We were somewhere east of Fraggle Rock when the drugs began to take hold. I remember saying something like, “I feel a bit light-headed, Miss Piggy. Maybe you should drive.” And suddenly there was a terrible sound around us, and the sky was full of what looked like alien squids going, “Yip yip yip! Uh-huh. Uh-huh,” swooping all around the car, which was going 100 miles per hour with the top down to Las Vegas. And a voice was screaming, “Holy Jesus! What are these fucking puppets?”
Then it was quiet again. Miss Piggy, my attorney, had taken her top off and was pouring beer on her chest to prevent her felt from pilling.
“What the fuck are you yelling about, Gonzo?” she asked. I rubbed my long blue nose.
It was almost noon and we had more than 100 miles to go. My editor had given me $300 cash, most of which was already spent on extremely dangerous puppeteering supplies. We had two bags of grass (the cellophane kind they put in Easter baskets, green); 75 pellets stuffed with stuffing (cotton, unbleached); six packages of jumbo pipe cleaners (multi-colored); and a salt shaker full of glitter cocaine (holographic).
Miss Piggy saw the hitchhiker before I did. “Let’s give this frog a lift,” she said, and before I could mount any argument, she had stopped, and this poor Okie frog was hopping up to the car with a big grin on his face saying, “Hot damn! I never rode in a convertible before!”
“Helloooo,” said Miss Piggy, batting her big felt eyelashes.
“Hello?” he said. “Last night you never even said goodbye. You lied to me! You used me!”
“Oh Kermie, let me explain,” she said.
“I saw you dancing with that mangy cookie thief, you sow,” he said.
“Sow? HI-YAHHH!” she shouted, nearly smacking him right out of the car.
Now, I’ve spent enough time in Muppet Country to know most of them lead pretty dull lives. Eat. Sleep. Fuck. Teach toddlers the alphabet. No wonder some of them drift over the line into cheap thrills once in awhile. But eventually, you start burning out the marionette strings like a 440-volt blast in an inflatable kiddie pool.
Maybe I’d better have a chat with this frog, I thought.
“How about some ether?” I said. “Helium? Perler beads?”
The only thing that worried me was the helium. There is nothing in the world more helpless and irresponsible and depraved than a puppet in the depths of a helium binge.
Kermit shook his head. His mouth fell open, as though he were a puppet with a limited number of ways to simulate human emotion.
Miss Piggy was now fumbling with the salt shaker containing the glitter cocaine. Opening it. Snorting it. Spilling it. Then screaming and grabbing at the air, as our fine iridescent dust blew up and out across the desert highway. A very expensive, very sparkly twister rising up from the convertible.
Her snout had more spangles than Abby Cadabby after a night working the pole at Brought To You By The Letter XXX.
“You’re a fucking narcotics agent!” I shouted. “I was on to your stinking act from the start, you pig!"
And suddenly she was waving a fat black .357 magnum hot glue gun at me. One of those snubnosed ones they sell at Jo-Ann Fabrics. "You flammable lint ball! You polyester turkey! I’ll glue your fucking eyes shut!”
“You swine!” I said. "I’ll cut you into felt bacon strips! Some kid will be frying you on a plastic stove in their Christmas jammies.”
The frog was climbing out of the back seat. “Thanks for the ride,” he yelled. "Thanks a lot. It isn’t easy being green, that’s for fucking sure.” His big webbed feet hit the asphalt and he started hopping back towards Fraggle Rock.
Out in the middle of the desert, not a tree in sight. We continued on to Vegas.