DEBOARDING THE REFUSE REGENT…
Barney Cull: Tonight, we have a special show. It’s the story of how our guest here, Mike Morose, who finally got off of a deserted island. But first Mike, don’t look so surnamed, cheer up, you made it back! Your saga is quite interesting, to say the least. If we have time this evening we’ll explore that fascinating rescue, and, if not, you’re my guest next week as well. Can you please give me and our viewers background on how you even found yourself stranded?
Mike: Barney, may I say it’s also great to be back in a room that doesn’t sway from left to right. First, yes, the necessary specifics here so people can understand what went wrong. Then I’ll explain as to why I did not get initially rescued off of that “Isle of Spit”. Eventually of course I did at last abandon the hut. I first took my turn on the Refuse Regent as others before me. Its purpose is two-fold. One is that it grants a decent burial at sea for biodegradable trash. And that is noble. One does not need to suffer the indignity of approaching one’s end open to the naked sky and many a gull on a Mississippi barge. Even Les Ordures deserves better. Secondly is where I come in. The Regent is operated by an enterprise called “RIPP TIDE”. And that stands for Rest In Perpetual Peace…Tide. I was the only person on this remotely piloted craft, this huge cruise ship. I was fully dressed in the regalia of a “Grief Steward”. My job was to kindly knock on all 1,500 cabins, and, when there was no answer, to gently enter and remove that garbage. I would then take perhaps a dozen or so bags and tether them to a line and toss them over the stern of the ship. Doing this over and over helped me “dispose” of undealt with and unprocessed grief by parking it into the great deep-never to be retrieved. So, it was both an ecological and emotional release of sorts.
Now, to be brief about this, well, in the midst of discharging another group of memories, I understandably went “reverie”. I then lost my attention and accidentally wrapped the rope around my own wrist. As I flung the malodorous herd, I passed them and entered the drink. Thank Goodness my waterproofed cargo pants had a cell phone pocket.
Finally swimming ashore, I collapsed on what I Christened as “Mike-Cronesia”. As I pulled out my phone, incredibly I still had 1 bar of charge left and decided to order my last meal. I determined it would be pizza. However, I made the mistake of making it pickup and not delivery and the bar vanished. A jet ski with the anchovies held could’ve had me booked with you a year ago. Next week I can pickup as to how I returned…
DANIEL HOLLORAN, AUTHOR OF: HE STICKETH CLOSER AND INDANDESCENCE
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