Doc Stanley

Buttmarten Begins by Doc Stanley
“Sodom and begorrah,” ejaculated the chef. “Pardon my french, but quelle que chose sur le fuck, ne pas?”
Something had gone horribly awry. One minute, Barton Butmarten had been whipping up a batch of gruel souffle, and the next, the 17th century gourmand du monde had been flung forward through the Space-Time and Reason-Rhyme Continui, respectively.
Landing with a P-THUNK on a pink couch, Buttmarten found himself watching in horror and amusement as a gang of animate broomsticks brutally buggered and savagely sodomized an adorable anthropomorphic mouse, who for some reason was dressed in wizard’s robes. It was a scene the likes of which Barton had not seen since his visit to the very gayest parts of gay Paree several years ago.
“I knew I should have used buttermilk instead of margarinemilk,” Buttmarten thought to himself. “Well, I guess I might as well rescue the rodent.”
Barton Buttmarten grabbed Mickey (for that’s in fact who it was) by the ear, and they hopped into a conveniently waiting pushcart. Soon they were barreling down Brown Boulevard. A quick right on Rue d’Poo-poo, then a left, and they were speeding down the Hershey Highway.
As Buttmarten stitched up the mouse’s anus, using one of his shoelaces, Mickey explained that he had been imprisioned in the Dimension of All-Anal Action by none other than the nefarious Screwtoons McFoolery, the dirtiest perv in the galaxy, and that they had better be on the lookout for his minions.
But weeks later, lost somewhere in the All-Anal sticks, they still hadn’t seen any sign of Screwtoon’s goons. Mickey’s anal bleeding had subsided a good bit over the past couple of weeks, but Barton was still concerned. He had recommended a hot poultice, but the mouse had preferred the Anal-eez.
“I’m working on an unctment I do say you’ll find posifizzily peachy,” mentioned Barton Buttmarten, buttoning his wainscotting against the harsh interstellar winds. “It would combinate the well-observed lesion-sealing and prophylactic properties of petroleum products with something a little closer to home. There’s no mess, and I’m initially thinking of offering it in a Mutton and Rice flavor and a smokin Jalapeno and Brie blend. If only there were an epicurean greengrocers in this godforsaken neck of space. There’s not even a newsstand. What I wouldn’t give even for a copy of Entertainment Weekly.”
“Man, damn,” concurred Mickey. “If I had a magazine I would read the fuck out of it right about now.”
Indeed, this neck of space was not only empty, but foreboding as hell. Maybe there was a reason they hadn’t been followed. In fact, this neck of space was like the face of the abyss if that face had neglected to use a good exfoliating cream and had grown thick with blackheads and rosacea.
Somewhere in the not-too-distant distance, a zit burst, spattering Barton and Mickey with pus.
Mickey wiped the slime off his ear with a spotted hand-kercheif. “There’s only one thing so foul and unnatural that could lay waste to space like this,” mused Mickey.
“The dagnabbed duo of Zombie-Anna-Nicole-Smith and Jason-Alexander-with-a-Vagina?” Barton Buttmarten asked.
“Yes!” exclaimed Mickey Mouse, holding a finger aloft. “No. Granted, they could make a whole Sectar smell like a beached whale at low tide just by thinking about it. But could they be responsible for such pustulence.” He held out his rag for Barton to inspect.
Barton Buttmarten screwed in his monocle. “Considering the viscosity and thermal breakdown of this substrate, I would have to concur. But what in god’s creation could it be?”
“Nothing in God’s creation. No. Something this abhorrent could only be envisioned by the publishing conglomerate of Fitch, Schmidt & Schifflet – the same ones responsible for the undying stream of raw sewage that we call The Family Circus.”
“Egads, ye gods!” Buttmarted cried. “What pustulence could come from the dark hand behind The Family Circus?”
“You see boss,” Mickey explained as he wiped a gob of mentholyptus anal-eez off a fat white finger, “it’s like this. You know how they’re keeping Bill Keene and that wretched filth who writes B.C. cryogenetically subspended in anathema in order to stimulate the few working neurons in their brains into producing an endless torrent of self-same family-oriented puke? Well, they were going to do the same to Charles Schultz, but he escaped from the robots and spent the last years of his life in the Netherlands, smoking hash with Arlo Guthrie and Woody Harrelson. They said he died, of course, just like they tried to get us to believe that it was al Qaida and not Dick Cheney and H. Mellon Scaife who blew up the Twin Towers. But anyone with access to the internet knew better. That was, of course, before they turned the internet off permanently. (This mentholyptus stuff really hits the spot by the way. Much better than the banana stuff we got back in New Seattle.) But you see, even though Schultz himself remained in hiding, the goons of Fitch, Schmidt and Schifflet dug up the corpse of Charlie Brown and brought him back to their masters who planned to reanimate the baldy using robot voodoo power and turn him into a zomborg. But the experiment went horribly awry…”
“Egads and egg nads!” Buttmarten ejaculated. “Let me guess – instead of using extra-virgin olive oil, they used regular corn oil?”
“Worse,” Mickey’s voice began to quaver. “They used ultra-hydrogenated shitflower oil they stole from the grease-trap behind Wendy’s.”
And before the chef could respond, the he and his friend found themselves falling down an ass-aroma’ed crevace – a wormhole made by the poopworms of the Stool Sectar.
“Aaaiieeee!!!”

