As the prophets had foretold, three teachers gathered unto a Study Hall: the inevitable questioner,
the great arguer, and the exalted teacher of wisdom. The three wrote upon the holy notebook pages with
hands that were neither holy nor unholy, but surely guided by the Pickle’s everlasting wisdom
(and foolishness), also as foretold by the prophets from the future. Surprisingly, being from the
future, the prophets hath not foretold that one of the three would, also in the future, compile these
writings into typewritten form for safekeeping, then lose them for 20 years, then find them again,
and then lose them again, only to find them once more — part of the great circle of finding and
Even more surprising to the future prophets, this same one, one of the original three who doth not
have knowledge anymore of the Greater Two, even later in the future set about to post these writings
online. Once this had happened, the prophets verily admitted privately to one another that they had
never been prophets at all, but only people who had heard by word of mouth one thing or another about
three guys in high school who had written about the Pickle and its/his/her cohorts.
These collected writings appear below, with as much accuracy as can be expected of aged and
oft-recopied religious documents, but with yet more accuracy than that, because: computers. Portions
in [square brackets] show differences between the original handwritten manuscripts and the original
typed manuscript[s]. Italicized notes in [square brackets] indicate later notes and
The Annals Of The Pickle, Etc.
Written and composed by:
The exalted Teacher of Wisdom: Father Aphrodite,
The Great Arguer: Lord Winston O’Boogie, and
The Inevitable Questioner: hay-soos
[Here, it must be noted that “Winston O’Boogie” was sometimes also
known as “Maurice”, and at other times known as “Lord Buttfly” or
“Doctor Doodles”, and at even stranger times “Lord ‘Maurice’
Buttfly”, yet these names are entirely unrelated to the following arguments,
teachings, sayings, revelations, and outright falsehoods (many of which are entirely true), but
must be mentioned because they were Written On The Pages. It must also be noted that
“Father Aphrodite” was briefly known as “descendant Aphrodite”, with an
“extremely lowercase d”, but this was not written on these pages. It was written on
later pages, at another time.]
Hay-soos (HS): To hold the pickles or not, that is the question.
WOB: To which I reply in kind, hold them, for there is nothing so sweet in life as a pickle
in one’s hand.
Father Aphrodite (FA): Most philosophical, yet learn from the Father that there is more than
one view in life. (Continuing your previous phrase)... yet even a rose has thorns, one must
pay the price for what they hold, and if the sourness of the pickles makes your life dill,
‘tis better to never [have] held them so close to your bosom at all.
HS: But father A, never in my existence has the sourness of a pickle made my lif[e] dill. I find
that a pickle held close to my bosom refreshes the very sinews and the marrow of my bones.
I’m sure Socrates would agree. (Haven’t you ever held a pickle in your
FA: Yes, my son, but not all relish the pickle as we. When our heart’s sinews
and the bones’ marrow are at their strongest, we are at our weakest, for we become oblivious
to those around us. Likewise, let us not forget this, the true lesson of the pickle when next by our
bosoms it may be. Let us pay. Make love not war. Amen.
WOB: Pickle, O Pickle, wherefore art thou, Pickle? For indeed I relish you as Winnie the Pooh
doth relish honey.
HS: Great and exalted teacher, your wisdom is fathomless, yet when we speak of pickles, your mind
is as cheese. Indeed, melted cheese. For I have received a revelation that war, not love, is the
true answer to all our deepest pains and hungers. For ‘love is blind’, but ‘war
conquers all’, and when all enemies are vanquished, the pickle reigns supreme. For even if
you, O exalted Rabbi, were to perish, the pickle can still be held close.
FA: O wise son of the sunset[t]ed hill, you who have watched the pickle with the eyes of a
scallop, how can you remain as shut as a clam to the truth? For surely war shall conquer all, but
could it exist yet without love?, for as an [the] orange is to the Florida Pig[g]ie Gang-Thieves, so is
love the cause of war, and when all else is gone, and the pickle stands alone, no longer one
with the universe, but the Universe itself, my love will be manifested in the Pickle’s
heart to form the new world of love: hence war: hence love: hence perfection!
[Avocado, p. 1]
HS: Father A, I have an even deeper quest than the Pickle to inquire of.
WOB: Indeed, is it the avocado?
