A mysterious murder!
A world of intrigue!
Seeking information in the criminal underworld!
A femme fatale!
The only ending worthy of a show like Bunkum!
A mysterious murder!
A world of intrigue!
Seeking information in the criminal underworld!
A femme fatale!
The only ending worthy of a show like Bunkum!
A Belgian detective!
A murder to solve!
Tough guys who never learned to deal with their insecurity!
An off-off-off-Broadway one-man show!
It’s also my favorite part of the whole run of Bunkum!
Bunkum brings the stupid!
A mysterious jungle relic!
Villains and treachery!
Cheap Hanna-Barbera animation in handy audio format!
Bunkum: Seriously, he’s tall!
It’s the grand premier of Bunkum!
Sergeant Ourman is on the hunt for a mysterious killer! Will it have anything to do with the title of this episode? Only one way to find out: read the next sentence!
Bunkum is the World’s Favorite Podcast for jokes like that!
My name is Dr. Buckminster Ourman, Ph.D., MA, BFA, MS, JD, LLC, TP, WC, MGM, WTO, IDIOT, pronounced “Ourman”. I’m the Anders Flanders-Sanders Professor of Comparative Correlation at Flotsam University. I was relaxing one Sunday morning with my coffee and a copy of the Big City Tribune Gazette Times Post News Sun Journal. Having read the Violence, Corruption, and Sports sections, I moved on to the classified ads. Let’s see.
“For sale: Slightly used coffin in good condition. All stains and odor removed professionally. Glad Uncle Dave is well, but need to recoup costs of remodeling his home into a combination strip club, casino, and wing joint. Interested parties respond to this ad. Uninterested parties come to Terry’s and get saucy!” Hmm, every part of that sounds risky. What else?
“Missed connection. You: attractive woman, 30s, blond. Me: roguish man, hirsute, fun-loving. I saw you on the subway and tried to say hi. You had headphones in, so you must not have heard me. I waved, but your book was blocking your face. I tried signalling my intentions with crude hand gestures, but you happened to turn to face the window. I tried yelling what I’d like to do to you and thought I saw you react with a flinch, but you must have just had a chill because you made no response. Reply to What’s Personal Space? c/o this newspaper.” Gross. What’s this?
“For sale: Dirty old pair of men’s underwear. Could have been owned by famous celebrity or powerful business tycoon. Found in a puddle near the airport, so anything is possible. $1200 OBO.” Intriguing! I might come back to that one. Ah, this looks interesting.
“For sale: Various genuine cursed objects. Come on down to Honest Sal’s Emporium of Darkest Mystery. Palms read, fortunes foretold, animals disemboweled and guts used for augury.” Now this sounds like a good way to spend my Sunday!
I came on down to Honest Sal’s. I got out of the car, looked down, got back in the car, went home, and put on pants. I came back on down to Honest Sal’s and went inside, confident in my attire’s perfect attendance.
The shelves and cases were filled with spooky totems, cracked idols, and mysterious papers. I was looking over some maps of uncharted lands and books written in forgotten languages when Sal came out from the back room.
“Hello, my friend!” he said. “Interested in something dark and powerful, are we? Might I interest you in the favorite eyeball of Nostradamus? Or maybe the lost raiment of King Hadz-na-Kloom is more your style? Or — and I don’t offer this to just any customer, but you look like a serious fan of the occult — maybe the mystic toenail clippings of Aleister Crowley?”
“Oh, I dunno. I’m just browsing.”
“Tell me, what sort of item are you looking for? Something to increase your luck? Or maybe you’re looking for a way to have more vigor?”
“Really? No! No, no. I guess I was just hoping there’d be something here that would really make me question reality and everything I thought I knew. Do you have anything like that?”
“Ah. A connoisseur. Take a look over here.”
He led me to a back corner and moved a pile of boxes out of the way, revealing a door with several locks on it. He unlocked them one by one and mumbled something in a strange, guttural language unspoken by humans. Then, as he gripped the knob, said, “This is one of our best sellers.”
