Suggested Audio Jellybeans:
 Elton John “Tiny Dancer”
 Kelis “Milkshake”
 Thomas Newman “Jail/Port Authority By Day”
Once upon a time there was a rather curious fellow. This fine figure of a man was affectionately referred to by his close friends as Keeper and lived in a small farm-house on the outskirts of town, where he bred geese and named them all Susan. He resided mostly in his poky bed chamber and spent hefty wads of his free time petting insects, soaking in damp through his ass cheeks, and fending off pneumonia. There wasn’t a great demand for his geese outside of a blink and you’ll miss it cameo in Desperately Seeking Susan for his prize goose Susan. However, despite being a fair few bricks short of a chimney stack, Keeper had something in his possession which had the ability to change his life forever and supply him the financial clout for a fair few gaggles of Susans.
A bean. It all sprouted from a solitary jellybean. Having visited market in the search for a bargain, Keeper had come across a strange vagabond who thrust said candies into his hand with the words “the only way is up Keeper” before fading back into the shadows. After optimistically planting these kernels in his own back yard the same evening, Keeper was astonished to see them grow like a fiddler’s erection by the very next dawn until their gargantuan growth resembled Doogie Howser’s
sixhead. As far as the clouds and then some more, this beanstalk provided Keeper with an exclusive opportunity, one which he didn’t procrastinate in exploring. The only way was seemingly up as the curious chap at market had stated, thus he embarked on his verticle expedition, armed only with a dotted crimson handkerchief and a pocketful of posies. Whatever the fuck they are.
One wayward wobble would have seen hapless Keeper eviscerated by oversized thorns if not finished off already by the mere shock of the fall and his one-year tenure as a hopelessly inept skateboarder had taught a lesson or two about how losing one’s balance could have dire repercussions. This gnarly assault course led him straight into the fluffy stuff and he arrived, nosebleed intact, at the lofty summit with no inkling as to what would await the other side. It seemed quite a salubrious locale at first but Keeper had played enough Crash Bandicoot to know never to trust a cloudy platform (or a Chinese geisha with an umbrella apparently). One thing he did become privy to from the offset was the sheer magnitude of his new surroundings. I believe the term mahoosive is commonplace and it best describes the gigantism of the Wonderland presented.
It was a free-for-all for Keeper, a world of limitless opportunity, and kingdom of the free. Everything your wildest dreams could conjure up was present and correct and he appeared to be the one object built to scale. Smaller than a pigeon’s pen-knife, he could fit inside the vaguest air bubble or plummet through the slightest gap in a paving slab, should his scruples not have been primed. Being the eternal optimist, Keeper decided that this world was an over-sized oyster to be explored and began for scour for hijinks to be had immediately. He considered the delectable notion of scantily clad vixens in knee-high socks and sporting mammoth bunches, sucking cherry lollipops large enough to fill a hole in the ozone layer. Penetrative sex would undoubtedly be out of the question as entering their mile wide clitorises would be the equivalent of lobbing a gnat into a wind tunnel.
At the very least he could relocate there and live out his remaining days dodging plummeting queen-sized oviums and covering his ears for any subsequent pussy flatulence. A nice table and chairs, maybe some Venetian blinds, and a 50″ flat screen and he could have it ship-shape in no time. Perhaps he could invite the O’Learys over for a spot of afternoon tea and a few harmless rounds of Wii Sports. Fuck it. They could move in too if they so wished as there was plenty of square feet just begging to be put to better use than they were currently. While he was at it he could set up an orphanage for spent sperms as, from 1.2 billion seeds per shot, only one would ever be likely of reaching nirvana making it a more thankless endeavor than entering a Little Miss Sunshine pageant although with admittedly less heinous intentions. Monty Python had taught him well that every sperm was sacred and this was his big chance to give something back. Regrettably for Keeper, his imagination invariably focused on cause and nary effect.
Foolish infidel. Really his first thought should have been to slide back down this beany pole and never utter a word of his yellow retreat to another soul for as long as he lived. However, Keeper’s weakness was seduction and, the very moment he laid eyes on a mecca-sized milkshake a few clicks from his coordinates, he knew he absolutely had to get his slurping gear round that mammoth straw, regardless of the fact that this shake contained almost half a million calories and would travel straight to his hips in the time it took Justin Bieber to vacate Poland after Frank-Gate. Alas, in all the hoo-hah, he didn’t spot the hulking figure of an ominously sized ogre, curiously named Pete Jones, looming in from his blind-side and suddenly his visions of grandeur were obliterated in an instant.
While Pete was no relation to Hacksaw Jim Duggins, he did sport a similar pair of delightful Lycra shorts and was just as adept at the involuntary contortion of others as his man-sized counterpart. Keeper was a mere wisp of hair on Pete’s giant scrotum, a nuisance and nothing more. The first he knew of this embittered behemoth’s attendance was when Jones let out a grumbling baritone holler. “What’s that bleeding stench? Smells like…like an Englishman no less.” The colossus reached straight for his bone-grinder and this presented Keeper with his sole opportunity of escape which he took without so much as a first thought. However, as he made the almighty dash for the safety of foliage, he was swiftly rumbled as, in one elongated step Pete was right on his tailpipe, biting at the air behind him like an 800 foot tall pair of wind-up teeth but nowhere near as amusingly.