HS: Oui, oui, Monsieur. It is indeed the avocado — for wherein lies the deep annals of
all human tragedy, which is caused by lust for the avocado, and the avocado itself which
fiddles with the weak tendrils of the barbarian[s’] mind. Wherefore art the solution
to this much sought after problem, the avocado, father and mother of the
WOB: I see. Well, lo! My master — and behold — for we have received a higher
calling and even though our ideas may differ — I say potatō, you say
potāto, I say tomatō, you say tomāto — I feel as if there is a joining
of our souls — just as the Florida orange branch is grafted into that of the elm, our
spirits will become one with our leader, The Vegetable (Ralph Waldo E.)
HS: Indeed, just as the Avocado is the father of the Pickle (O, great exalted One), our
souls are becomed joined through the interpretation of all false religions when cast down,
and all truth comes to pure, dusty light. Yes, even musty light. For there is the higher calling,
when the Vegetable concurs with his children, the avocado, etc., they will reach out to us to
fulfill their purpose, which is the liquidation of the Antarctican Pygmies.
FA: hay-soos, O my son and daughter, we are but dust on the hair of a pimple on the ass
of the Universe, and like wise, the Universe is to something else, but in all these things, there
is one common factor of evil consistently throughout: the avocado. Even as Neptune is
the Avocado of our solar system, so is the one I place on the table. You see it and say:
‘it is an avocado, hard, but mushy, like crusty jello.’ But I say:
‘Open it, my son!’ And you say: ‘There is knowledge!’ I do not
sanctify the avocado, but spurn and rebuke its evil knowledge.
WOB: Ah, my ignorant yet holy Father A. If only you knew the errors of your ways. For though I
must saddingly [saddeningly] concede that sometimes the effect of the Great Green One can be, forgive the pun,
the pits — in the end, if we are to all go to the Great Rhubarb Pie In The Sky,
only the Avocado can show us the way, indeed the light in the stinky intestinal tunnel
which is death. So I tell you, oh wise but unwise brother and father dill seed, that if we are
to have the “occult relation” with the vegetable which our beloved Waldo spoke of,
needs be we must do the Dance of the Thousand Island Dressing with not the grape or the yam,
but, indeed — the Avocado.
FA: Ah, my son, as you have foreseen, good is a part of evil, as evil is a part of
good. ☯ Verily a wise lesson have you beheld. But one thing is amiss. The Avocado will indeed
show us the way, but not in the shiny, intestinal tunnels of death (whose mucus is eternal)
for all parts of the Avocado are waste and will become excrement, never benefitting the body,
and its putrid taste will destroy thousands. But the Avocado is our green guide in the
carnal world, our green-bean seed on the meatloaf, so to speak, to be a model for us to
stay away from the things of evil in the world.
HS: I [We] thank thee, [O] gracious teacher, for opening my [our] turtle shell[s] to reality, so that I
may gloat with the butterflies when they say “all is good but the Avocado”. Then my
soul shall be as one with the Pickle once more, and no more shalt I be depressed as [unto] a
concave mirror. Another question for thee: Dost all on earth spurn the Avocado? Are we the only
ones that flush its fruit down the [proverbial] toilet? Surely not. Tell me of the others.
FA: There are others, my son, there are others, but first, even as the cashew’s halves can be
ground into many pieces, so also are the ways of good and evil. Not one, but many pieces, and the
Avocado is but a large part of many. For would the butterflies gloat above the ground if there
were no platypus to eat them? No, my son. Verily I say unto you, such is there no good without
evil, and in many forms (as represented by the platypi race!) But others will have naught to do
with the Avocado[s], my son... elsewhere. Perhaps one day you wilt be a great quester to find them?
WOB: Yes, Father A, I do see your point. But if not the Avocado, then who, say I, or what shall
lead the way? The grape doth tarry in the vineyard — and as the seasons change, doth wither
as unto its brother, the lettuce leave [leaf], and fall to the ground. The watermelon doth become bloated
as like a fish and it also cannot help us. The prune leaves a sticky undesirable film on the
roof of one’s mouth, and the raisen (oh heed the raisen, the most evil of the fruits), the
raisen gives one a funny feeling in one’s stomach and makes one have to go to the bathroom.
So again I praise you Father for your [wisdom and] knowledge of the Avocado and its
short-fallings, but I say — where? Oh where shall we find recompense?
FA: This is truly a good question my son, I must pense... After the holy time spent in the
[MawGaw] shrines of the Pickle, a meditational vision was granted me! The cheese shall mold, and
the fizz in Cokes shall fade, and Super Mario will jump on all the Mushrooms one day, but the
one who will show us the way [...is not yet appeared unto the world, or even unto the prophets.]
