It pleases us to announce that this blog’s most popular (and only) guest author — the esteemed “Dr. Swinefat Pink” — is making another guest appearance. Yes, dear reader, this is what you’ve been waiting for — the next installment of GULLIKIN’S ISLAND. The pilot program can be read here: GULLIKIN’S ISLAND, by Dr. Swinefat Pink. It is with considerable pleasure that we bring you:
THE STORY SO FAR: The Disco’Tooters have managed to shipwreck themselves in the middle of Puget Sound and are marooned on Blake Island, separated from the mainland by a full mile and constantly buzzed by aircraft on final approach into Sea-Tac Airport. But with pluck and determination, the Tooters are determined not only to survive, but ultimately to rescue the rest of the world from the perils of evil scientism for the greater glory of Intelligent Design Theory. In record time, they have improvised their own ‘airport’ out of bamboo and driftwood. Now read on …
THE PROFESSOR DREW ANOTHER CIRCLE on the box, wrote the word ‘ON’ within it, and proudly showed his handiwork to the Skipper, who was seated beside him in the bamboo control ‘tower’.
“There we go! Our new radio — and so simple, even an idiot can operate it” beamed the Professor.
“And I know just the man for the job,” said the Skipper, poking his head out the unglazed window of the control hut. “Oh Gullikin! We need you!”
“Aye aye, Skipper!” chirped Gullikin, who was sitting on the beach intently scratching a coconut with the tip of a nail file. “Be with you in just in a minute.”
“What are you doing there, little buddy?”
Gullikin gushed, “I’ve started writing a clog, Skipper!That’s a log written on a coconut; I’m a real-life clogger now! I scratch messages about how wrong-headed materialist Darwinists are, and toss them into the sound to be washed up on the mainland.”
“Good thinking, Gullikin,” said the Professor. “But we need you to man the radio. Any minute now, we’ll be getting requests from the big magic birds to land here and deliver no end of goodies for us! It’s very simple to use, just press the ‘ON’ button here. Other instructions are printed on the side.”
Gullikin carefully took the cardboard radio and started to read aloud. “One serving (3 oz) of Corn Flakes contains the following: Energy 1562 kJ, 369 kcal, Fat 2.2 g, of which saturates, 0.5g — what does all this mean, Professor?”
“Don’t worry about what it means,” said the Professor. “What matters is, it sounds nice and sciencey!” And he placed the headphones, fashioned out of two conch shells glued to either end of a bamboo rod and a length of vine, over Gullikin’s ears.
“Ooo, I hear something already!” exclaimed Gullikin. “It’s … the sea!”
“What’s it saying?”
“Swish…swish…swish…boom…Boom…BOOM…BOOM!” Alarmed, Gullikin pulled off the conch-shell headphones.
But the ‘BOOM’ wasn’t in the headphones — it was an unmistakable drumbeat coming from the other side of the island! The Tooters looked at one another apprehensively.
“I don’t like the sound of this, Professor!” cried the Captain. “What is it?”
“I don’t know, but it might be … savage cannibals on our island! We better go have a look-see.”
“Not me!” shrieked Gullikin in his gerbil chirps, “I’m allergic to cannibals!”
“Don’t worry, little buddy,” reassured the Skipper, “we’ll send Klingy; he can out-savage a honey badger!”
And so it was that a short while later ABP (Able-Bodied Pooflinger) Klingy was creeping through the underbrush toward the mysterious BOOM! BOOMs! But he had been creeping for scarcely ten minutes before he found himself, as he entered a small clearing, suddenly in the middle of a circle of bristling spear points brandished by a band of savage cannibals!
Quicker than he could say “complex specified information,” our Klingy was trussed up, suspended under a pole, and carried away to the cannibal village on the far side of the island (about a quarter of a mile away).
Arriving at the village, Klingy, still upside down, could see a huge metal cauldron bubbling away on a fire tended by the elderly Cannibal Chieftain.
