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Monday, November 26, 2007

Call Me K-Ro

"Governor Schwarzenegger?"

"Yes, sweetheart."

"Karl Rove is here to see you."

"Send him in, dollface."

K-Ro entered the governor's office, looking greatly unimpressed, and walked abruptly across the room to the gold-encrusted desk behind which the former thespian sat, eating poached condor eggs and washing them down with Tim Robbins' tears. The governor stood and extended a hand.

"Karl! It's great to see you. What brings you to my kingdom?"

"Hello, Arnold," K-Ro said, shaking his hand, "I've been down in LA."

"The old hunting grounds," Arnold said, "I've been thinking about getting back there myself, maybe giving that Kardashian chick a test drive. I've heard good things, and Maria looks more and more like 'Ghost Rider' every day."

"So, Karl, old friend, what can I do for you?" he added.

"What do you know about what happened at the Vick place?" K-Ro asked.

"I lost a lot of friends there," Arnold said, "All over some stinking animals."

"You don't like dogs?"

"I'll tell you what I like," Arnold said, "I like large-breasted women and foul-smelling cheeses. I like dark, sour Ukranian beer and heavily salted sun-dried meats. I like snuff films featuring donkeys and pre-pubescent Asian boys and watching monkeys have sex and throw their feces on Animal Planet," and then he paused, looking deeply, seriously, coldly into K-Ro's eyes, "But I hate, I mean I absolutely despise dogs."

"What about cats?" K-Ro asked.

"Cats are all right," Arnold said.

"What if I told you there is evidence that could implicate the government in the explosions?" K-Ro asked.

"Karl, Karl," Arnold said, "That is ludicrous. Why would the government be involved?"

"I don't believe the government is involved," K-Ro said, "I think someone is trying to set the president up to take the fall."


"You tell me," K-Ro said, matter-of -factly. Arnold froze.

"Why would I know...,"he began, but before he could finish K-Ro reached out and grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head down viciously and smashing his face into the gold-encrusted desk. Arnold fell back into his chair and looked up at K-Ro, dazed and bloodied. At first it appeared that he had lost a tooth in the attack, but K-Ro realized it was just the gap in his teeth. That famous gap.

"Who is behind this deception?" K-Ro demanded.

"Karl, of course I don't know!" Arnold pleaded. K-Ro slapped him hard across the face.

"Who is behind this deception!" he screamed, slapping him again.

"Please, no more!" Arnold begged, "They'll kill me if I talk!" K-Ro reached for his iPhone.

"What do you think I'll do?" he said, setting the iPhone to "kill."

"Wait," Arnold cried, "I'll tell you." He went limp in the chair, his body moved only by deep sobs.

"It was Oprah," he finally admitted. K-Ro tried to mask the alarm that he knew his face revealed, but Arnold was too busy sobbing to notice. Finally he looked at K-Ro.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"The poodle with the state seal on his collar I gave you as an inaugural gift?" K-Ro said, "I saw his tiny lifeless body at the Vick mansion. You killed him. Had I only known you hated dogs."

"I'm sorry, Karl," Arnold cried.

"Call me K-Ro," K-Ro said, and walked out the door.

A Craving For Chocolate

The applause was deafening, and as I made my way onto the stage I found it necessary to evade the storm of undergarments and roses falling all around me. Several women on the front row were overcome by the emotions brought forth from witnessing first hand my raw and fierce sexuality and had to be carted off to safety. An unscheduled commercial break was ordered when Oprah herself had to be excused so she could change into a fresh pair of panties. I could only chuckle when Stephen King was brought on stage to join me and the thunder died to a much more subdued, polite smattering.

"So, are you two related in any way?" Oprah asked, getting the interview underway.

"No, ma'am," I said, "My name is only a psuedonym. If my true identity is revealed, the nation could find itself in grave danger. Plus, my parents don't want to be bothered by paparazzi."

"Where does the name 'Fisherking' come from?" she asked.