[Avocado, p. 2, FaThER of THE pickle]
HS: Alas, [dear Father,] just as the platypus fossil crumbles, so doth evil’s road fork into
numberless paths. Well said, Father of all knowledge. Now I have found another group that doth
acknowledge the evil of the Avocado, the “Loyal Order of the chirping deer”
(or “...Slurping Beer”, as the case may be). To them, blessed be their souls, the
“Great Green One” is regarded with the eye of an epileptic horned toad, brother of
the stink-bug. Their motto states: “As long as the deer chirp, we shall fight the
Avocado, Yea, Deer, hip-hip-hooray. Chirp-Chirp.”
FA: Holy and blessed may these deer be as long as there is air to chirp in and cashew nuts to
throw at them when we are tired of listening to it. And may their motto be part of the Whole
Motto. Amen. Bow your head in payment.
FA (cont.): And since there would be no good without evil, yea, is the Avocado the father of
the Pickle, and versa-visa. Behold, as the Antarctic Pygmie [Festive Scum]
worship the Yellow Snow, we shall be as snow from the heavens, white and pure.
FA (cont.): And the vegetables shall once again rule.
HS: To Winston O’Boogie: O, that we could return to the days of old, when motorcycles had
but two wheels,
and when restrooms were behind the nearest cottonwood. The evil days of new have perverted our
ways, to where we worship Nintendo, instead of [the] Avocado, or even great teachers like unto the
father A. himself. Woe is me! Woe are us! We shall depend upon the excrements of the wild granite
rock for food, and shark pee for drink. Woe is us!
WOB: To the honorable Hay-soos: Indeed, Woe is us! We are woe. For truly I say that
the days, as you said, are all but over when we could visit Peter’s wife in her pumpkin
shell, for just as her shell has been jack-o-lanterned for the cause of evil, the whole vegetable
kingdom is now mocked as like a jester in the sad court which is life. But just as the Zimbabweyan
Coco Spider comes out of its hibernation in the coconut, the AVOCADO shall once more rise and we
will once more behold its beauty.
HS: O, Winston O’Boogie, O, I agree — that when after the cheese is molded and
the fizz is faded, the avocado shall come to power to rule
over the babbling, foolish incompetent, impetulant, petty, do-nothing Pakisturks and Tanis,
then to mash the indignity of indoor
restrooms throughout the world. (!Praise the pickle¡) Then we shall be just as the Three men in a
Tub, who were finally rescued by a Coast Guard cutter. (The Coast Guard was initiated by
the great Avocado picker himself.)
WOB: “Indeed.” And speaking of mortuaries, there is something that we must come to
grasp with. Or “reckon” if you prefer. And the reckoning, you say? Gumby
is a pickle. [Here, there was a drawing of the Gumby, in the handwritten manuscripts.] After
careful deliberation and many hours of gourd-smashing thought, I came to
this realization and I trust you will know what it means. Indeed, the Gumby is of an evil
disposition, being created in the ‘lower depths’ of the universe. And you know,
good brother, that the only good bad pickle is a dead bad pickle. So we have a
mission: DESTROY THE GUMBY!
HS: But dearest O’Boogie, there are but three of us, even only four with the big Avocado,
and the evul Gumby is Lord over all the herd[s] of Siberian termites, which will destroy our wood.
He also rules the Tibetian rust worms which rust our iron, therefore, wherein, heretofore, we
must gird our loins about with soot (or was it troot?) and take the helmet of amalgamation and
the full armour of the great Avocado, the one true light [True Light].
HS: Aphro-ditee, dear father, wherefore without the platypi, the cabbage would be long extinct. Behold
the cabbage eateth the platypi [to live], like unto the Japanese Brown Bear eateth rice, and doth
flourish. But without the platypi, the cabbage (red, green, or blue cabbage) would soon perish.
The problem lies in Antarctica, where the Pygmies eat also of the platypi, and leave no crumbs,
or even platypi slime for the cabbage. The cabbage does not worship the great pickle, but
followeth after the evul avocado [evil raisen], and will not be saved.
FA: My son, Haysoos, wise though I may be, and wise also are the writings of a learned pupil,
but for once you have confused me. Do the cabbage indeed eat the platypi, as the bloated
African Nephing Toad eats the Pig Latin tribe who migrated there from the North Pole in the
First Days? For though I am a man of knowledge, I am first a man of spirit, babies [the word
“babies” is unclear in the orignal manuscripts], and war.
