

### Eleven Ducks All in a Row

### Short Stories 2

### Simon Smithfield

Copyright © 2016 by Simon Smithfield. All rights reserved.

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### Dreams of the Somnambulist - Obligatory Entrails Number Three

He woke just before dawn and immediately recognized that he wasn't in his own house. He had no idea whose house this was, didn't recall being there previously and didn't know how he got there. He felt eerie in the opaque gray silence. The semblance of diffused light meandering through the room's one unadorned window didn't enlighten, but served to accentuate the drear of the damp, early spring morning. It did nothing to dispel his vague feeling that something ominous was waiting.

Worse, the room was devoid of his small, but rare book collection. He would have to attempt to survive the day without referring to "Tertiary Aspects of Pre-Columbian Eroticism," "Lionel Model Prices as a Precursor to Apocalypse," "Thirty Fun Things to do with a Washing Machine on Legs," and "The Bilderbergers are Pissing in your Soup."

Though the rational side of him suggested that he remain exactly where he was, something compelled him to get moving; possibly a function of his being American. He rose and sat at the edge of the brass bed, proud of his accomplishment, and encouraged that nothing had yet struck in the tiny room devoid of clocks. Taking advantage of this almost confident feeling, he briskly walked out the open door and entered a dark hallway. The uneasy feeling returned and he ran to the front door and opened it to the soft morning light.

He thought he heard a cowbell, but didn't see the cows or the one who rang. He walked down the garden path to discover that it led him back where he had started; the front door. Feeling dizzy, he got off the path, squashing a few dandelions in the process.

He approached two people who were apparently trying to do something to or with a willow, which had little to say in the matter. They had nametags pinned to their shirt pockets which said Emmanuel Tweak; PhD Forestry and Raashan Blind, PhD Physics. As he felt a need to protect his property, he attempted to engage the two interlopers in a polite conversation, which would basically say; "Get the hell off my property." However the two with the tag things next to their nerd packs paid him no mind and continued with their own heated discussion. Apparently they were trying to measure the tree and were debating the proper way to do that. Emmanuel insisted that the roots should count in the measurement and offered a plan derived from other willow excavations to estimate their length. Raashan was adamantly opposed to that, taking the position that "If it is not seen it is not there." He was amenable to digging up the willow to establish that indeed the tree did have roots, but Emmanuel had a problem with that saying that it would probably kill the tree.

The sleepwalker we know as "He" is compelled to step up for the good of the tree which belongs to him, but realizes that he doesn't even know whose property he is on. Besides, the two with the credentials were only listening to each other, if that, so he continued on his non-path.

On the other side of the front horse fencing a person was using a screwdriver in an attempt to separate the mailbox from its weathered post.

He yelled; "Hey. Get off my mailbox."

"Ain't yours."

"Yeah, right. But ain't yours either."

"Soon it will be. Just a few more turns of the screw. These are valuable collectors' items."

"Abounding banalities say only trite things."

"What?"

"Drop dead." He walked on.

A thin, jovial man was grinning affably in the middle of the yard. He seemed very normal other than the tail which appeared to protrude from somewhere near the middle of his ass. "May I be of any assistance? What is it you wish?"

"I want to be awakened."

"With the lights out it's less dangerous. Um, sorry, bro, can't handle that one. But, I can get you a dinner with Jon Procalm."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Hey, give me a break. Some jerk told me that Jon was going to be the next big thing in Bizarro. ........ Well, he didn't lie. ........ Hard to tell. Jon may well be the big thing, but Bizarro has about five followers. So, I sprung and now I've got like 200 of these things to get rid of, no takers, and the jackass is going to get killed in about a year."

"Oh, that's awful. Maybe I'll take one, but it's got to be a package deal. Who or what is going to kill him?"

"Those poisonous little bacterial fuckers which grow on well used butt plugs. Colostomy bag and the whole trip ain't gonna help. Those little bastards move quicker than a scalpel."

"Colostomy bag?"

"Yeah, I mean it won't be all that long. And they make 'em better now. The things just don't burst open like they used to."

"Yeah, yeah. I heard that about the water beds. I think I'll pass on that one."

"Smart man. Just as well. All three of these "Bizarro" writers talk about how they idolize him, but when they get a chance to meet him, no takers. I might do better if I didn't tell people about the butt plug and the colostomy bag stuff. Most people don't know this, but God made me to be honest. My curse is that nobody wants to hear the truth, so they say I'm a liar. It's God who is the liar."

