable from the ground, Booby Muffin does it all the time you nimrod!  Done with your line of questioning? Good. Because I’ve got a nest to clean. Lisa’s coming over this Saturday.  Yeayah.

Frankly, the nest is a mess.  Booby Muffin’s in her summer shed and the birds that nest in the tree above me must be molting. There are feathers and fur balls everywhere, not to mention that nasty yuck that little Booby coughed up last night during sunset. I had to give her a talking to about it. There were little downy feathers in there and it upsets the neighbors when my new pet kitten eats their young.  We’ll smooth it out though, don’t worry. Those birds mate like sailors on shore leave.

So it’s a spring cleaning of sorts, but I’ve realized that I live like a barbarian out here on the rock. I don’t even have a table, a pillow, a lime squeezer – so tomorrow I’ll buy myself out of bachelorhood at the megastore everybody seems to visit when they need to pick up a few hundred basic home essentials. Oh, I got it at IKEA! Isn’t it unique? It was only thirty cents!  Those Swedish meatballs are to die for!

Barney, the night watchman here on Alcatraz, has agreed to help me with a carrying vessel in which I will transport my haul. I saw him working on it earlier. Think Santa’s sleigh made from a lawnmower bucket and bungee cables. We’ll see… Barney’s been working the night shift for twenty years so he hasn’t exactly convinced me he’s an engineer and executioner of ideas. He gives me peanuts sometimes though. But they make me fart. Don’t tell Lisa.

Vook and Pepé Living La Vida Loca

Postcards have been few and far between. I haven’t wanted to mention it, not hearing from Vook and Pepé. Some days I figure they’re just out there seeing America and other days, I worry that Vook is roadkill on a hot stretch of highway and Pepé finally succumbed to his joi de tequila. But hark the herald, they live! This morning I got a raucous voicemail at work from none other than Vook and the Pepéster high on life, or something like it. It was, after all, left at 4am.

Apparently, Pepé chatted up some ladies at the bar of some swank Phoenix hotel and it turns out they were upstairs in the penthouse partying with a celebrity cornucopia of the likes of Valerie Bertinelli, Rowdy Roddy Piper, and Ted Nugent. Vook said the tunes alone pouring out into the hallway were too hot to handle, and once those little dudes cleared the threshold I guess they were knee deep in heavenly sins. The booze was flowing, Val was dancing the jitterbug on the coffee table, and Ted Nugent was doing target practice on far off cacti from the balcony. And as it turns out, Rowdy Roddy had received a massage just that morning from a little lady cockroach named Dolores. Pepé’s mom. She’s somewhere in the building. Apparently Pepé was so stoked he made the moves of one of the party girls and she let him sit on her shoulder until the sun rose over the hazy pink desert horizon.

Those dudes sure are living it up while I’m here trying to live it all down.

Knee Deep in the Hoopla

You know when you’re driving a distance on a highway and your eyes start to glaze, radio droning, a possible fog dampening the colors outside, on and on you go, then you shake yourself into awareness after devil knows how long and you think bajeezus, I could’ve killed someone, but I didn’t, even though there were curves to follow and slight braking to do on account of the A-hole ahead of you who just doesn’t understand the notion of coasting? Then you think, hm. If I could do that and still operate the vehicle perfectly well, while having productive thoughts about important things like how much I love Booby Muffin and how I don’t where I stand with Lisa and how Birky Binkus is just some dumb kid so I really ought to chuck that voodoo doll I made of him into the bay.

So if I can be this productive while driving (okay, fine Mister Stickler, I was flying, not driving) then think how much I could get done on my personal life while at work! While sleeping! I’m gonna write that book I’ve always thought about writing on my morning commute! I’m going to mentally put together Booby Muffin’s baby book while working on my weekly client reports! I’m going to take back this time that I sell to Corporate America and put it to good use. In fact, I’m going to start right now. My weekly market update to Binkus is going to write itself while I mentally compose the introduction to Booby Muffin’s kitten book.

Here it goes. (Of course I have to start out working. You know, one can’t drive on the highway unless they actually get into the car and go.)

BINKUS WINGS: Weekly Market Conditions Prospectus
May 30th, 2007
Prepared by Donkey Pegasus

Chicken stocks are up this week while Beef stocks have fallen slightly due to the fall in price of boullion. Chicken parts have come together in the markets, creating an opening for Binkus Wings’s DIY Excellent & Awesome Spicy Chicken Wings.

On the restaurant front, Hooters stock and weekly sales continues to fall, giving a green light to Binkus Wings to begin their penetration of the sexy chicken wing restaurant market. We recommend a close parallel of Hooter’s interior, menu options, and waitresses wearing easy to move in clothing that also happens to show off their Booby Muffin was born into a litter of sprite, spotted kittens by a loving but ultimately irresponsible mother cat. A chance but confusing encounter at the SPCA brought Booby Muffin and Donkey Pegasus together with 22 beers on tap, plasma screen televisions playing every sport game being televised, and a Binkus Mile High Mud Pie is highly recommended.

According to our research, flagship store locations include Phoenix, Minneapolis, and Fresno. Construction should be slated to beginning on the day Booby Muffin came back to the nest, she was playful and loving as a father could hope his daughter will be. She loves watching the sun set behind the Golden Gate Bridge just as much as she loves going for bumpy fly rides around Alcatraz on my back, though she digs her young sharp claws into her daddy’s skin just a little too enthusiastically looking forward to a partnership with Binkus Wings.

Hee-haw,

Donkey Pegasus

Righty-o, we’ll just get this off to Binkus… Save, SEND. Now I’ll just quickly jot down the ideas that popped into my head for Booby Muffin’s kitten book so I can get to work on that. See what I mean? Dual processing baby. What a timesaver. Check ya later. This is the only way to do it when you’re knee deep in the hoopla.

Note from My Attorney

Got this in regards to my pending suit of Egregious Veterinary Imprisonment from my attorney Barry Berry, Esquire.  I know, I know… never trust a guy with two first names.

…

DP,

Looks like I hit a snag with our suit. Turns out there’s really no precedent for animals filing suit against humans. Since you somehow have a SS# though I might be able to get around it. Creative Phrasing is what we call it.  Also, do you have any visible signs of abuse? If so, get your digicam and document it Pronto. Same for the kitten. What’s its name?  Boob? You’re such a pig DP, I love it. When we gonna hit the town again?  Remember when you lost it all over that girl in white after all that tequila?

Oh man, you are an animal! Hey, maybe we’ll swing this around into an animal rights case. I always knew you were gonna be my golden ticket man, I always knew.

Catch ya,

Barry Berry, Esquire

p.s. Did you ever bag that babe in the office?