FA (cont.): I do know, son, that not all cabbage are evil, for example, the Salty Butter
Cabbage of [in] Small Quantities, is dedicated [to] our righteous vegetablic cause.
FA (cont.): Yet truly, as you forspake, the Antarctic[an] Pygmies are the source of all evil,
where our Power Penguins are secretly withstanding their attacks and holding them at bay, like
rabid water buffalo[s] holding back a loaf of meatloaf on wheels.
HS: O gracious teacher, Lord of all that is partially true, thou art confused not often, just as
the rabid water buffalo do not perpetuate mating. And as the old saying goes, “Thou art
but a toad, indeed an dumb toad in the sight of the Pickle” (the wise one who spoke that
was the founder of the “Antarctican Pygmies for Better Platypi Meat”) — The
search for righteousness goes on, as we look through the categories. For “If one eats of the
bloated Taiwanese Rabbit terds [turds], that very day shalt they release extrenuous gases that shall kill
all mankind.” Whyfore then, were the Taiwanese rabbits created so that they produce elongated
excretions? The answer to that is not found in the writings of Lord Hooba-Booba, founder of the
“molded cheese society” [Molded Cheese Society], nor is it found in cashew nut halves.
Where then shall we observe to look upon the answer?
FA: All things have a purpose in life, as all socks have a pair, dirty though the other may be, but
their purpose [in life] is a hidden one oft times, hence their purpose manifolds. Even as the bee is
to carry honey, and the pickle is to be dipped in strawberry syrup [Strawberry Syrup], the Elongated
Turds of the
Taiwanese Rabbit has a purpose, and although most remain hidden for the individual to work out on
his own, this my [son], I have been granted to share: Unity. The Turds of Taiwan (esteemed greatly
by Lord Lard[-]Lump in his Holy Righteous Dude biography of the Cool Ones and by the Dancing Fish of
Janet Lee’s Hooker forums [Fawns]), [these Turds] teach Unity.
“these words are written that
ye may have life, and have it
more abundantly, as you grow
with the great teachers from
the purple sky.” — hay-soos
And thus end the final words of the three exalted teachers, at least one of them not exalted at
all, in any way, by any person or vegetable, except that he be always greater than the others. It
is the final END of all writings in praise of the Pickle, and nevermore would anyone write of it
Except for the writings that follow, written at some point thereafter, unforetold by any prophet or
blind raven hunters, by the same three exalted teachers — a different one of which was this
time unexalted yet greater than all three combined.
[(Raisins) the Perved Grapes of Wrath]
Berry O Berry how my soul is merry.
For without you I am naught.
Indeed without your sweet presence
I am as a platypi without a cabbage,
Yes, I am as a man with stinky underwear.
Take into your heart the example
of the Field Mice Stomping Bull Moose of Switzerland
who, in the aftermath of being rejected by his
female counterpart, recedes into a great and lasting
depression, in which he takes to the horrible practice
of stomping and popping innocent field mice on the
head. Field mice! Indeed, the Yodeling Field Mice
of the ever peace-making Shangri-La which is
Switzerland! Yes, the field mice who wish harm
to no one but only desire to frolic in the
Jew Jew weeds, gathering JewJew berries and
yodeling their sweet yodels as unto a man in love.
Alas, it is but so sad to see these marvelous
creatures thrashed, yea, I say, pulverized into
furry balls of smelly death when their
only crime is... yes my brothers — love. But
who can take offense against the Bull Moose?
For man knows no greater despair than that
given him by his sweet smelling yet sometimes bitter
boblingous counterpart. Musn’t you agree?
Just as the scent of a strawberry or a rose doth
bring a man to his knees, once the man has beheld the
beauty of a woman
and drank from the fountain of her soul, he is
no longer one with himself, but now I have to take
Hay-soos: Because of your stinky underwear?
Oh, he who dances with the feet of the Pentalegged Fire dwarves of Octuban 12, as
the [a] bear doth clean his toe claws so do I speak with thee. Whyfore do the
strawberries or indeed the cherry drive the[e] to dance the Thousand Island Dressing
Dance with the Meatloafish Bison, who are but clumsy slabs of buffalo jerky in the
annals of life?
Be wise, mend thy ways, be as the connoisseur and taste many cherry or berry
before you grab the bunch! Be light and happy, not as this: [drawing of silly, smiley face],
for this will happen: [drawing of face with a black eye], but as this: [drawing of
moodless face, complete with toothpick on the lips, of a “natural wood flavor”].