He opened the door and I found myself staring into a psychedelic wormhole in an otherwise black void. An eye opened in the middle of it and a booming voice asked, “Who dares disturb my slumber?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
Sal closed the door and locked it. “Well, it doesn’t look like it’s my day. Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”
I thanked him for his time and left the shop. I then went into the store next door, Spooks & Things. There, next to a basket of discounted monkey’s paws with only one or two wishes left, was a rusty old oil lamp with a sign that read, “Inside! Real Live Genie! Fool Your Friends!” I paid the clerk my fifteen cents and took the lamp home.
I rubbed my hands with excitement. Nothing happened. I read the instructions again and realized my problem. I rubbed the lamp with excitement and this time it began spewing mysterious smoke mysteriously! The smoke condensed into the form of a giant man in a turban. The genie!
“You’re a real genie! Wow!”
“Well, I should hope so,” he said. “Otherwise I’d be in trouble with the FTC for false advertising. What can I do for you, my master? You have three wishes.”
“I wish for infinite wishes!”
The genie paused and put a finger to his chin. “Hmm. You know, in my thousands of years in the Genie Corps, no one has ever thought of that. Consider it done. You now have infinite wishes.”
“Fantastic! Well, let’s get the big ones out of the way. I’d like a billion dollars, a fully furnished enormous mansion, and world peace.”
“Done, done, done. Come on, give me a challenge.”
“Wait. You didn’t grant them through some trickery, did you? You didn’t bring about hyperinflation and make a billion dollars the price of a loaf of bread or something or end war by killing everyone on Earth?”
“Nope, nothing like that. Your billion is worth just as much as it would have yesterday and no one died. The mansion isn’t on a sacred burial ground or haunted or anything like that. You’re all good.”
“Wonderful! I suppose I should think long and hard about how to use my other wishes. Mr. Genie — um, do you have a name?”
“Okay. Fred, take a break. Relax. Help yourself to whatever you put in the kitchen.”
Weeks passed. I wished for an end to disease, no more poverty, and for all the answers regarding morality and religion to be known and available to everybody. The world was a utopia. No more suffering. No more quarrels over beliefs. Enough food and money for everybody to be comfortable. Everything seemed perfect.
One day, I felt so pleased with my world that I decided to leave the mansion and take a stroll downtown to witness everybody’s non-stop joy firsthand.
“I’m going to take a stroll downtown to witness everybody’s non-stop joy firsthand. Do you want to come?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea, master.”
“Why not? I think it will be delightful.”
“Oh, no. It’s such a bother. Wouldn’t you rather stay here and just watch videos of happy people on the news?”
“I’ve done enough of that. I want to experience the sights, the sounds, the smells of a happy populace! Be back later!”
I got into the car, but it wouldn’t start. I tried the other 38 cars, all three planes, and the jet pack, but none of them would work. I ran to the gate, but it wouldn’t open. I began to suspect something was amiss.
I climbed over the gate and headed downtown. When I found a busy neighborhood, the people didn’t look any different than before. I found someone waiting for a bus and asked, “Isn’t it nice to be free of poverty, war, and all those other problems?”
“I wouldn’t know, bub,” he said. “Everything’s pretty screwed up as far as I can tell.”
That didn’t sound right. I investigated further. I checked a newspaper. War, disease, theft, violence. Nothing was solved at all!
I returned to my mansion and demanded an explanation.
“Well, it’s like this, master,” Fred began. “Solving all those problems without it causing some unforeseen bigger problem is, like, really hard. But changing all the information in here to say it’s been fixed is really easy! You’re rich and happy, so mission accomplished.”
It made a lot of sense, aside from being completely wrong and bad.
“You foolish twerp of a genie! I demand that you grant my wishes as I ask them from now on! Now, what do I want for my next wish? Ah, I know! Seeing as ending violence and fighting is too much for you, I wish to be more powerful than any army.”
“Sure thing, bro.”
Fred snapped his fingers and I immediately felt…well, exactly the same, really. “Did you do the thing? Am I powerful?”
“Yeah, of course! I made you a writer!”
“What!?!? Do you not understand me? Maybe English is your second or third language.”
“It’s my eighteenth, but I understood perfectly. Haven’t you ever heard that the pen is mightier than the sword?”