Gruel Souffle

This light and fluffy gruel dish will bring out the starving peasant in everyone.
· 12 Cups Groats
· 6 Mouldy Potatoes, small
· 1 Dead Rat, large
· 6 Pair Dirty Socks (for seasoning>
· Assorted Leather Scraps
· 6 Grouse Eggs
· 6 tbsp Flour
· 1 Stick Sweet Cream Butter
· 3 Cups Buttermilk
· 3 Cups Groulier Cheese
The day before you plan to serve the souffle, beging to prepare the gruel by boiling the Groats, Dead Rat, Dirty Socks, and Leather Scraps in a large metal cauldron. This is important, as otherwise the leather and the rat will be tough and inedible.
The next afternoon, add the Potatoes to the gruel, and begin to prepare the souffle by buttering up an earthenware casserole dish, and heating the Buttermilk. Prepare a roux by melting the butter, and beating in flour until it browns. Beat vigorously, the way you would beat a child, or you will “roux” the day you tried to make this souffle.
Once the roux is ready, add to the warmed buttermilk. To this concoction, stir in the yolks from the Grouse Eggs, followed by the Goulier, until you have a delicious cheese sauce. Now comes the tricky part. You may wish to fish the socks out of the gruel at this time as a way of procrastinating the step you are sure to ass up. Now …
Beat those eggwhites like a motherfucker!
At this point, chastise yourself for not getting the eggwhites fluffy enough, then gently fold in the cheese sauce and the gruel. Bake for 35 minutes, and – voila! – you now have a delicious Gruel Souffle.

Bedlam in Bed-Stuy
(When last we left our virtuous epicure and his red-knicker’d rodent companion, they had just made their escape from The Dimension of All-Anal Action, only to stumble upon a Sectar of space that had been decimated by the Abominable Charlie Brown, a zomborg created by the nefarious Fitch, Schmidt, and Schifflet. However, before the pair could come up with a plan, they found themselves falling through a poopwormhole.)