Death to Gumby, the Deformed Pickle, abuser of the Green Guide! Amen.
Hay-soos: no raisins! no hairy raisins! no cucumbers. (2/5/90)
[Here, there was a drawing of “The proverbial food chain”, complete with
descriptions written in Hay-soos’ hand, the words of which are below.]
Hay-soos: Antarctic Pygmy Snarfing Jabberwocky [eats] Antarctic Pygmy and Caucasian males.
Caucasian males eat cabbage, which eat platypi, which are also eaten by Antarctic Pygmy. Platypi
eat gloating butterflies, which eat Arctic bacteria, which eat bloated Taiwanese Rabbit turds,
which eat all of mankind on earth, which eat Pickle, which kills hairy raisins (which are dead).
Meanwhile, in a parallel dimension...
Father Aphrodite Hay-Soos, and Winston O’Boogie sit watching the triumph of the Pickle,
awaiting the downfall of the raisin (the world) when they will come to power as the
The above additions were not originally expected to be included in the Pickle canon, but were
later added by acolytes, who eventually took over the asylum, er, religion.
The passages below were meant to be an apocalyptic future story of the Three, but (apparently)
no one survived to tell the entire tale. What follows is only an exciting-yet-boringly-told
Dreams Of An Organic Symphony in Another World
The grass at the top of the knoll was slightly depressed as Father Aphrodite plopped down,
to begin another day of philosophizing.
Winston O’Boogie was choosing a different method than Aphrodite’s weed, for he was
using the old Indian method of skewers through the chest. He was a short distance away, hanging
from a Sycamore, crying in agony, his chest muscles stretched out.
Hay-soos, the third of the philosophers, was using indeed another type of philosophing. Not
smoking weed, or even hanging by his skewers, he was placidly standing, naked, in an ice-cold
river, thoughtlessly shampooing his hair with mud.
Suddenly, Winston cried out, “Hey, I got a vision.” He pulled the skewers from his chest,
then raced to the Macintosh word-processor, running on an independent power system, as they were
40,000 light years from the nearest sapient being, in a new world, formed by the Jolly Green
Ones, the Pickle and the Avocado.
Winston began typing furiously, and within minutes, a description of his vision was forever
embedded in the Macintosh hard disk.
The great Father A, then, put down his weed, and got up woozily, and glided down the hill on
euphoria, to read the description. Hay-soos, however, calmly kept cleansing his hair with the
clean mud of the Newer World, as his feet turned blue from the cold.
Winston O’Boogie stood patiently by, absorbing the sun’s rays, and wiping off the
blood, where the skewers had penetrated. The Father stood and said “Behold, the holy
skewers have made thee bold, dear Winston, and the philosophicalness of your gray matter
Hay-soos then washed out the mud with the crystal water, and climbed out onto the grassy bank,
where he donned his loincloth, then his robe, and dazedly approached the Holy Screen. He read,
bowed his head, and touched a drop of Winston’s blood to his forehead, saying
“Let us pay.”
“Behold,” answered Winston, who rarely spoke any other [another] word.
Hay-soos proceeded to type in his own vision, then the others read it, while unknown to the
three, several field mice were helping themselves to the Father’s still-smoking joint.
February 7, 1990
Year of the Squash
As Father A. and Lord Boogie stood contemplating and absorbing the divine message which Hay-soos
had received and transcribed, Hay-soos suddenly howled and gripped his head in agony. Just as
he cried out, the sky grew dark and somber and within moments rain came down in torrents like
shivery shards of broken glass. The wind came up and screamed like spirits, risen from the
“What is happening, brother?” cried Winston, as he struggled against the wind to
find Hay-soos who was shielded by the black sky and the rain. But Hay-soos answered him not,
and fell to his knees, still holding his head, as if some unknown force was sending shockwaves
into his skull.
Winston was bewildered and so also was Father A. But then, in his higher wisdom, he knew what
was happening and pointed to the sky. “Look above for your answer, young one!” said
Father A and a lightning flash illuminated his face for a moment, showing a look of angelic
enlightenment on his brow. “It is an omen from the fathers themselves! Yes,
my sons, I speak of the Green Ones!”
After several minutes the storm calmed and the sun rose back up, out of the Great Green Sea.
Hay-soos stood up, and raised his hands to the sky.
“What do you feel?” inquired the Father of Hay-soos.
