"Welcome to Butterfly Springs, Rob," Greg says, gesturing expansively at the lush rolling plain before us. "Where we help mankind acheive the impossible!"
"Nice," I say, not really sure where to go from there. "Um...pretty."
"I know, I know," Greg says, starting a slow amble down a dirt path I assume leads to the farm house, or a barn, or something.
"You're wondering how we help people acheive the impossible," he continues.
"I assume you've got some kind of crop," I say, matching his leisurely pace on the path.
"Sort of," he says. "I do call it a farm in the paperwork, but it's really more of a livestock thing."
He chuckles to himself, and then stage-whispers "don't tell The Goiters I said that, though."
I take a beat trying to figure out if I've mis-heard him, but eventually give in.
"The Goiters?" I ask.
He nods. "You know, the big bloated throat things people get? Enlarged thyroid?" he says.
"I know what they are," I say. "Doesn't help."
"Sorry, sorry," he says. "It's not like we have herds of ambulatory glands grazing around."
I wait, trying to give him my best "get to the point" look.
"That would be cool, though," he says, laughing. "But no. We just have people here, people with goiters."
I stop. "People?" I say, turning to look at him. "You're farming, excuse me, herding people?"
"They're very happy," he says.
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can formulate an argument as to why people really shouldn't be treated as livestock, Greg puts up a hand.
"I'm kidding," he says, in a drawn out, can't-you-take-a-joke way.
"Butterfly Springs is the world's largest endocrine bottler, Rob," he says, pride evident in his voice.
The look of indignation on my face curdles into confusion at what feels like an obvious and baffling non-sequitur, and I can't help looking around for the crew of some hidden camera prank show.
"We're farming the people's thyroids," he says. "Not the people themselves. They're like the land we grow our crop on."
"Er," I say. "Um..."
"They are well compensated," he says.
"Well that's...good," I say. "Right?"
"Look at this," he says, pulling a foil package out of his pocket and unwrapping it to expose a pale gray rod. It looks like a candy bar made out of modeling clay.
I shrug, still a little concerned about the herd of people with enormous goiters hidden somewhere nearby.
"Pure white phosphorus," he says, smiling.
"Okay," I say. "I guess I believe you."
"Well," he continues. "Okay, not pure, exactly. There's some cheese in this one, mixed in for flavor, but everything else is pure phosphorus."
"Flavor?" I ask. "People eat this?"
"That's right," he says, beaming. "Impossible, right?"
"Isn't phosphorus poisonous?" I ask. "Radioactive, or something?"
"Not when you're drinking farm-fresh calcitonin," he says. "Milked daily from the goiters of healthy Swedes."
"Ah," I say, because my mouth will make no other noise.
"Check it," he says, and takes a big bite of the pale mass. He chews widely, his mouth open, and I can see the material glow faintly in the darkness of his mouth.
"Eating just this much would kill anyone not enhanced with my endocrine beverages," he says, wincing a little as he swallows. "I'm a freaking super-hero, Rob!"
"It doesn't...er...burn?" I manage to mutter.
"Nah," he says, taking another bite. "Not with the cheese mixed in. Tastes seriously nasty plain, though, so you wouldn't want to eat pure phosphorus, even without the, you know, chemical burn."
"But why would you even..." I say.
"Oh!" he interrupts, suddenly remembering something. "And your poo smokes, like it's on fire! It's awesome!"
I stare for a minute, and he takes another bite.
"I can't believe I forgot that," he says, shaking his head in amused exasperation while he chews. "It's the best part."
"Nice," I say, not really sure where to go from there. "Um...pretty."
"I know, I know," Greg says, starting a slow amble down a dirt path I assume leads to the farm house, or a barn, or something.
"You're wondering how we help people acheive the impossible," he continues.
"I assume you've got some kind of crop," I say, matching his leisurely pace on the path.
"Sort of," he says. "I do call it a farm in the paperwork, but it's really more of a livestock thing."