"Never talks to me at all."

"Yeah, he got that ecumenical image, but he's a real snob. Got his chosen people, and everyone else can go eat shit as far as he's concerned. So what else can I do for you?"

"Well, I'd really like to wake up at least a few hours before sundown. Seems pretty reasonable request to me."

"Eeeooooow, reasonable you ignorantly say. You would think so, wouldn't ya? Do you have any idea how much time and effort it takes to do that? Could be years, even decades. Besides, even if I took the time; you'd start complaining that you're not fully awake and want me to prove to you that you are; which is of course impossible even if I knew what that is; and in the meantime you'll renege on the deal and start complaining ............."

"All right, all right. You're getting yourself all in a tizzy there. I'm not sure I want to wake up anyway. See this is my dream and I can do anything I want here with no repercussions."

"Good point. Let me see there must be something I can get for you. How about a kidney shaped pool. You'll be the envy of the whole neighborhood."

"And everyone will start throwing rocks in it, and I'll have to spend my days with the guy who cleans pools. And I must have left my trunks somewhere else and ..................."

"All right, all right. Look who's in the tizzy now. Didn't think you'd like that one anyway. It's still chilly here, anyhow. How about a date with Miley Cyrus?"

"Already had one, and I don't like re-runs."

"Damn. I'm going to have to come up with some of the good stuff. Eternal life?"

"Tricky without a load of specifics and I don't care one way or the other anyway."

"Bob Dylan's new unlisted phone number?"

"You're useless. I'm out of here."

"Little joke. Little joke. ........ Man, you're difficult. And I'm just tryin' to he'p you out."

"Hey. You think I'm three years old or what? He'p me out. My ass. If you got anything on the ball you ought to be able to come up with a better line than a poor-ass, redneck handyman."

"You found the thorn tree."

"Lots of 'em around. Hard to miss. In the meantime, this is becoming a whopper of a bore. Would you kindly clear the way, or do I have to clear it myself?"

### Yet Another Example of a Totally Useless Book Review. This One Done in Quasi-Literary Format

At the beginning Of David Foster Wallace's 1996 classic "Infinite Jest," Hal is in Deans' office, presumably to enable them to decide whether or not he's worthy of an athletic scholarship; with lower requisites than an academic one. The stated problem is that his exemplary high school grades were achieved in a school owned by his parents. There is a conflict with his "closer to zero than desired" standardized test scores which the "Ministers of Information" want to clear up through a personal meeting. Hal notes the coldness, rigidity, remoteness, covered up aspects, and the falsity of the room; once sarcastically describing the double paned windows as being "closed against the November heat." He does not interrupt the proceedings likely due to having taken his tennis coach's advice to err on the side of caution. During the meeting a pattern becomes abundantly clear. Any question he is asked is answered for him by someone else; most often utilizing information extracted from their computers. When Hal senses that the meeting will soon end he says things; rather complicated things, which don't seem to make much sense; outside of them being a possible testimony to his interest in rather arcane esotericism. At one point he says; "I could tell you about these things, and you might even be interested." When he stands up, the Deans leap upon him, saying he is unbalanced, and Hal winds up with his face in the carpet. It might detract from the mystery of the story to say that for some strange reason Hal did not get the scholarship. .............. Toward the end of the book, the violent storm is easily deciphered as a representation of an apocalyptic event. Funnel clouds destroy the houses of those who have abstained from the available drugs. Gately (Gates of Eden? A Hal double?) wakes after the worst has passed, yet it is still raining. He is alone and on his back on a beach. It is still cold. But, having taken the drugs he has survived. It's not the best solution, but it is the best one available. The closing line; "the tide was way out," is among other things a simple reference to increased awareness.

