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Now displaying: February, 2016
Feb 18, 2016

Producer/Engineer: Bill Pollock

Editors: Sarah Rendo/Robert J. Baumann 

Cover: Rob Mitchell

George Washington Carver. America’s greatest inventor. Tesla of the Midwest. Some call him the Peanut Butter Genie. Mr. Carver spent a summer learning stenography in the Union Telegraph Building.

 

The summer of 1885 changed his life and the face of sandwiches forever.

 

Young Carver was destined to cultivate great thought from the fields of his fertile mind––but even geniuses get hungry.

 

To prepare for vast mental surveys Carver would often make bread sandwiches. One day while preparing a largely lightweight limp bread sandwich, Carver wondered if the flavor of the bread would be enhanced by a companion.

 

And so Carver began a great experiment. First he sprinkled pepper on the bread, but it made the sandwiches far too peppery. Second he sprinkled salt on the bread but it made the sandwiches far too salty. Third, he sprinkled a handsome collection of beans between the slices of bread, but it tasted like a dry soup. Slightly depressed and filled to the gills with lackluster sandwiches, he drew the curtain and fell asleep at 7:30.

 

That night, according to numerous unknown documents, Carver dreamed of a tiny peanut man working very hard in a field. In the dream, a tiny peanut man with a straw hat tilled the soil, guiding a mule and planting tiny seeds along rows that stretched for acres. After mashing the dirt on top of the seeds the peanut man waited for twenty minutes under a tree. After twenty minutes the tiny peanut man discovered rows and rows of peanut plants peaking their green beaks out of the soil.

 

The baby peanut plants screamed like thirsty babies and the peanut man began to dig furiously in the earth. He quickly unearthed an ocean of tiny peanuts tossing them into a giant peanut bag. The peanuts said, Thank you, thank you, thank you, but with so many peanuts the peanut man didn't know what to do. He had never taken care of baby peanuts before.

 

Suddenly, to the horror of the peanut man, Elmer the Mule stepped on about 24 peanuts smashing them to bits. Seconds after the crunching an old farm turtle named Rascal began to lick the smashed peanuts off the ground. The other peanuts saw this and erupted in a chorus of, Eat me, eat me, eat me, we are the delicious ones!

 

The pencil of epiphany broke in the farmer’s head and the farmer soon bashed all of the peanuts into a peanut butter paste and concealed their essence in jars.

 

When George Washington Carver woke up he knew the pencil of epiphany had broke in his head as well. Within a few decades peanut butter would become one of the most famous sandwich companions ever to be placed between bread cheeks.

Feb 18, 2016

Producer/Engineer: Bill Pollock

Editors: Sarah Rendo/Robert J. Baumann

Cover: Rob Mitchell

 

Everyone knows that Walt Disney started his first film studio in Kansas City. You’d be a stupid idiot not to. But what most people don't know is that Walt Disney left behind something behind in the Laughagram Studios.

 

Before leaving Kansas City for Hollywood, Walt Disney accidentally locked a tiny mouse in his desk drawer and not just any old mouse––Mickey Mouse.

 

The mouse that kept him company during all those restless days and sleepless nights in the studio; the lone candlelight to his genius. Disney fed Mickey Mouse with tiny crackers and ginger ale droplets. The most famous mouse in the history of famous mice left to nibble out his fortune––eternally.

 

No one knows if Mickey Mouse escaped the desk, but strange happenings have been reported ever since. The building that housed Laughagram Studios is now merely four lean walls of brick buttressed by metal supports, but there are rumors that if you walk the block at night you can hear the squeals of a dying mouse, squeals loud enough to make you lose your soup.

 

Sometimes the squeals are quiet like a secret Sunday afternoon turtle dump but they say the haunting squeals get louder with the release of Disney videos. They say that when Steamboat Willie came out you could hear the mice for days. They say it sounded like a choir of rodent banshees harmonizing at cheese practice.

 

But the most squealing of evenings is by far Walt Disney’s birthday. It's louder than a thousand jumbo mice playing the violin in a music volcano. The only way to ease Mickey Mouse's eternal pain on that most haunted of nights is to sprinkle cheese on the sidewalk in front of the building. The ghost of Mickey Mouse does not partake of the cheese at daytime, but at night he feasts on whatever cheese litters the block. Provolone, American, Velveeta, Sharp, or plain old stinky catfish cheese––it doesn't matter: the ghost of Mickey Mouse isn't too picky.

 

If you listen very carefully you can hear Mickey Mouse saying, Thank you folks, for even the daintiest of imitation cheese crumbles.

Feb 18, 2016

Producer/Engineer: Bill Pollock

Editors: Sarah Rendo/Robert J. Baumann

Cover: Rob Mitchell

These spine-tinglers are the outcome of years of research and a lifetime of speculation. It is my personal belief and professional opinion that they are the scariest stories in the history of the world.

Take heed-- these spine-tinglers are full of blood, sweat, tears, hotdogs, hamburgers, circus, horse pelts, rascals, extinct parakeets, Donnie Turtle, cemeteries, grave robbers, ghouls, ghosts, trains, guns, wranglers, bank robbers, mice, baseballs, piglets, architects, activist birders, troll goblins, feathers, boots, calendars, napkins, candles, shitheads, dog murderers, shovel thieves, toasting bread, beekeepers, corn chips, Donnie Turtle, peanut butter genies, betrayal, burritos of redemption, toots, turds, doo-doo boys, and all of the invisible words that you, dear reader, provide between the lines.

 

And so I ask, are you prepared to be mentally jostled? Do you like that stuff?

 

Good. Nay - Great! There’s plenty of it and it’s stacked on pallets eight feet tall and our storage facilities are equipped to ship them out from the spine-tingler warehouse pronto.

 

And spine-tinglers only come in three sizes: grande, muy grande and jumbo grande.

And like I said previously, in the earlier part of this statement, just a few seconds prior to the elusive present, I’ve hounded the earth flat hunting down the marbled slabs of tingle and chipping the spines down to the marrow of their horror I hope you like them, and I know that you’ll like them but if you don’t like them -- that’s okay -- you and your misery will soon be parted -- because these spine-tinglers have been constructed in a fashion akin to church farts, a taboo soon fading from the nostrils and ears but forever wedging themselves between heart and memory.

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