Dear diary,
Now a strange event takes place which has never happened before in the history of this galaxy: A giant kangaroo from outer space lands down with a thud upon the surface of our planet. Immediately Tara whispers to her compeers, me myself and Joseph Smith: “We should try to trick this creature.”
“What creature?” I ask.
“The mammoth Roo from Alpha Centauri that just crash-landed on Planet Earth,” Tara sez.
“O-o-o-o-oh,” the frame slowly zooms out to show the oversize beast hopping back and forth on the horizon, damaging personal property and real estate. “Yes,” I say: “we should try to trick this creature.”
“What should the trick consist of?” asks Joseph Smith who was Enoch who is Metatron.
“Well,” I say, “here’s my idea—”
“Wait!” Tara interjects: “let me guess!”
After a few more moments of the whole horizon vibrating to the sound of big bangs, I say: “What are we waiting for? Go ahead, Tara: take a guess — what do you presume my idea is?”
“No, first you must write down what you’re thinking on a notecard, and hide it from me,” Tara explains; “that way, if I guess correctly, we’ll be able to prove it by seeing that my words match the words on your card.”
I smile wide: “Excellent plan!” Then I begin to pat the pockets of my tuxedo: “The only problem is that I don’t think I brought my notecard collection with me. I must have left it in the secret compartment above my waterbed-chamber on the Magnet Train.”
“I have a notecard, right here,” Joseph Smith removes his top hat and retrieves a pure gold card from the silken band at the base of its crown.
“Ah, thank you!” I say. “Now, does anyone have a stylus?”
“Here you go,” Joseph Smith hands me one from his lapel pocket.
I then inscribe my idea about how we should trick the giant kangaroo from outer space that recently began to destroy our globe. It takes me a quarter of an hour to get the idea down on paper, or on gold plates rather, because I must etch each letter carefully, so that the print’s appearance is stylized yet readable. I also draw little pictures of birds along the margins.
“OK,” I announce; “I’m ready — my own idea has been safely inscribed on this here card. You can go ahead now and tell us what your guess is, Tara…”
“One more thing, Bry—” Joseph Smith interrupts: “first, touch your tongue to the card that you wrote on, and then press that licked side of the notecard to your forehead, so that the golden tablet will remain stuck there while we listen to (and implement) Tara’s proposal. Then, when we’re all done performing our magic trick, and the giant kangaroo from outer space has been eliminated from our universe, we will compare the thing that Tara advised us to do with whatever suggestion you etched on your tablet.”
My eyes grow wide: “That’s a wonderful idea!” I lick and stick the card to my head. “How do you think of such good plot twists?” I ask Joseph Smith in earnest.
“Everything I know, I learned from Mohammed, who is the Seal of the Prophets,” replies Joseph Smith, alias Enoch Metatron.
I nod my head slowly in awe, with my jaw agape; then I turn to Tara and say: “Alright, NOW you may speak in church, O silly woman.”
We all laugh long and hard at my joke, for my two friends recognize the biblical reference immediately. (In 1st Corinthians 14:34, the Apostle Paul saith “Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience.” Also, Paul saith in 1st Timothy 2:11-12 “Let the women learn in silence with all subjection. But do not allow a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man: she should remain in silence.” Lastly, in 2nd Timothy 3:6-7, Paul mutters: “...silly women laden with sins are led away with divers lusts, ever learning, yet never able to come to the knowledge of the truth.”) — Then, once we all stop laughing and dry our eyes, Tara lifts her voice and sez:
“Alright, here’s what I think that Bryan has in mind for us to do. I think that he was going to tell you, Joe,” here she drapes her arm around Mr. Smith, “to climb up the left leg of Ms. Roo, by any means possible, and to secure yourself inside Ms. Roo’s front pouch. Then, she’ll believe that she has retrieved her infant, and she’ll leave us peacefully. It’s that simple!”
“But why would she stop causing expensive damage to our economy,” Joseph Smith inquires, “just because I’m hiding inside of her front pouch? I don’t understand her motivation, on this occasion. Could you explain further?”
“Sure,” smiles Tara. “What I’m guessing is that Ms. Roo’s newborn was stolen from her by an intergalactic corporation; and since Earth is the headquarters of all the universe’s corporate thugs, it follows that she, our giant kangaroo from outer space, has resolved to keep hip-hopping over our prized possessions and knocking down our strip-malls until we return her beloved babe. In other words, Big Roo has come here in search of Little Roo, and if we offer her something that vaguely resembles her firstborn, she’ll leave us alone.”