"I studied bass fishing at university. After being drafted number one overall into the professional bass fishing tour, and winning league MVP three straight years, I was forced to retire due to injuries. Plus, I wake up most mornings to a 'fishy' smell."

"Amazing," she said, "What sort of injuries forced your retirement?"

"I have 'bass elbow'," I said.

"Ouch," she said, and turned to Stephen King, "Tell me, Stephen, what brings you here?"

"Um, well, I was told my book made it into your book club," Stephen said.

"Ooh, really?" she said, "What's it about?"

"Oh, you haven't read it?" he asked, perplexed, "Well, let's see, it's really scary. It has Indian burial grounds and vampires and, um, pit bulls and Freddy Krueger and black people, and, um, what else is scary? Um, let's see, there are Mexicans and..."

"Really great," Oprah said, "Now Fisherking, what are you doing later on tonight?"

"Now wait a minute!" Stephen said angrily, "It's my turn! You already talked to him. I'm Stephen King! I'm one of the most successful authors of all time!"

"Yeah, you're really good," I said, "Loved Maximum Overdrive, by the way. And you were great as 'Skippy' on Family Ties."

"Screw you!" he said, "What have you even done?"

"I wrote an episode of The Cosby Show that convinced Keith Richards to give up drugs," I said, "And I wrote Anna Nicole Smith's obituary six month's before she died."

"Really?" Oprah asked.

"Yeah," I said, "I just had to change the name from Britney Spears to Anna Nicole, but the rest happened pretty much just how I wrote it."

"Amazing," she said.

"I have to admit, that is pretty cool," Stephen said, "And, at the risk of sounding gay, you're a stunningly attractive fellow."

"Thanks bro," I said, "I can't lie to you and say you're not hideously unbearable to look at, but your writing doesn't suck too bad."

"Fair enough," he said. The audience let loose a collective and tender sigh, then burst into applause.

"We'll be back after these messages," Oprah said to the camera before turning to me.

"Do you have dinner plans for tonight?" she asked.

"None," I said, "But I have a craving for chocolate."

Friday, November 23, 2007

Damn That Stephen King

And so the world could now see that there is a standard somewhere on the outer reaches of human grasp, beyond perfection and even the realm of the gods, where I, the Fisherking, could be counted as the lone denizen. And from this metaphorical mountaintop I would peer down across the vast landscape of the kingdom that I now ruled, and cast my judgement upon my inferior subjects in the form of the artistic renderings that had now attained the highest level of acclaim and critical platitudes that accompanied my entry into Oprah's Book Club. It was party time.

"Ooh, K-Ro," I said, "Call Vince Vaughn and see if he'll come to the party!"

"Vince Vaughn is dead, sir," K-Ro said, "He was killed in the explosion at the Vick mansion."

"What about Jeremy Piven?"


"Jodie Foster?"


"Tobey Maguire?"


"Adrian Grenier?"


"Dammit, K-Ro!" I snapped, "What the hell am I paying you for? Adrian Grenier? You know, the kid from those Mac commercials?"

"Oh right," K-Ro said, "I believe he's going to Stephen King's party." Damn that Stephen King. Furious, I hurled my laptop across the room toward K-Ro, but he, being a former ballet dancer, lithely dodged the impending threat and it shattered against the wall.

"Sir!" K-Ro screamed, "That laptop held all your notes for the Vick story!"

"Damn the Vick story!" I yelled, picking up the broken laptop and flinging it once again at K-Ro only to watch as he pirouetted to safety.

"Damn Stephen King, damn Adrian Grenier, and damn you, K-Ro!" K-Ro held a perfect cinquieme as his face melted in pained sorrow.

"Please don't say that, sir," he pleaded, "Have you forgotten the Vick story? It was to be the greatest story ever written."

"Don't you understand, K-Ro? I've been selected into the Oprah Book Club! Oprah! Apparently, the greatest story ever written has already been written, and I wrote it!"

