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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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