“But,” I myself now ask, since I am starting to feel confused, “why not just place Little Roo himself in his mama’s front pouch. Why go to the trouble of sacrificing Enoch Metatron, who is our friend Joseph Smith here, when we could return to this wronged and enraged Extraterrestrial Kanga-Mom her actual child for whom she is searching?”
“Because the U.S. Intelligence Agencies will not reveal what they did with their victim,” Tara explains.
I gasp, “So do you think that Baby Roo is a goner?”
Tara stares at me blankly for a beat before she answers. “Did you not just hear me say that the U.S. Intel Agencies are the ones in power here?”
I hang my head; then I turn and address Joseph Smith: “It looks like you’re going into the pouch, Enoch. Are you OK with that?”
Joseph Smith sports a courageous visage: “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to save the world. So, yes, I will go. However, I do wish that I had a little more natural desire to accomplish this mission.”
“Oh, that’s easy, Joe — consider the following,” Tara sez. “As soon as Ms. Roo hops off to whatever part of the world she normally lives in, she’ll take a look inside her pouch and see you lying there asleep; and the first thing she’ll want to do is give you a bath. So you’ll get freshly baptized, thus cleansing your loathsome earthly skin away and causing you to shine again like new, as the Man of Light from Iranian Sufism. You’ll be as radiant as the unfallen Lucifer. At that point, when the ginormous Mother Kanga shields her eyes from your blinding glory, you can prophesy as follows: ‘Dear Big Roo, I once was your only begotten son, and you named me Little Roo; but now I have transmogrified into an Angel of Light, and henceforth my name will no longer be Roo but Enoch-Metatron: for I am called upon by Allah to save the Multiverse from debt-slavery. Now I need to leave my incubation chamber and go live as an Adonai on my personal Satellite.’ — At this point,” (continues Tara,) “you can fly up into the heavens and wink while waving; then navigate the zodiac back to your own planet and re-embrace all your celestial spouses.”
Joseph Smith is gazing upwards while Tara speaks, and, by the time her sermon ends, his eyes are brimming. “Thank you, Tara,” he hugs her and then kisses both of her cheeks like a Good European. “Wish me luck!” he sez to us, as he dashes off into the direction of the jumbo kangaroo that is terrorizing the globe.
§
So everything works out exactly as Tara guessed, and there is peace in all the worlds.
“Hey! Now that we know how this tragedy ended, let’s take a look at what you predicted should happen,” Tara points to the golden tablet on my forehead.
“Oh my goodness,” I laugh, “I forgot that this was even still stuck there!” — I remove the thin, oblong, gilded proposition and pass it over so that Tara can view it. She then uses her ‘newsreader’s voice’ to announce aloud the contents of my golden notecard:
BRYAN’S IDEA
I, Bryan Ray the Magician, do hereby suggest that we perform a trick on this Krazy Killer Kanga who is ruining our environment. My wish is that we would summon a stampede of blue oxen to descend from the heavens. They should prance down out of the escalier that leads from the airy fields of the Enemy Skyjacks; and we should slay them by the tens of thousands. Let us do this until we acquire enough material to make a Colossal-Kangaroo-sized Magician’s Robe out of their ox-hides. On the front of this garment, let us sew a massive pocket, which we should christen a ‘marsupium’; then, inside that compartment, we can hide our favorite character Enoch Metatron (our good friend and fellow magus, Joseph Smith).
As the final step, let us drape this oxhide outfit over Big Roo; then, while the vast beast is wearing it, we can use glow-in-the-dark frescoes to paint all the Stars of Mazzaroth upon the mantle’s blue fabric. At this point, our foe, feeling a disturbance in her garment’s pouch, will wonder where that kicking sensation is coming from, and this Krazy Killer Kanga will look inside her wizard robe and see a baby christ brewing in the womb. Then she will return to her native Star System to raise the lad, and the infant will grow up to become the legendary STALIN OOBER-MAN: our Hero of Steel, who can leap tall buildings in a single bound because he is made of equal portions of airplane and firebird.
So it turns out that my idea matches Tara’s idea to a T.
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