All was appearing to be somewhat lost when a shadowy figure peered his lion-esque mane over the rim of the beanstalk. Could it be? Is that really…the legendary Sir Giles? As Keeper knew only too well, his eyes told absolutely no lies, and palpable relief rippled over him instantaneously. “Aye lad, ’tis me…Giles.” Was a most relieving audio at that point and, just fleetingly, Keeper spotted the silver lining in this somewhat enormous shit cloud. In the next split-second Pete’s over-sized foot trod down one of his legs, tearing it straight from its stump as though he were a window licking daddy-long-legs. Giles rode briskly forward on his skeletal mount and fired a blaze of bitter molten disgust from his staff of necromancy. This was enough to temporarily impair his aggressor while he hauled the severely injured Keeper to evac like Bubba Gump. Maybe one day they too would co-lease a fishing trawler and live out their days desperately sorry for not inviting women along on the cruise.
Jones was beyond furious. How dare this little pipsqueak have designs on his milkshake? Who did he think he was? In his own surroundings he may well have been more than zero but here, in the land of the giants, he was in decidedly negative equity. Moreover, he despised nothing more than do-gooders. It seemed mighty presumptuous to expect that he could home over a billion demoralized spunk bullets and, besides, Pete’s soldiers were of the kamikaze variety and more than willing to perish for the greater good. He had seen Keeper’s type before, all whopping promises, and the first to head for the hills once the load had been shot. Giles may well have warded him off momentarily but this was far from over. Hell hath no fury like a scorned ogre, particularly when the brute in question flossed his teeth with skyscrapers and wiped his ass with quaint Greek islands. Actually he never wiped and the mere chafing alone was almost too much for Sir Giles to bear as he took his place on the top rung of the beanstalk.
The journey back to terra firma was beyond treacherous and Pete’s immense size made it inevitable that he would be hot on their heels the entire way. Keeper was barely conscious for the most part as the blood loss was so severe but Sir Giles refused to let him buckle and carried him valiantly down the stem whilst firing the occasional opportunist bolt of lava from his fast diminishing staff. Eventually he made second contact, straight between Pete’s eyes to be precise, and the juggernaut lost his footing and tumbled from the vine to his death. The sheer force of his impact with the ground below was almost enough to relinquish both men of their foothold but, once the dust finally settled, they made it back home and Keeper’s first action was to kiss the ground beneath him. Actually, he only did this as Sir Giles forgot that his right leg was nothing more than a stump now and he plummeted into the soil, knocking several teeth out on a paving slab on the way down. Dental work is one thing but he was just thankful to still have one good leg and everything else still in working order.
Keeper had dodged a particularly burly bullet that day and, had it not been for Sir Giles, he would surely have been decimated. To thank his compadre, he offered him one of his prized assets, although the first thing Giles did was to change its name to Elizabeth. She died of dysentery three weeks later and is now buried in his front yard next to his terrapin Curtis and the notorious goldfish brothers, Marty and Clyde. However, things got decidedly better for Keeper from that day onward as one of his geese, namely Susan, became a massive hit on Broadway and it afforded him the riches to buy a truck load of legit jellybeans should he so wish. However, any thoughts of planting them were short-lived as he had learned a rather invaluable lesson from his near-death experience. All that glitters is not gold and even if it is, then what chance do you possibly have of dragging a 7400 carat bullion down a beanstalk anyhoots? A goose is for life, not just Christmas, and some vaginas are just a little big to explore in safety.
Life is a lot like a fairy tale in many respects. All of us kiss the occasional frog in the hope that they will mutate into royalty, most of us have a wicked stepmother, and we all climb our own beanstalks every day. Mine has been a long, winding journey of discovery and has taught me much about the Pete Joneses of this world; wanting nothing more than to grind our bones just to make their bread. As for Keeper: he came, he saw, he had one leg pulled off at the femur and, ultimately, he decided that he preferred his feet firmly planted on the ground. That was his happily ever after. He even went as far as writing an ode to his time with the jellybeans.
I has beans in my pocket of the jelly variety
and I’ve grown somewhat weary of my constant sobriety
so I’m taking to the stalk with no end of vigor
and going to a place where everything is bigger
That milkshake brings all the boys to the yard
perhaps I shall grab me a sip
my decision really ought not to be hard
and who cares if it goes to my hips
I’ve never before seen a clunge so immense
looks like a real fixer upper
I’ll just pray to heaven that her muscles don’t tense
or I won’t still be present come supper
That giant approaching blames me from encroaching
says he’s gonna grind down my bones
I may well regret setting out to provoke him
I’ve heard all about this Pete Jones
Each belch comes with tremors every fart’s a tsunami
and it seems like I’ve got this beast riled
to beat this behemoth I’ll need a small army
and I may have found one in Sir Giles
I may be mistaken but I promise no faking
it appears we have reached our conclusion
this proud knave has only gone saved this fool’s bacon
so for that I shall gift him a Susan