I blinked a few times. “I guess so, but that’s just a saying. It’s not literally true.”
“Sure it is! Here, I’ll prove it.”
Fred snapped his fingers again and a fearsome knight stood before me. He raised his sword and cut me in half.
Fred looked up from the dictionary. “Ohhhhhh, that’s what ‘literally’ means. My bad.”
With me dead, Fred was masterless and free to do whatever he wanted. He used his powers to take over the world and reigned over centuries of peace and prosperity that formed the foundation of humanity’s expansion throughout the universe. It was the dawn of a truly utopian era with no end in sight. So he can do all that but doesn’t know what “literally” means and he can’t make me survive one fight. Some genie.
It all began with the universe exploding out of nothingness in a phenomenon known as the Big Bang. 13.8 billion years later, I was walking to the post office to mail my pet giraffe to the vet. It seemed to have broken its neck as I folded it into the crate so the vet seemed a pertinent destination for it. Yes, it’s because I wrestle with these type of big type questions that they pay me the medium bucks.
As I was hammering one of the giraffe’s horns down so it would fit in the mail slot, I saw a man carrying a package and running towards me in a rapid sort of run, followed closely by several uniformed policemen. Either they were all growing at an alarming rate, or they were heading straight for me.
I quickly conducted a series of scientific experiments, published them in peer-reviewed journals, and gathered criticism and suggestions for further study from my fellow intellectual giants. The conclusion was inescapable: they were running right at me!
Seeing men run towards you is enough reason to circle the day on your Date-O Brand Calendar of Well-Known Days, but imagine my shock when I saw that the chas-ed man looked exactly like me! Are you imagining it? If you are, draw it on a postcard, put it through an industrial-strength combination shredder and paint mixer, and email the scraps to firstname.lastname@example.org to enter a drawing for a drawing of a drawing room with a drawbridge and a chest of drawers drawn by Long Drawn Milliner.
As I stood stunned from this revelation, the mysterious lookalike looked back at the police. Not seeing where he was going, he ran into me and our parcels fell to the ground. At this point he got a good look at me and shared my surprise. With the police closing in, we did a mirror routine. When I touched my nose, he touched his ear! When he rubbed my stomach, I fell on my sit-upon in ticklish mirth. He helped me up as the police applauded our antics. He dusted me off and we picked up our packages, shook hands, and went our separate ways, him to the back of a police car with his box and me to the post office with mine.
I was pondering the strange sudden appearance of my apparent twin (things had been rather strange lately; why, just the previous week I had found an onion ring in my french fries!) when the post office clerk said the postage would be $3.86 and it should arrive by Thursday. This seemed awfully cheap for a package containing an entire giraffe, so I took the box back and opened it. Not a single hoof sprang out. Nary a brown spot nor blue tongue was ejected from the box with a force that would make Isaac Newton blush, no! In fact, the box was completely devoid of giraffes!
Bum bum buuuuuuummmm!
Oh! Oh, yeah! We must have switched packages. Ha! I thought perhaps he was a wizard. Oh, what a day. Hey! Is it Friday yet? Ha! So yeah.
Bum bum buuuuuuummmm!
I hied immediately to the local library, looked up “police” in the encyclopedia, and learned all sorts of fascinating facts, such as where the police take you when you’re arrested. I rehied in a jailward direction and confidently strolled up to the sergeant’s desk to explain that they’d arrested my apparent twin and our packages had gotten switched and could I please have my 13oz box of Giraffe-Os in exchange for the mysterious parcel my seeming doppelgänger had left?
I’d gotten as far as “Hello, I” when they tased me, shot me, jumped up and down on me, threw me off the roof, set me on fire, and force-fed me glass shards laced with uranium-235. The sergeant then swept the pieces of me into a dustpan, dumped them in a solitary trash can, and said, “Can I help you, sir?”
I reconstituted my molecules — I minored in it at Seventh Diminished College — and explained the situation to him. You already know that part, so I’ll skip ahead. The sergeant wasn’t convinced. He said I had escaped earlier that morning disguised as a crumpled up copy of the Big City Tribune Gazette Times Post News Sun Journal and that I must have changed clothes and come back to the jail.
