My Mom Came Back As a Running Back
by Lars Paul Linden
illustration by Greg Prindeville
Betsy Ross and Muzzleface held hands as the Archaeology Department steam shovels dug up Uncle Sam. College students on their way to class stopped and hissed. A Spider Crane lifted the carcass from the hole.
“Bluck!”
“Yuck!”
“That’s the grossest thing I’ve seen since the dead rock star exhibit at the Rock ‘n’ Roll Football Syndicate Wax Museum.”
People puked at the sight of Uncle Sam’s single, giant, mucous-dripping eye. Dogs sniffed the air and howled.
Uncle Sam’s red striped pants and blue overcoat were faded, but a technician color-enhanced the telecast for home viewers.
Scientists plopped Uncle Sam in a tank of preservative fluid and drove off toward a secret University laboratory. Security beat off a disgusted, fascinated crowd.
“I guess you weren’t hoping for an exclusive on the two people who discovered this mess,” Muzzleface said in a loud voice. Everybody froze. Then Betsy Ross and Muzzleface ran for their lives.
Losing Lottery Numbers Scroll Across the Screen
“Now Channel 360 News takes you to our roving reporter, Frank Fork, who is at the scene. Frank?”
“Thanks, Jack! I am standing in the hole where scientists uncovered what is being hailed as a major archeological find: Uncle Sam gripping an out-of-print 7” record by the Continental Mentals.
“Sources tell me that Uncle Sam has received offers from several major sports franchises, and will be starring in the upcoming E Dubious Unum III movie with Hollywood’s own Jenny Knock-Outburger. This is Frank Fork, reporting. Back to you, Jack!”
“Thanks, Frank. I like little boys, and that’s the Channel 360 news.”
Call 1-900-Sam-U-&-Me
“Deodorant is a must for any corpse that wants a healthy, active sex life. Five-out-of-three Rock ‘n’ Roll Football Syndicate trading card collectors use Wham-Bamm-Thank-You-Sam Mouthwash. Sold in this 1 oz. bottle, and costing half a paycheck, one sniff and you’ll agree – freedom is a potent thing.”
And Now With New Extra Angst
Screaming parents mobbed toy stores, scratching each other’s eyes out to get their hands on shrink-wrapped Uncle Sam carcass action figures. Shoppers filled shopping carts with fake chin whisker make-up kits, “I Brake For Grave Robbers” bumper stickers, signed red, white, and blue basketballs, and formaldehyde-flavored power drinks.
Before the next traffic report, Uncle Sam was the basis of a $200 million cottage industry.
Six-fingered accountants broke pencils calculating the profit margin from the exploitation of the exhumed Uncle Sam. If only he wasn’t trapped inside a glass cylinder, and dead. Modern Science went into action.
Men in white lab coats applied Sam-I-Am Life Restoration Lotion to Uncle Sam’s scalp three times an hour in hopes that he would do more than float peacefully in his tank. They smoked and shocked rabbits, and waited for signs of life.
“I bet you if we splice in those rabbit genes, he’d be lucky enough to be picked in the first round of the draft. Hey, I’m going to the vending machines, can I get you anything?”
“Yeah, grab me a beer – hey, hurry up, Science in Rock ‘n’ Roll is coming on the tube.”
“Hey, did you notice that Uncle Sam just blinked?”
Both scientists screamed. Uncle Sam smashed out of his glass tank with a mighty splash of formaldehyde. He picked up a guitar and ripped out a solo.
Science In Rock ‘n’ Roll
“If the distance from Uncle Sam’s amplifier is doubled, the sound pressure level is reduced by approximately 6 dB. Indeed, the word ‘approximate’ is necessary because the inverse square law is based on spherical divergence in free space and the University Laboratory is indoors, with many reflecting surfaces.”
OK, Enough of That
Uncle Sam smashed the guitar into a tortured amp. He busted out of the lab and into the parking lot where Betsy Ross and Muzzleface had the pickup truck idling. Fancy guns were fired.
Several guards gave chase. They took their bullets well, waving to their wives and kids as the 11 o’clock news cameras zoomed in.
A local police captain tried to prevent Uncle Sam from escaping, but he had forgotten to brush his teeth that morning. He failed. A press conference was called, producing the sound bite: “He wasn’t shot in the head. He was shot in Texas.”
The Hit Single “Your Flatbed, My Shotgun”
On the road, Betsy Ross and Muzzleface fell in love while arguing about which Continental Mental song had been Top 10 for the most number of weeks.
With a pack of Step. Hopkins Legalized, and Uncle Sam sedated and tied down to the flatbed, Betsy Ross and Muzzleface smoked their way across the Theme Park.
“Betsy, stop reading that history book and tell me what you’ve learned.”
“My research tells me that 229 years ago, the older twin of a meat-packer was born dead.”
“So why the big eye?”
“Better television watching.”
Muzzleface took his eyes off the road. “You checked that book out from the public library?”
“With the help of a friendly, knowledgeable staff.”
“Damn! How can I get a library card?”
“It’s easy, Muzzleface. And it’s free.”
From the mushroom cloud of the University, they drove down cannabis-lined highways to the nearest ocean. They drove down, then off, a short wooden-planked pier, then sank underwater while making out.
What the Government Thinks You Can’t Handle (The Censored Ending)
The gas pump money dials chimed with old-fashioned bells. They had pulled over and were getting gas in a semi-deserted filling station. With tumbleweed blowing across the lot, Betsy Ross and Muzzleface stared at Uncle Sam, transfixed by the giant eye glistening in the frontier’s noonday sun. Betsy Ross tilted her head, then smiled.
“What is it?” asked Muzzleface.
Betsy Ross went over to and stuck her hand down Uncle Sam’s pants and shook her head.
“What is it?” Muzzleface asked.
“Muzzle, we didn’t discover Uncle Sam.”
“No?”
“We discovered… how shall I say this?”
“Tell me.”
“We discovered Uncle Samantha.