So, what is there to understand one deftly asks? At its essence, it's just another book. Well, that's an easy to answer. The relevance of this book is beholden to its 1938 screwball comedy predecessor; "Bringing Up Baby." Hepburn and Grant starred while Hawks directed the story centered on the domestication of a gentle, sweet tiger who managed to scare everyone except Katharine, Cary, and Howard. For the DFW 1996 counterpoint, one might make note of the sabre (Change one letter. Ease are equal to a's, and in the Palestinian pronunciation is the equivalent of a US haze.) toothed tiger. He knows that the best way to win is to get your enemies to fight each other. He also knows that a competent investigator will pursue an avenue which starts and often ends with; "Who received the most benefit from the conflict?" All fingers will lead to him, so he has a diversionary plan. This is the weakest part of his chain, but it's not too easily detected. He knows that people think of "tigers" without making the differentiation between types of tigers. He facilitates a situation in which tigers are slaughtered, thereby eliminating the possibility that people will think in terms of 100% "tiger benefit," as they simultaneously ignore the 100% benefit for the sabres' sub-section. Because of the slaughter, it has become socially unacceptable, and in more significance, criminally punishable "hate speech" to try to address this possibility and most people feel sorry for the sacrificed tigers anyway. In addition the sabres have been scientifically deemed as long ago extinct; though there have been reported sightings ............ Some of the non-sabre tigers have an idea of what's going on, but are reticent to say it as to do so invokes the strong possibility that even if they are believed, the response will be against all tigers. ................ Pretty good game. No? And even the scientists say that the sabre toothed tiger is genetically not a true tiger. He's a cat with some similarities to a dog; but he definitely ain't no tiger. Nowhumsayin? All right. The utilization of false identities was not simultaneous with web based sock puppets. The primary and inherent sabre problem is that they always have been and continue to be something other than the sharpest pencil in the box. They are good IT specialists; but they're primarily warriors, and very good ones; both males and females; most adept at following orders. For a business plan, they have employed other types of tigers, the best talent purchasable, to further their cause. But one named Grateful Jack Straw has been operating under the name Beckett. He was the despondent advisor who was once the closest to the King Sabre. The King thought him a buddy and liked hanging out with Jack-Beckett. But, Jack-Beckett got some kind of bug up his ass and split. So now the Sabres are using every methodology known to Sabres, including IT, in an attempt to find reclusive Jack-Beckett before he can spill the beans; while the King reverts to his heritage and cries crocodile tears. The fact is that Jack-Beckett has already spilled the said beans, though it is not yet common knowledge. The King's new advisor has suggested that this is the likely case. So, Mr. Sabre needs to create another horrendous physical event to take minds off a theory which is merely suggestive. Nuclear facilities distanced from Sabre territory seem a good option.

Why get serious. All it produces is a whopping headache. Let the music play. Here's Dylan at his chirpiest singing "Highway 61 Revisited." ......................... Shit. Does anybody here know how these MP3 monstrosities work? It keeps repeating the first seven lines over and over. All right already. The fuckin' kid is soon dead. Who cares? I trust you have ten nimble fingers.

### Madame Bovary 2016

Sixty-nine year old, post-menopausal as opposed to post-modern and post-industrial, Kathy Acker was feeling as neglected and abused as she did when under the extremely well self-documented lack-of-care given the unfortunate child by her mother and step-father. Kathy had been depressed, not only by her advanced age and lack of a functional thingy, but also by anonymous bullying and trolling e-mails she'd been receiving, which said cruel things like; "Get over it, bitch." Her prior libertarian posture had become overtaken by her sense of propriety; which actually emanated from other people's need to exhibit her concept of propriety.

She was further chagrined by reactions from her "Creative Writing" NYU students who saw her as a whiny old bat with absolutely zero contemporary relevance with a penchant for tired classics and woefully passé grammatical considerations.

She decided that it was necessary to make a glorious, cutting edge comeback; without the self-knowledge sufficient to inform her that any such "necessity" resided full time between her ears, and tended toward reclusion. In an attempt to satisfy her personally un-recognized need for the "love" granted by stardom and success, for the first time in two decades, she started to write a book. As had become her forgotten trademark, she made use of her "creative" juices, and encrusted it with the working title of "Madame Bovary 2016." She intended to sarcastically update and thereby deflate and deconstruct Flaubert's classical tale of a promiscuous married woman with no tolerance for the norms or the mediocre. Her first problem quickly flew in her face, as insistently and as provocatively as her memories of a fledgling dripping pussy once did or didn't, when, through the rings still attached to her parched petunia, she saw that anything she wrote had been previously written, and written, and written ....................

The bubble she had never previously noticed in the perennial mist, intensified by her imperfect vision, which had served as shelter from the banal storm, had now burst as surely as a cracked, neglected, and eroded New Orleans levee. She was as frustrated as she was confounded; as for the first time, it crossed her mind that she may have no more relevance than a member of the worker ant contingent. For the first time Kathy entertained the horrific thought that she might be of as much significance as any unpaid warehouse worker at AOS. She shuddered and jerked

Her thought was that the blocking devil resided in her vast knowledge of literature. The impediment just insisted on remaining with her. In an attempt at a quick fix, she e-mailed Benny Pynched and politely encouraged him that he would feel a whole lot better if he would just blow it out his fucking ass. Kathy's initial revelry in being a "bad-ass" faded when Benny made no response to the direct statement. She thought that he might prefer something containing a scholarly riddle; but right now, "academically cutesy" was the last thing she wanted to be.