He chuckles to himself, and then stage-whispers "don't tell The Goiters I said that, though."
I take a beat trying to figure out if I've mis-heard him, but eventually give in.
"The Goiters?" I ask.
He nods. "You know, the big bloated throat things people get? Enlarged thyroid?" he says.
"I know what they are," I say. "Doesn't help."
"Sorry, sorry," he says. "It's not like we have herds of ambulatory glands grazing around."
I wait, trying to give him my best "get to the point" look.
"That would be cool, though," he says, laughing. "But no. We just have people here, people with goiters."
I stop. "People?" I say, turning to look at him. "You're farming, excuse me, herding people?"
"They're very happy," he says.
I open my mouth to speak, but before I can formulate an argument as to why people really shouldn't be treated as livestock, Greg puts up a hand.
"I'm kidding," he says, in a drawn out, can't-you-take-a-joke way.
"Butterfly Springs is the world's largest endocrine bottler, Rob," he says, pride evident in his voice.
The look of indignation on my face curdles into confusion at what feels like an obvious and baffling non-sequitur, and I can't help looking around for the crew of some hidden camera prank show.
"We're farming the people's thyroids," he says. "Not the people themselves. They're like the land we grow our crop on."
"Er," I say. "Um..."
"They are well compensated," he says.
"Well that's...good," I say. "Right?"
"Look at this," he says, pulling a foil package out of his pocket and unwrapping it to expose a pale gray rod. It looks like a candy bar made out of modeling clay.
I shrug, still a little concerned about the herd of people with enormous goiters hidden somewhere nearby.
"Pure white phosphorus," he says, smiling.
"Okay," I say. "I guess I believe you."
"Well," he continues. "Okay, not pure, exactly. There's some cheese in this one, mixed in for flavor, but everything else is pure phosphorus."
"Flavor?" I ask. "People eat this?"
"That's right," he says, beaming. "Impossible, right?"
"Isn't phosphorus poisonous?" I ask. "Radioactive, or something?"
"Not when you're drinking farm-fresh calcitonin," he says. "Milked daily from the goiters of healthy Swedes."
"Ah," I say, because my mouth will make no other noise.
"Check it," he says, and takes a big bite of the pale mass. He chews widely, his mouth open, and I can see the material glow faintly in the darkness of his mouth.
"Eating just this much would kill anyone not enhanced with my endocrine beverages," he says, wincing a little as he swallows. "I'm a freaking super-hero, Rob!"
"It doesn't...er...burn?" I manage to mutter.
"Nah," he says, taking another bite. "Not with the cheese mixed in. Tastes seriously nasty plain, though, so you wouldn't want to eat pure phosphorus, even without the, you know, chemical burn."
"But why would you even..." I say.
"Oh!" he interrupts, suddenly remembering something. "And your poo smokes, like it's on fire! It's awesome!"
I stare for a minute, and he takes another bite.
"I can't believe I forgot that," he says, shaking his head in amused exasperation while he chews. "It's the best part."
Whoa. Like whoa.
Posted by: flyyhigh | March 25, 2008 at 04:25 AM
Just because: the Swedish word for "thyroid" is "sköldkörtel".
"And your poo smokes"? Good grief. If you'll excuse me, I'm crawling back down into the basement abattoir of "The Quilted Bear".
Posted by: Marcus Aurelius | March 25, 2008 at 09:37 AM
I'm with you, Marcus Aurelius. I'll bring the popcorn.
Posted by: Q | March 25, 2008 at 01:48 PM
Heh. Heh.
Is it just me, or has the concept of *herding people* suddenly become normal?
Posted by: Bohae | March 27, 2008 at 09:37 PM
I just checked in again after your surgery. Welcome back.
Posted by: Stubby LaRue | March 28, 2008 at 04:26 PM
"And your poo smokes."
What, is it not supposed to or something?
Posted by: Burning | March 29, 2008 at 04:24 PM