JUST A TRIO OF DORKIOLOGISTS
“Just a Trio of Dorkiologists” is a story about three boys who take on the scientific task of finding a mascot for The Jake Club, and through a series of almost-unfortunate events, they find luck in a nearby-faraway land that also happens to be a gas station.
EDITOR’S NOTE
This short story is among a collection of shorts written by Jake Grillo as part of The Jake Club’s “The Beeber” magazine (1989). That work, alongside others of my father’s, is the direct inspiration for Total Beeberia Magazine. As a family archivist, I have a deep appreciation for stories like these; they serve the much-needed whimsy, creativity, and levity I rely on to treat burnout in my creative career. To honor that, I have taken the liberty of transcribing and editing his work into a published piece for all to enjoy. I maintain its original integrity while correcting unintentional spelling or grammatical errors, and replacing copyrighted material with narratively effective alternatives.
-Jay Grillo
“Just a Trio of Dorkiologists” by Jake Grillo
Call us dum dums if you wish, call us silly billys if you want, even a whispered ninkonpoop will do! I, for one, would prescribe us as “Just a Trio of Dorkiologists” who ventured out into a world unknown to seek the greatest dorkiological find ever discovered, and this is almost our story of how it happened.
It almost all started while we had barely existed throughout one of those tedious stygian-hue nights. Yes, folks, my almost-faithful comrades, Jeffy Weffy, Mr. Clean, and I exhausted the whole night away by seeking out a mascot for our club, The Jake Club. As morning almost-accidentally dawned on your everyday city, while acid-like morning dew eroded away all the cheap car paint jobs, my almost-faithful and uncool buddies and I were afflicted at the basic fact that our club still did not have a mascot. What to do? It was by far the most horrible predicament we had ever encountered.
Not only that, but during the previous night, while we were trying to complicate and obtain a righteous solution to our problem, another interesting crisis had taken place. Yes-sir-ee! You guessed it! Our extremely muscular torsos, looking like replicas of Arnold Snortsazinger’s bod, had unfortunately been selected to go through a process called “NUBILATION” that night. NUBILATION gave us a “fix” of adolescent procedures; we started sweating sweat in and out of our poreless, hairless, and superficially premature pores. After that had taken place, morning arrived. We were bogged down with salty H2O content, which only added to our troublesome troubles. What to do? We were definitely on the verge of giving up.
When we were about to throw up our hands and trash all of our previous ideas for the perfect mascot, my Mummy gently busted down the door of my room and donated some morning nourishment (mummys are so sweet). After we blessed her for the wholesome and prophylactic pebbles that happened to be fruited, we confessed to her what had not happened during our tedious stygian-hue night. Then you’ll never-ever guess what happened next! Dearest Mummy, bless her heart, suggested we embark on a “seek and keep” mission to the nearest 7-to-11 down the street and see if they had that perfect mascot on a discount (Mummys are always looking for good deals for us kids). We thought this to be a bueno opportunity, so we decided to become dorkiologists, “Just a Trio of Dorkiologists,” some may say, whose premature pores had turned into something like chocolate smores.
After Mummy left our presence, we scurried in a hurry to that outside environment and embarked on our dorkiological mission to that faraway 7-to-11 country out in a world almost unknown to us. Mr. Clean and Jeffy Weffy pushed off by jumping on their “Kick-and-Go’s,” while I, due to the basic fact that I need training wheels for everything, used that embarrassing “Jog and Keep Up” technique. Like a woppin’ stomach growl, our journey ended up being fierce and exhausting, even for big tough boys like us. At one point, due to a few obsolete problems, the mission seemed to be hopeless. I, for one, had almost managed to get run over by one of those innocent and cute, but really mischievous, Snurly “Shasta” Temples. They were recklessly pursuing me with one of those mean green machines that all little boys and girls should own. Eventually, in due time, all medial parts of my body were squashed.
(No!! Not the car!!)