After that irrelevant fiasco, her next approach was to seek familiarity with her young students. She didn't realize that this was a tepid approach and was likely indicative of her problem. She showed them her labial rings and found that they had more of them and in more categories and localities. She felt as if she was older than Ruth Bader Ginsburg.

She decided that it was high time to let things fly and get really "radical." As motivated as a Batman with his four incher all the way up Robin's un-Criscoed, lowest aperture, Kathy engaged the infamous and expensive Ace Hole, P.I., to find the elusive "Man-Woman-Both With No Name" (MWBWNN) for her. Ace was a two and a half foot tall midget who was reputed to perform excellent service primarily because of his ability to remain un-noticed and blend in with the crowd. Critics were their customary dismissive and attributed his results to the fact that he had a wide mouth, with a cigar perennially dangling from one side, while he talked out the other; thereby encouraging people to tell him anything he wanted to know, just to get away from the stink. Women liked where his head was at. Ace paid no attention to the analysts. He was too busy finding the wanted, counting the money, and extricating himself from the tangles.

MWBWNN was not the easiest thing to find. The Tri-Laterally commissioned one was a renegade lobotomist, who has been primarily working with political figures; and had spent the last thirty years on both the FBI and CIA's ten most wanted list. It was rumored that MWBWNN was initially a philosophical zealot who believed that a person had a right to do whatever they wished with their own head; and at some point lost the youthful zeal; now doing it only for the money. Zie had made a name for him-herself a while back through performing the specialty surgery on post-election Ronald Reagan at the request of Nancy; a surreptitious right wing operator. The iodine hair cover was absolute genius. Most recently Zie had been acclaimed for his inventive work with Obama. Since Barak's hair was closely cropped military style, in order to not tip off the conspiracy marketers, it was necessary to pull out his brain through his mouth. Apparently, the experimental procedure worked well as every one of the "new ideas" was flushed down the toilet. As an unexpected bonus, Hillary's national health care plan was so badly fucked up that every one of the private insurance companies reported record profits; while nobody knew where to go if they experienced chest pain at 3AM.

(Insert a ton of yadda yadda concerning Ace's appearance, office décor, conversation with Kathy and any other filler required if the book comes out too short. Insert two tons of yadda yadda about Kathy's appearance and demeanor, utilizing appropriate poetic metaphor to suggest that her true wishes are to get her post-menopausal thingy repaired.)

To have any chance of being vital; the way she and eight others thought she was the first time around; Acker's only remaining hope was to have the inhibiting part of her brain removed. If she could no longer be cursed to remember that what she wrote and said was a regurgitation of the past, she would be able to write and say it, convinced of it being new. Besides, she thought that having a shaved head with prominent stitches would be super cool.

Ace had cited huge personal risk in the project as he emphatically said that to find MWBWNN he would be stepping into areas occupied by the shadow government which was beholden to no one but the Fascist ideology as administered by the clandestine. Because of that or his negotiating skills, she has agreed to pay Ace Hole $1,000 per hour. To make sure that she was getting her money's worth she tailed him. Though initially difficult due to the detective's ability to disappear into the crowd; she found that she could not go wrong in following her olfactory, rather than visual senses, and followed Ace Hole's stink.

(Insert a whole lot of stuff describing the Manhattan street scene, the kinds of places where Ace stops, who he talks to, snippets of the conversations. It is tedious, but remember that people like reading descriptions of Manhattan more than they like reading complicated plots. DO NOT SKIP THIS STEP!!!!)

Kathy follows Ace onto the B train (Describe, describe again. Especially the passengers who appear to be ominous, homeless, or sleeping.) to Brooklyn Heights where he enters a trendy-bi-with-a-preference club in Brooklyn Heights, named "Liquid Sky." (Describe, describe, and describe again. Slick white and bright lights.) City freaks and rich wannabees from the suburbs populate the facility which was previously a roller skating rink. "Liquid Sky" was probably somewhere near their peak in popularity thanks to the resurrection of "cutting edge gay" as LGB&T, the patronage of a few artists and writers no one outside the facility had ever heard of, and, like Kathy Acker, a few old timers who once had modest and quickly fleeting credentials. The constant presence of people who dealt in pharmaceuticals with every possible three lettered acronym was an unspoken addition.