“I feel fresh and revived! I feel new, like the filthy state of my conscious has been
wiped clean! I feel... as one with the Green Ones...”
“Ah yes, it is indeed just as I thought. Yes my son, I have seen this occurrence before.
You are one with them now. Surely they will communicate, possibly through some being of the
Just as Father A. spoke these words, Hay-soos abruptly cried, “Reithrodontomys
Fulvescens Onychomy Leucogaster Te CANNIBUS!”
“Behold... WHAT?” screeched Winston.
“He speaks of the field mice which smoketh our cannibus... joint. The gods are channeling
through him, telling us how they will communicate.”
At that very moment, the field mice, which had by this time completely consumed the
marijuana, ran to Haysoos and grabbed onto his leg, then ran up to his shoulder and stayed. The
sky opened up and there was a great light, and when they regained their sight, they looked and
saw the Green Gods standing on a cloud, in all their organic splendor. The three mortals fell
to the ground in awe, as the Pickle spoke to them, and they saw he bore a great resemblance to
their deceased earthen leader, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and he was wearing a plaid suit.
“Behold!” said the Pickle, “and listen, O my sons, daughters and
stepnieces. We bring you good tidings and knowledge in the midst of your ignorance. We have
been aware of your quest and we know that it is good. You are the only survivors in this Holy
War, indeed, the only ones on the side of the vegetable kingdom. You are the Last of the
“We come to you, beloved ones, to show the way in your quest, to give you a light —
no, not Bud Light! You must keep yourselves sober, of clean body and spirit, if you are
to accept the duty we lay upon you and the mission we will unveil upon your eyes in the days to
come. Do you, then, accept?”
“I do,” said Father Aphrodite.
“I do,” came Haysoos’ reply.
“Behold!” said Winston, and the others knew this meant he did, too.
“Good!” came back the voice of the Avocado, who until this time had been silent. “Then
we will show you the first step in our plan. All three of you will be made Incarnations —
priests, so to speak — each with a different spiritual stronghold, but with all three
combining to form one powerful being.
“For now, we will only grant the incarnative powers to Haysoos, for to give all of you your
powers at once would be too much for your molded, cheesy minds. As Haysoos becomes accustomed to
his higher consciousness, we will incarnate Winston and then Father A.”
“But, in the meantime,” interjected the Pickle, “let us bestow upon Haysoos
his divinity. Haysoos, my son, for many moons we have watched thou, from the time you were but a
tiny bean sprout up to your present vinish state. We observed the way with which you communicated
with the platypi and the belching heron of the Poc-o-woc tree. We saw you as the mediator between
the Antarctic Pygmy Snarfing Jabberwocky and the Siberian Ralphing Tourists, calming their wrath
and making boon companions out of natural born enemies.
“Indeed, we have witnessed the skill with which you handle the animal kingdome, so we make
you king of their dome. Yes, you have power over the Protozoans, the Poriferas and, most
importantly, even the mighty Metazoas. Any living creature can now talk to you and you to them.
“Not all animals will submit themselves to your will, but as we are rulers of the
vegetable kingdom, we are quite sure that most herbivores and the devourers of the herbivores will
be more than happy to help you in your quest.”
“And your main accomplice in this mission for peace will be... Ocsid Leahcar, the mouse,
and her family of tiny-teethed friends. Ocsid will assist you in any way possible.”
[The original document does not make it clear who is speaking in the most recent paragraph.
However, a margin note makes it clear that “Ocsid Leahcar” is someone’s
nickname spelled backward.]
At this, Haysoos, who had until this point been silent, laughed and cried, “Surely you
jest with me, O Holy One. Do you honestly expect the humble mouse to be a great help
to our cause?” Ocsid bit into his shoulder and he did scream.
“Oh my ignoramus, big-headed son,” said the Avocado, “you know not what you say.
Watch yourself for Ocsid is of a very temperamental nature and can afflict great physical and
mental pain upon you, if she so wishes. And no, I jest you not. Just as the mouse did knaw through
the threads of the net which held the lion, Ocsid will save you many times before your work in
the physical world is complete. Treat her nicely, make sure she gets plenty of Hostess
Twinkies sprinkled with garlic salt and never, ever in any circumstances let
her touch the pee of the Neutered Horned Dragon of Australia. You would all most likely die a horrible
death if this were to happen.
“Now, O our sons, nephews and stepunclescousins, we must leave you, in body. We are
always with you, though in spirit, so fear not. Ponder what we have told you and prepare your
souls and bodys for the time to come. We will be back, but until then, we leave with you a
giant Sunflower plant, to keep you shaded and feed your bellies.