Jeffy Weffy and Mr. Clean also had their disappointments. Somehow, their newly grown leg hairs accidentally ended up capturing the wheels of their Kick-and-Go’s. Then all of a sudden, without meaning to, they energetically flipped and became air-of-ripped-hair-born acrobats. Eventually, without Mummy’s approval, they spirally tumbled down the super duper sidewalk cliff and made one of those unexpected splashing arrivals into some contaminated, germonious, and alligator-like-creature-infested sidewalk gutter. Finally, Jeffy Weffy and Mr. Clean yelled beautiful hymns of excitement for me to save them! (What do you guys think? Ya think I did it?) I, already on the verge of not feeling too well, with green machine tire tracks running up and down my almost-buffed body, received that urgent second wind and pulled my buddies out of the germonious gutter and sick clutter.
After I had finished elevating Mr. Clean’s enormous bod out of the horrid gutter, I couldn’t believe what I saw with my seeful sight. I was totally flabbergasted and dumbfounded at the basic fact that, for the first time in my long eternal friendship with Mr. Clean, I perceived something that had never happened to him before. Yes-sir-ee! You guessed it, Mr. Clean became dirty. OOOOOOOOHH NOOOOOOOOOOOO! (Mummys not gonna like this one, she’s already low on Tide.) Mr. Clean’s birth to dirt was truly a miracle in the almost of a making.
(Back to my story now.)
Well, I would have to say that we mainly survived these close encounters of the very strange kind due to the basic fact that we are alert and aware of how much the faithful Jake Club members depend on us (that’s you guys). After these wacko encounters had taken place, our prolonged expedition finally expired, and we arrived at our destination, which was the country of the 7-to-11.
Now at the 7-to-11, we teefully and toefully, without tipping our tipper-toseys, tiptoed into the store to shop for a possible mascot. We scanned and discerned the whole precinct, all the way down to the most abstract and microscopic pygmy. Discovering nothing, except for a box of pebbles that were fruity (we just had to have some of those, ya know what I mean?), we elected to leave by an uplifting of our eyebrows. On the way out, our left eyes saw what our right eyes saw; left, which was right, because it was exactly what we all speculated as “The Greatest Dorkiological Find for a Mascot” ever discovered by just a Trio of Dorkiologists. While observing through unscientific observation, we came up with an uneducated hypothesis that clarified this new revelation as a cross between a prehistoric “Neanderthal Man” and an “Alaskan Surfer.” Even though it appeared to be quite puny, we elected to buy him by raising our big toseys.
After purchasing this half-mortal critter, an oblong and shirtless store clerk who looked like a hippie with lint hanging out of his belly button vocalized to us that this was a genuine Neanderthal Surfer, and remarkably, the last one left on the face of this earth. When we audited this dispatch of highly secretive intelligence, we all became so astounded that we vaulted into the air like upside-down lightning bolts and chanted chants of “Oh Goody” and “Ya Hoo” in perfect grown unison (just like it is done in church service). After this spectacular moment of patriotism, Jeffy Weffy quickly entrusted the Neanderthal Surfer into his aqua, now gutter-blue, velcro wallet, and then we embarked on our long journey to our homeland, which was down the street.
The pilgrimage home, unlike the one leaving, was abundantly smoother, except for the elite problem of some killer dust marauders who tried to drive and compel some “ah-chu sneezes” out of our two nosey nostrils (but that’s a whole different story). When we finally arrived at our dwelling quarters, “Casa Sweet Casa,” Mummy-dearest came sprinting outside to perceive our greatest dorkiological find ever discovered for a mascot. She simply adored the creature and immediately took it under her wing and began instituting him as a new addition to the family. First, she rendered him a good bathing and then fattened him up with a magnitude of pebbles that were fruity, and eventually he became very mesomorphic-looking. Well, believe it or believe it, that’s how we came in contact with our club mascot. I guess you could say that was an almost-story in the making.
The End (for now…)