"Yeah, you or Stephen King," was his tart response.

"Ouch, bro," I said. But the damage was done. In all my life I have never suffered an attack so vicious, and I wasn't about to start. If K-Ro couldn't recognize the importance of such an honor bestowed as inshrinement in the Oprah Winfrey Book Club, then our relationship could carry forth no longer.

"You're fired, my once-faithful friend," I whispered, my back turned to the traitor.

"It's been an honor, sir," K-Ro said before gathering the broken laptop and exiting the room, leaving behind only a trail of tears. I stood for a moment gathering my thoughts, and my attention turned once again to the night's impending celebration.

"Danica!" I yelled. A moment later my driver appeared.

"Yes, sir?"

"Call Ryan Seacrest."

"He's dead."

"Tommy Lee?"



"I think we can get him."

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

They Got Screech!

The relentless juggernaut of my intellect pushed onward searching for answers to the mystery unfolding before me. Clues sprang forth like gnats, dancing teasingly beyond the reach of my considerable grasp. Sitting alone in the study, I rubbed my elegantly beefy forefinger across the arm of my chair, drawing a thick, mucousy glob of strawberry jam onto my fingertip and inserting it hungrily into my mouth. From the master bedroom I could hear K-Ro grunting and moaning as he made enthusiastic love to Danica, and she, reaching climax, calling out my name. Suddenly, the fiercely intelligent entomological hunter that is my mind captured one of the metaphorical insects, and I closed my eyes so that it could reveal the truth it concealed.

"Turn on the TV!" K-Ro screamed as he burst naked through the door, shattering my concentration and allowing the insect to escape my grasp. The suddenness of his entrance, combined with my broken concentration and his naturalistic state, rendered me momentarily confused.

"Good Lord, K-Ro," I finally said, "Is that your penis?"

"Why yes," he replied, looking down, "That's Tricky Dick. He appears to be spent."

"He hardly appears at all." The pun was not intended, but appropriate.

"Nonetheless, sir, you must turn on the television," he continued, "There's been a tragedy."

I immediately switched on the TV and turned it to CNN. The scene was unimaginable. The flashing lights of emergency vehicles cast a sinister glow on the grounds of the Vick mansion that was darkened by the shadows of the thick plumes of smoke roiling upward and obscuring the bright California sun. Anderson Cooper appeared shattered and heartbroken as he read the names of the hundreds of celebrities who were killed in the bombs that struck the gathering outside the gates of the mansion. I sat dumbfounded and speechless. I could hear Danica softly weeping in the bedroom and I finally turned away from the screen, appalled, and looked at K-Ro.

"Put on some pants, will ya?" I said, my voice cracking.

For the next several hours K-Ro, Danica and I sat watching the news reports coming from the scene of the insidious crime. The death toll was shocking and extraordinary. It was a total loss.

"Oh my God!" K-Ro wept, "They got Screech!"

"Turn it off!" Danica pleaded. I flipped from channel to channel, only to find more accounts of the tragedy. Finally I stopped. Oprah was announcing her newest book club choice. The lights in her studio went dim and Michael Buffer strode to the stage carrying a microphone.

"And now, the newest addition to the Oprah Winfrey Book Club is...How to Hang Out and Screw Hot Chicks by Fisherking!"

I couldn't believe it. Having won the National Book Award for my previous novels, Intimate Moments and the Men Who Lie About Them and Bulls on Parade: The Rosie O'Donnell Story, I thought that I had attained the highest levels of achievement in my professional life. But this was different. This was Oprah.

"Come on, you guys!" I said, trying to conceal my glee, "We're gonna be on Oprah!"

"But what about the story?" K-Ro asked.

"Who cares," I said, "We're gonna be on Oprah!"

"And," Michael Buffer continued on the television, "For the first time, Oprah has added a second book to her club, Stephen King's This Time it Really is Scary, I Promise!"

"What the...?" I said.


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