“G’day, sport!” said the Chieftain as Klingy was unceremoniously dropped to the ground. “Thought you’d do a runner and escape from our — s’truth!” he suddenly exclaimed to his tribesmen. “And stone the crows, fellas! This ain’t the Science Bloke!”
Klingy, freeing himself from the ropes and staggering to his feet, was irreducibly perplexed. “I am a science guy!” he cried, before asking the Chieftain: “But who are you?”
“I’m Crocoduck Hamdee, Chief Missionary of the Answers in Guinnesses Ministry; this is my flock of tamed cannibals.”
“Tamed cannibals?”
“That’s right, they don’t eat us missionaries anymore — they feed us, instead,” explained Hamdee, patting the bulging wallet in his back pocket. “’Course, we still believe in the good old traditional ways, it’s just that now they’ve been taught to dine on scientists instead of missionaries. And we had lured the Science Bloke himself to join us in a big blow-out debate feast, on a live broadcast — but somehow, he bedazzled us with some bollocks about a fish that has sex with itself and he slipped through our net! Leaves me looking a right bloody pillock!”
“That is sad,” commiserated Klingy.
“Well, it was — but you say you’re a science guy? You’ll do.” And then, turning to his tribesmen, Hamdee declared, “Get ready for dinner, lads!”
“But…but…” spluttered Klingy. “When I said I was a science guy, I didn’t mean a real science guy! I’m a cdesign proponentsist!”
“You mean, you’re a Creationist?”
“No!” ejaculated Klingy. “I mean … well, in a manner of speaking, yes, but … Intelligent Design isn’t anything at all like Creationism … except when it is … but, really, it’s entirely not precisely the same but in an indistinguishably not very different sort of explanatory filtered complex specified way, if you follow my drift.”
“I don’t follow, sport,” said Hamdee. The he turned to his tribesmen, “C’mon, lads, dinner time!”
Klingy desperately pleaded, “But we Tooters prey on science, too! And then we pray to the powers of Oogity-Boogity, just like you!” And at the sound of that Mighty Name, all the cannibals instantly froze in amazement.
“You’re an Oogity-Boogity-ite?” But Hamdee wasn’t convinced. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place, cobber? Tell me: do fish sin?”
Klingy looked perplexed.
“Well, do you ever have sex with fish?”
“No!” cried Klingy.
Hamdee wasn’t convinced. “Ever think about it?”
“Absolutely not!” insisted Klingy. And, with the biggest puppy dog eyes he could muster, he added, “Would I lie to you?”
“I dunno, sport,” replied Crocoduck Hamdee. “Tell you what: D’ya fancy a debate on that topic?”
EPILOGUE: Will Klingy end up as a viable amuse bouche at the AiG Cannibals’ feast? Will Hamdee and the ID Tooters be able to co-habit in one Big Tent? Will anyone read Gullikin’s clogs? Will the Professor’s bamboo radar dish win the coveted Sensor of the Year Award? Will Darwinism survive to the end of the month? Will there be a next episode of Gullikin’s Island? Find out in the next episode!
Copyright © 2014. The Sensuous Curmudgeon. All rights reserved.
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
• 
The Sensuous Curmudgeon 
Dear SC:
Thanks for the episodes. I needed to loose some weight and I just laughed my ass off. Keep up the good work.
Biokid says: “Keep up the good work.”
It’s not my work. Really.
I’m waiting for the episode where Klingy is sexually assaulted by an amorous geoduck (that’s pronounced “gooey-duck”) — a clam with an enormous siphon that would have made John Holmes blanch with envy.
longshadow has alerted us to the geoduck, a
Olivia is underwhelmed; apparently, I am the envy of geoducks.
SC asks: “Will Klingy end up as a viable amuse bouche[?]”
SC – Please watch your language! There may be impressionable young children reading your blog in Quebec.
Turns out the geoduck is the mascot of Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington. Check it out: https://evergreen.edu/geoduck/