“That’s absurd!” I protested. “If I were the prisoner, why would I return to jail?”
“Because it’s karaoke night and you didn’t want to miss Officer Krampus’ electrifying rendition of ‘O Canada’!” he said.
With that, he slammed the door shut and walked away, cunningly avoiding the pit I’d surreptitiously dug, filled with pointy sticks, and covered with palm leaves as he led me in.
I was trapped! Framed! Imprisoned! All past participles that accurately described my loathsome situation. As I bemoaned my befate, I found myself knocked unconscious by a sudden blow on the head. When I awoke I discovered someone had thrown an anchor with a note tied to it through the window. I read the note.
Oh, did you want to know what it said? I’m sorry. Ahem!
It said, “I have your giraffe. I shall break you out at midnight and we can trade. Have no fear!”
“But that’s illegal,” I said.
“Just shut up and be ready,” the note replied.
Midnight came. It left a cup of chamomile tea to help me get some sleep. How thoughtful! I took a sip and immediately felt something wriggling around in my mouth. I spit it out and zounds! Egad! Gadzooks! It was my double!
“Thank goodness you’re here,” I said. “Now we can escape and get to the bottom of this identical twin mystery.”
“You stay away from my mysterious identical twin bottom!” he said.
We disguised ourselves as a breeze and blew out the window. From there it was a quick 40-foot plummet to the ground and then a mere three miles of hobbling on broken legs to the nearest Civil War doctor’s tent. We were given ether, had our legs sawn off, and died of infection.
The next morning, a guard found one of the jail cells empty except for a couple of packages. He opened one, unfolded the giraffe he found inside it, and stared at it for some time, quite puzzled. He opened the other one, found the jewels the missing prisoner had stolen, and took his lunch break. He was never seen again. The end.
The Actual End
I was polishing off my thirty-sixth bottle of Old Bastard whiskey when she knocked through the door. With it getting shot out twice a week, I’d started replacing the door’s glass with that cheap sugar glass they use in movies. I oughta put up a sign, I guess.
I must have been thinking about the glass for a while, because she’d stopped knocking out the glass and was leaning into my office and shouting obscenities. I waved her in and asked her to sit down while I opened another bottle of whiskey and took a sip.
“Whugh’gh a gai gugl gai guh guhgh igga guh gai lugh?” I asked. I swallowed and tried again. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a dump like this?”
“Hang on,” she said. “I’ll be there in a minute.” She was having trouble turning the knob since she had hooks for hands. I gallantly offered to open it for her. I strode over to the door, tripped over a pile of whiskey bottles, hit my head on the corner of the desk, and woke up in the hospital.
“Whugh haghghegh?” I asked. I swallowed my whiskey and tried again. “What happened?”
“You’ve got a concussion. You’ve been out for days. We had to operate. Luckily, you didn’t have much blood in your whiskey system so we were able to skip the anesthesia.”
“Your voice sounds familiar. Do I know you?”
The doctor pulled her mask down with her hook. “You certainly know how to make a woman feel special.”
“Now that we’re alone and my thoughts occasionally deslizarse en español, what were you coming to see me about?”
She walked to my bed. “It’s my husband, Frank,” she said. “He’s imaginary and also a green llama.”
“Ah, yes. A classic case of this story being written by an idiot. Do you have any pictures of him?”
She leaned towards me, pressing her body against mine. I winced as her shoulder knocked against my head wound. “Not here. They’re all taped to the fridge at home.”
“I see. Alright, I’ll take the case. My fee is $9 a day plus expenses. And one other thing.”
“Yes, anything!” She took a deep breath and the hooks in her bosom scratched the inside of my nostrils.
“Can you…put a new whiskey bottle in my IV drip?”
Just then, the door flung open and shots rang out. It was her husband, Frank. His enormous gun was specially designed to be fired with a hoof or whatever llamas have. Are they ungulates? I made a mental note to look it up later as I bled out through the bullet holes and all the gouges in my face from the bosom hooks. I’m not sure what happened next because I was dead. I hate it when that happens.