Sow the Seeds of Love. Amen.”
And with that, the Green Ones disappeared and in their place was a spectacular 200-foot
sunflower plant just as they had promised. Haysoos, Winston and Father A. were tired and their
energy was drained by the extraordinary events of the day. One by one, they climbed close to the
top of the sunflower, and went out on a branch. They hung upside down from the branch and
rested as the sun sank back into the Green Sea.
The next morning...
And here, once again, inexplicably, the writings of the three teachers ended without conclusion
or summary. Despite further generations of prophets arising, including the Dwarf Goat Lice of
Bangkok and the Giant Flying Trapeze Avoiding Yaks of Illinois, no other writings were ever found,
nor predicted. (It is contested whether any
legitimate prophecies ever arose from the Celibate Snake-Smiting Snails of Serbia.)
Unless one includes the following writings, which many do number among the Pickle
canon, while others dispute this with a fiery assault of burning titanium nuggets, found today only
on certain Northern Pacific Islands.
[The Final Conversation]
From Winston O’Boogie:
Ah, my dear Father Afrodoody, how you make me laugh; indeed, how you make me jolly like an avocado
rancher with a good crop of avocadi. You speak of love, yes; of berries and cherries and
Pentalegged Fire Dwarves and you say “be as the connoisseur and taste many berries... before
you grab the bush!” And I must agree. But have I with my own olive-shaped eyes not seen you
with but one green-stemmed beauty these past moons? Have you not the Band of the Juicy
Rose Petal around thy finger? Indeed you have found your 1835 Chableau. Is it not just the same
with me? And I say — yes ‘tis. We are as two platypi who have found the sweetest heads
of the Fleshy-Leaved Cabbage. For as you said, one should not grab every flori one sees, for if
one does so, his body will become as a pin-cushion with thorns.
It is said that there are many fishies in the sea — and I must concede this truth. But just
as many a sour raspberry must be eaten in order to find a sweet one, most of the fishies are
undesirable. Just look at the example of the Reef of the Golden-colored waters in the Sea of the
Gelded Anemone. If one is lucky, he might spot a red-bellied Sally or a spotted Poc-A-Woc fish —
but the main population of the Reef is comprised of the Antarctic Pygmy Snarfing Jabberwocky, whose
tendrils are as poison and give one a permanent case of Halitosis. Luckily for the Antarctic Pygmies,
there aren’t any Antarctic Pygmy Snarfing Jabberwocki in Antarctica. And so the Jabberwocky
eats innocent Caucasian male tourists. They (the tourists) only want to be loved. Is that so wrong?
But just as most fish are evil, it is just the same with the opposite gender. Take also the
example that the plant kingdom gives us. The Great Pickle himself taught me that many women are
much more like a Venus Flytrap than say, a strawberry. Indeed, a strawberry. For on first sight,
this atrocity appears just as the first part of its name describes — a Venus, a veritable
cornucopia of beauty. But on closer inspection, one discovers the great evil — the Flytrap.
I trust if you have ever had your fly caught in a trap, then you will know full well what I am
talking about. Our great father Waldo E. thought he had found a solution to this problem: for a
short while, he wore no pants — indeed, he wore nothing but the proverbial birthday
suit. But soon afterwards further experiences with dear Lady Venus taught him that there was
a greater harm to be done than to just his zipper and he soon took to wearing trousers once
more, with velcro.
And so you see that I do agree with you and say: Varietize! Varietize! And indeed grab many a
berry! But you must be careful! For some women are as stealthy as a cucumber, and you know, O
honorable Father A and Haysoos, that to do the Dance of the Sticky Grapefruit with the
treacherous cucumber is to do the Dance of Death. Women have come to me with drinks; indeed
Bloody Marys and Fuzzy Navels, but I turn them away. For a woman with a fuzzy navel is as
desirable as a woman with a rather large growth on the side of her head — indeed, not
But cheer is us! For we have found the ripest, sweetest berries and their navels are not fuzzy!
Rejoice! And be merry! For indeed you have a fine berry, as do I.
Behold the Great Pickle and relish his neverending wisdom.
Niktau [peace], brother, sister and Father... Winston O’Boogie 2/4/90
Love thy berry and it will make thee merry. (No cucumbers).
