Friday nights at Think-A-Holic Lounge are just as notorious as Friday nights at most singles bars everywhere for expecting the unexpected. Back on Earth, people who've worked hard all week long like to let their hair down after the sun goes down and everybody expects that.People want to act up or hook up or blow off some steam or just have fun after a week of hard work. Think-A-Holic Lounge is no exception. In fact, having no actual position in space makes this particular cosmic watering hole all the more interesting, if not downright dangerous at times. This past Friday night, Betelgeuse Time, one of those rare "Blob People" dropped in for a wee dram and a bubbly chaser. And, no doubt, to have a lot of fun at someone else's expense, naturally.
"What's your name?" it said to me as soon as it plopped down from out of nowhere right beside my half-full schooner of Buxx Brew, the solar suds that makes all females in the universe look like Ernest Borgnine. We drink it for our own good when the best time for "lounge lizardry" is not quite upon us.
Anyway, the blob thing's voice sounded more male than female and I reacted rather poorly to this sudden "blobby intrusion". But it wasn't because a blob person plopped down beside me. That happens all the time in cosmic watering holes, especially a hangout for publishing outcasts. POD authors like me are notorious for attracting more trouble than dollars. It's a known fact, even on Earth.
And I wasn't put off by the fact that a blob guy had plopped down beside me instead of a blob gal because they have no interest in the gender game the way we play it. Thank heavens for that. Their "unions" are more mental, if not spiritual, and that's truly remarkable in a species that still has to crawl on its belly. In fact, true blobs don't reproduce at all. They're all immortal and live forever. No, the reason I reacted poorly had to do with a rather unpleasant experience about two-and-half solar years ago.
"Before I answer that," I said, recovering from the unsettling notion that a security blob from the past had sought me out for more scrutiny, "are you in any way related to a blob named Oozee?"
"Nope," said the blob thing.
"You don't work for Angus, then?" I was determined to get to the bottom of this blasted blob business, once and for all.
"What's an Angus?" asked the blob guy.
"Never mind," I said, convinced that this new blob was not hired to see if I was stealing our big-ass bartender's precious tips. "I'm called Jonco Bugos." I wanted to shake hands but true blobs don't have any hands.
"Never heard of you," he said, probably meaning well, but the dig was in and it smarted a little. I let it slide.
"What's your name, pal?" I asked, feeling the think-a-hol I'd been knocking back starting to seethe up on me.
"Billy Blob," he said. "I'm looking for this blob gal they call Blobbie Betts. She's my steady gal blob but she thinks she can drop in any old place at any old time and I told her that's not what commitment is all about."
"Haven't seen her," I lied, when in fact I just saw Blobbie Betts bop out the back door a solar hour ago with this big dumb blob from out of town. "What you need, buddy, is a couple shots of think-a-hol and a big-ass schooner of Buxx Brew. Trust me, things'll look much better in the morning."
That seemed to perk Billy Blob right up and he even sprung for a big basket of scorching hot Buffalo Wings, which are about the only thing in the entire universe that's exactly the same in taverns all across the cosmos, no matter where or when you happen to drop in.
And I wasn't put off by the fact that a blob guy had plopped down beside me instead of a blob gal because they have no interest in the gender game the way we play it. Thank heavens for that. Their "unions" are more mental, if not spiritual, and that's truly remarkable in a species that still has to crawl on its belly. In fact, true blobs don't reproduce at all. They're all immortal and live forever. No, the reason I reacted poorly had to do with a rather unpleasant experience about two-and-half solar years ago.
"Before I answer that," I said, recovering from the unsettling notion that a security blob from the past had sought me out for more scrutiny, "are you in any way related to a blob named Oozee?"
"Nope," said the blob thing.
"You don't work for Angus, then?" I was determined to get to the bottom of this blasted blob business, once and for all.
"What's an Angus?" asked the blob guy.
"Never mind," I said, convinced that this new blob was not hired to see if I was stealing our big-ass bartender's precious tips. "I'm called Jonco Bugos." I wanted to shake hands but true blobs don't have any hands.
"Never heard of you," he said, probably meaning well, but the dig was in and it smarted a little. I let it slide.
"What's your name, pal?" I asked, feeling the think-a-hol I'd been knocking back starting to seethe up on me.
"Billy Blob," he said. "I'm looking for this blob gal they call Blobbie Betts. She's my steady gal blob but she thinks she can drop in any old place at any old time and I told her that's not what commitment is all about."
"Haven't seen her," I lied, when in fact I just saw Blobbie Betts bop out the back door a solar hour ago with this big dumb blob from out of town. "What you need, buddy, is a couple shots of think-a-hol and a big-ass schooner of Buxx Brew. Trust me, things'll look much better in the morning."
That seemed to perk Billy Blob right up and he even sprung for a big basket of scorching hot Buffalo Wings, which are about the only thing in the entire universe that's exactly the same in taverns all across the cosmos, no matter where or when you happen to drop in.
