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Monday, October 25, 2010

If We Stop Selling Books, Then The Hippies Win

“Enough, enough,” President Clinton pleaded, “I…I think I just peed a little.” He was bent over at the waist, his hands on his knees, gasping for air and shaking off the last minor spasms brought on by his full body laughing attack.

“And then the black guy says, ‘that ain’t no water moccasin!’” I continued. Clinton found this particularly hilarious, so much so that he crumpled into a heap on the floor, clutching his chest and smiling broadly. He had finally stopped laughing, his eyes closed and mouth frozen in that haunting smile. I took a long pull from the whiskey bottle and sucked deeply on the cigar, looking at the pale, flabby figure of our greatest president, naked except for the piss-stained boxers and silver party hat, lying motionless on the floor of the log cabin. I kicked his leg, firmly but with deep affection.

“Get up, Billy,” I slurred, “Billy?” He continued lying still, his breathing imperceptible. I wondered if there might be a problem.

“You okay, big guy?” I asked. Clinton remained silent.

The day had started innocently enough, with Clinton and I at a dual book-signing event to promote our latest works; my novel, Penis Songs: Favre and Me and his follow up to his autobiography, My Life Part 2: The Vagina Whisperer, which marked the launch of our publishing partnership, an endeavor that would serve to broaden our respective fan bases while increasing our odds in poon-loading situations while on tour. But as the crowd began to dwindle at the signing, Clinton grew more and more restless. At last, one final fan stood in his line, a young man, college age, wearing glasses and a scarf with curly blond hair and a soul patch. I could see there might be trouble the way Clinton looked at the man.

“I’m such a huge fan, Mr. President,” the man gushed, “The work you’ve done in Haiti is inspiring.”

“Haiti?” Clinton said, “The only thing I know about Haiti is that’s how George Bush feels about black people.” Clinton looked at me and winked, then back at the young man, who looked shocked.

“You know, like the Kanye thing and Hurricane Katrina?” he said, looking back at me before returning his attention to the young man, “I’m just busting your nuts. G-Dub’s cool.” He took the book and opened it, picking up a pen.

“Okay, so you want me to make this out to Janeane Garofalo?” he asked.

“Uh, no, sir. My name’s Lance,” the young man said, flustered.

“Lance? That name sucks. How about I make it to one of the Dixie Chicks,” Clinton went on. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, and Lance was starting to cry.

“Aw, hell,” Clinton said, writing a greeting, “I’m just pulling on your junk, Lance. Don’t be so damn sensitive.” He handed the book back to Lance, who shuffled away with his head down.

“Pussy liberal hippies,” he said to me as we stood to leave, “That right there is why we can’t win any wars these days. Bunch of cry babies.”

“Well, you were a little hard on the boy,” I said.

“Not you too, GK,” he sighed, “Listen, why don’t we get whiskey drunk and head down to the local tavern and kick the hell out of some hippies, like the old days?”

“That would probably hurt book sales, Billy,” I said, “And if we stop selling books, then the hippies win.”

“Well what do wanna do then?” he asked, “I’m ready for some action.”

I told him about my log cabin in the lush rolling hills outside of the city, convincing him that a night outside the spotlight would be advantageous in allowing us to recharge our batteries in preparation for the next leg on the tour by promising that, in the event that he became too bored, we could send for Chinese takeout and prostitutes, and by promising to tell the story about the time I became stranded in the Louisiana bayou with the 1994 cast of Saturday Night Live and Chris Farley was killed and eaten by an alligator, which never failed to elicit a huge laugh from him.

And as I stood looking at his motionless body, I wondered if perhaps it had been a mistake to bring him to the cabin. I considered calling for K-Ro to come and perform CPR, but as I started for my iPhone, Clinton began to stir.

“What about those prostitutes?” he asked, still lying on the cabin floor.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Tom Thumb is a Giant

“’Aw, shucks,’ Brett said, exposing his genitals,” I read aloud to K-Ro, who was chewing on garlic-flavored fingernail clippings, the remnants of Mufasa the Congolese cook’s post-lunch house-keeping and personal hygiene efforts, and staring silently and intently at my luscious lips as I voiced my own prose with a mixture of the dramatic and the sensual. It was an excerpt from my latest novel, Penis Songs: Favre and Me, a fictionalized account of national icon Brett Favre’s struggle with MAPS (Mad About Poon Syndrome). Nearly complete, I was sure that the work would prove to be my finest, perhaps a masterpiece in its way, but even as the words poured forth, I recognized without a doubt that it would not become The Greatest Story Ever Written. The revelation gave me pause.

“Bravo,” K-Ro bellowed, standing to clap, “Could this be? Have you finally done it, sir?” Of course I slapped him.

“You fool,” I said, calmly, “You are as unaware of great art as you are that Cuba and Puerto Rico are comprised of two entirely different types of Mexicans!” K-Ro rubbed his reddening cheek softly. Sweetly.

“Favre will be old news soon,” I whispered, turning to the window, “His story won’t resonate with the common people like the scandal of how Tila Tequila gained 150 pounds, changed her name to Snookie and moved to Jersey to have sex with the mentally disabled. How did Mitch Albom scoop me on such a story?”

“My apologies, sir,” shuddered K-Ro, “I am…an ignorant fool.” He approached me and stopped at my side. I placed my hand affectionately on his shoulder. Then, after a moment, K-Ro turned and looked directly into my eyes.

“And so are you,” he growled. His words were an ambush, and I was gravely wounded. And suddenly furious. I raised my meaty fist to strike.

“If,” he continued, “you believe Mitch Albom to be half the writer you are.” He had raised his hands in defense, but there was deep affection in his eyes. And a calming serenity.

“But he is,” I argued, “Mitch Albom is precisely one half the writer as I.” I knew this to be fact, for I had once run into Albom at a bath house in Hot Springs, Arkansas. A tremendously tiny man in all ways, he was there for a writers’ workshop, I, to fornicate with hillbilly girls. I cleverly nicknamed him Tom Thumb.

“And now,” I said, my fist still raised, “Tom Thumb is a giant of literature.” I turned to my rotund friend. His demeanor had turned to one of grave concern. I struck him again, half-heartedly this time.

“Never mock me, K-Ro,” I whispered, extending a hand. Abashed, K-Ro stood. He straightened his jacket and tie as I returned to my reading.

“Pulling at his junk, Brett winked at the masseuse. ‘I call him Randy Moss,’ he sighed, ‘Say hi to Randy Moss…’”


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