[It is believed by one remote sect, the Bark-Licking Green-Skinned Flower Shepherds of
Patagonia, that at this point a verbal altercation took place regarding the construction of
strawberries, whether they are composed entirely of “straw plus berries” mixed
together, or whether they are simply the berries that grow upon straw trees. The Flower
Shepherds of Patagonia fiercely defend the assertion that this discussion took place, yet also
firmly refuse to take a position on the argument.]
by: descendant Aphrodite (with an extremely lowercase “d”)
[But] what can be inferred in the aftermath of your thoughts? What cosmic landscape can
be proffered from the troughs and valleys of your conscious mind? And what is that red haze
where the heady odors of the Reeking Canadian Farting Fish (who drink too much Canada
Dry) fart so gayly and drink their club soda so carefree to the thoughts of mortal
(& immortal) man? Ah yes, it is grapefruit for thought.
Let us meditate on the Great Green One... Hence! Have ye a new revelation?
Winston O’Boogie: Yes. The alleged Asymptotes which the disfigured Morris Moose speaks of,
are indeed hypocrites and phonies. They are not, indeed, related in any tangible way to any
geometric truth, but are, in fact, henchmen for the Soggies, which, as you know, O son,
make our cereal mushy, as unto oatmeal, the Devil of the Grains.
descendant Aphrodite: Truly, yes, truly, step-uncle’s ex-wife. Henceforth, the
Hyper-bola is merely an advanced Argentinian bola, to wrap around the mere feet of Bandiwaggs,
who are not important. And truly, I wonder what it is I am trying to do now in this class, but
my mind is yet as the soggies: all mush. Therefore, I must search the aid (not AIDS)
of some wise berry or pickle who seeks after righeousness as a Flapping Russian Hoedang Lizard
and knows as once did our dear departed Father Aphrodite, who is with us no more.
Winston O’Boogie: Yes, but I do believe that the Father still dwells in the depths of
liver, where he is reserving his energy for the storm to come. As for the berry, do you not
already have a berry to show you the way?
descendant Aphrodite: I know not these things, for I am but a grandson in the pimply lumps
of the pickle, yet this vision am I granted: If the Father remains, he will not come again
until our darkest moment, to do battle with the Supreme Cucumber, a sad, sad case of a
pickle-not-to-be, never dilled, never chilled, who is named under the false mortal pretense of
And I know not whether my berry, in fact, my 1835 Chableau, can aid (not herpes) me, for she
was sprayed for the insects of Algebra long ago.
Winston O’Boogie: Amen. Tis’ a sad thing that a bery will inevitably...
turn sour. Not always, but oft.
descendant Aphrodite: Yes, ‘tis. Yet now, though the ever so small portion of the
Father’s leftover remaining power visited within us, I sense a tale yet untold. Be
open as a car window being rained on, for this is as inevitable as the unfolding of
your tale, my great grand-second cousin. Speak freely.
Winston O’Boogie: Indeed I contest, you tell the truth. I have faith in [the] prune pit
which is love, that once more sweet showers will cascade through the open window of my Pinto,
and a new berry will be in my soul.
descendant Aphrodite: Ah, so also as the Wandering Humanoid Banjos of Shiloh wander to spread
their joy one minute and take it back the next, will love (that annoying rotten raisin seed
of the heart) return as always. Yet fickle, or not fickle: who may never tell, for one becomes
blinded by their desires to forever frolic in the fronds of their female’s fertility.
Love — Sex — War, the unending cycle of our world which the Pickle has decided
to rest on each of the three (in alternation) to be disciples of the new Universe. MAY
THE PICKLE RULE SUPREME!
Yet tell me of your troubles, latus rectum, for I would comfort thee.
Winston O’Boogie: My troubles are just as you speak; the neverending cycle doth bother
me. I mourn not for the loss of the particular cranberry, but for the hopeless ritual
which starts with euphoria and ends with merciless nausea. I am not particularly troubled
by this though — as experiences have taught me to be be free as the
descendant Aphrodite: One day the cycle will run itself out as all paradoxes do, for as
you will learn in physical science, there is no such thing as the perpetual motion
machine, and you will end up dwelling in one of the three: Love — Sex — War. Or
Unlike the previous final endings, this one is the last final ending, after which there are no
more beginnings or continuations, nor other endings. No more writings survived. Unless there are
others. In which case they shall be printed here, verily.
The lessons to be learned from these words are infinite and yet limited, profound and yet
shallow, much like a glassy pool of melted butter in a skillet.
May the teachings of the Pickle endure as long as vegetables rule the universe.