“…iieeee!” contintued the compatriots, as they fell. Mickey Mouse had said something about Fitch, Schmidt, and Schifflet being behind the creation of the Abominable Charlie Brown. Why did those names ring a bell? Did it have something to do with that secret society, Ornithicus Obscuro, that Barton had infiltrated, having heard that they had the recipe for the omelette that jesus had eaten at The Last Breakfast? But for some reason, there was a fuzzy spot in Msr. Buttmarten’s memory in the days around the accident that had sent him into The Dimension of All-Anal Action. He remembered grabbing Mickey and making a run for it, but there was something before …
For his part, Mickey Mouse was about to mention that on a couple of occasions he thought he’d overheard his captor, the evil Screwtoons McFoolery, on the phone with someone from Fitch, Schmidt, and Schifflet. He was about to mention it to his rescuer, when he hit the ground face-first – that is, if by “ground,” you mean a pyramid of leaking garbage bags piled on the curb and swarming with flies. Buttmarten followed a second or two behind.
It was summertime, and by the stink, Barton knew that they had landed in beautiful New York, NY – specifically (if a nearby streetsign were to be believed, and why wouldn’t it?) on Bedford Ave. in Brooklyn, probably in the neighborhood of Bed-Stuy. Barton understood all of this, despite the fact that he had never heard of New York City, it having been founded by the frigging Dutch only a few years prior to the accident that had sent the 17th Century gourmand tumbling through time apparently, as well as space. But then again, he’d always been precocious. (He also was able to transmogrify himself and those around him into a variety of small birds – a gift he’d shared with no one, save his mother, fearing he might be hanged for witchcraft.)
Barton Buttmarten picked himself up from the urine-braised sidewalk, calculating by the thoroughness of saturation the half-life of the aroma to be 225 years, give or take a couple decades. He also realized that through coincidence or divine providence, the constellation of blackened gum he had landed upon formed an exact 4:1 replica of the moles on his mistress’s back. But she was long gone, killed in the accident that had flung her lover into The Dimension of All-Anal Action and the lands beyond. Barton would never see her or the Belgium he knew again, and the knowlege made his memory bittersweet. The gum, too, was bittersweet; however, its bittersweetness stemmed from the adulteration of its natural sweetness with whatever had also made it turn black.
The chef spit out the piece of gum he had scraped off the sidewalk back whence it had come, and looked to see if Mickey was okay. A coffee filter hung over one ear and there were several gargantuan cockroaches crawling over his back, but he seemed to be none the worse for wear.
“Well I’ll be pickled and dipped in shit!” Mickey tittered. “You can still kind of taste the mint on this dental floss.”
“Nay, perhaps not,” commented Buttmarten, noticing the greasy stain on the front of the mouse’s knickers. “It looks like you just landed on your Anal-eez and it burst.”
This, of course, constituted a crisis of epicurean proportions, a true fecalamity, as Mickey Mouse was still reeling rectally from his stint in The Dimension of All Anal Action. Now was the time for a different type of anal action – the kind that soothes as it cures! Only, being unfamiliar with this part of Brooklyn, the duo was unsure where to look for the ointment.
Barton raised a finger in the air.
Nothing happened.
Mickey picked a booger and ate it.
“Well,” said Barton, “I guess it just goes to show that the old chestnut about not being able to pick your friend’s nose is a horse cart of beetle dung.” A laugh track rang in the distance and Stradivartius paused for comic effect. “So how do my boogers taste, ol chum?”
“Bu-bu-bu-boogeriffic!” Mickey Mouse squealed.
And still they waited. A taxi drove by; a pair of pigeons pecked at the garbage; a subway rattled in the distance; someone threw a bottle at the two of them and it shattered on the street in front of them. Still Msr. Buttmarten did not lower his raised finger.
Finally, after what seemed like weeks, but was only really about a day and a half, they were sauntered up to by a young youth in a white-on-white NY Yankees cap worn “Cleveland-style” (that is to say with the brim completely flat), which was placed atop a red-on-red NY Yankees cap, also worn in the style of that fair Ohioan city, but rotated 60 degrees from the white cap.
“What up, rat?” the newcomer addressed Mickey.
“My good sir,” intoned Stradivartius, “we require dire anal assistance. My travelling companion received recently a nearsome fatal rectal reamery at the hands of the nafarious Screwtoons McFoolery, a brutal bebuggering to be sure, and it would behoove us muchforsooth if ye would kindwillingly point us to the most forthwith purveyory of that most unctuous liniment, Anal-eez?”
Dub-C (as he was known, due to the Double Cleveland caps that were his trademark) rolled a toothpick from the right to the left side of his mouth and said nothing.
The silence had just grown awkward, when in the distance could be heard an enormous belch; and though it was blocks away, it’s odor drifted to them on the wind – a smell of cabbage farts, “High Gravity” malt liquor, and halitosis. It could only be the Abominable Charlie Brown, robbed from the grave to wreak havok on Bed-Stuy. Barton Buttmarten had not trained in the nasal arts under the tutelage of olfactory grand master Pierre le Boeuff for nothing. Each chamber of his sinuses was like a mobile chemical lab or a fortress of solitude or a gang of bloodhounds or a gang of bloodworms or a gang of poopworms or …
But Mickey Mouse was tugging at Barton’s sleeve, pulling him out of his reverie. “I think Dub-C is about to punch you in the face,” commented the rodent. “I don’t think he understood a word you said, and there’s no way we can face the Abominable Charlie Brown with my anus the size of a pie tin and your face looking like a side of ground beef.”

(Are our heroes lost? Will they defeat the Abominable Charlie Brown? Will Mickey Mouse’s anus ever stop bleeding? Does anyone care? Tune in next week for another pants-pissing pulse-pounding episode of The Odd Oddyssey of Barton Buttmarten, and you may or may not find out the answers to these questions and more.)