The club had just signed a punk rock band named Onanists for a week's engagement. The group of five loners had the distinction of being the week's crossover idol, as they satisfied the avant garde, the intellectuals, the slobs, and the traditionalists by having the number one song titled; "I'm a Slave to my Dick," an extended version rumored to be first un-veiled during their club engagement.

Ace made a bee-line for the co-ed bathroom at the end of the bar and Kathy took a seat at it, keeping an eye on the door.

A group of young women in leather cowboy hats and fur lined boots sat on both sides of her. The one closest said; "Boring as a missionary fuck here. You lookin' for some girl play? Thirty for one; a hundred for four."

Another of the young women said; "Hey, that's so rude. You know who you're talkin' to?" She looks at Kathy and added; "You're Kathy Hacker, right? Oh, cool. My mother has all of your books. Read them when I was little. Can I get an autograph for her?"

While waiting for Godot on the can, Ace Hole was in his glory when someone on the other side of the partition told him that MWBWNN came around "Liquid Sky" sometimes and had done some pro bono work on a few Neanderthal heteros. The informant expressed his doubts that this was done out of the kindness of his heart, as he thought it likely that the cash and cutting lobotomist was experimenting with a new wiring procedure; one which might eliminate the straight neural connections and replace them with something more circuitously chic.(Insert some detailed absurdity concerning the preliminary results and how the informant helped Ace Hole to get his feet on the floor and out the leaded glass, back window because he knew that Kathy was tailing him.)

(Insert more yadda yadda about the bar conversation, how Kathy keeps watching the door until she pisses in her pants and rushes in, and somehow try to work in how MWBWNN is writing a book titled; "Set Your Mind at Ease Through Proper Elimination," which MWBWNN's publisher thought was a book about purgatives, which he planned to market as an eastern religion tome aimed at the geriatric, "New Age" constipated set.

Kathy became a regular at the club as she liked the atmosphere, but more because she was trying to locate Ace Hole, and that was the last place she had seen him. Other insignificant characters she saw there are;

A) A 60 year old, senile Johnny Rotten, with spiked orange hair dangling from his nose; who keeps showing up, refusing to pay, insisting that the Sex Pistols are playing here tonight. He wanders around calling out; "Sid, Sid. Come out from wherever you're hiding. I give up."

B) A 102 year old William Burroughs who politely goes from table to table asking if anyone knows where he can get some "Sunny D." The younger crowd does not know him and think that due to his proper suit and hat, most likely he is a poorly disguised underground narc, so they keep referring him to the person they hate most and Willy keeps pathetically shuffling and being polite to no avail.

C) Aliens the size of fleas or crabs have parked their ship on the Upper West Side roof of Kathy's condominium. They are addicts, and they float all over the place in search of an entertainment that their redundant planet can no longer provide. At this point they are a minor annoyance to earthlings who merely swat them if they get in their face. The aliens are undeterred, as their intellectual advancement has allowed them to view that as the ultimate high-release; until Kathy's new one goes movie.

D) Primarily in an effort to avoid any charges of pretentiousness, there will be a 25 year old guy from Georgia, unfortunately named by his slut mom as Rim beau Cracker. He's kind of always around; seems to be un-noticed, though that is actually an act, has no bearing in the other's version of the story, especially that of desiccated Kathy.

(Lots of details about finding Ace, who had become an experiment for MWBWNN. She walks in in the middle of the procedure, and promises not to call 911 if she can get a standard lobotomy free of charge. After a bit of haggling the deal is done when Kathy promises to fork over 25% of the royalties from her new book.)

(Insert more detail concerning the operation itself, where it takes place, what MWBWNN looks like and zie's memory of a youthful fling with a much older man; Ronald Reagan.)

Kathy was feeling great with her fresh lobotomy. Her only writing impediment was her compulsion to continually view her now pear shaped head, decorated with the largest and blackest of cool and prominent sutures. She writes short stories about three characters named Dick, Jane and Spot. Her work was well received by the masses, which was too un-cool for her desire. Unfortunately for the fleas, many died from the cold turkey withdrawal from fresh entertainment. Some sought and found an alternative existence in Ms. Acker's middle of the road proclivities and discovered a love for athletics as they learned the pleasures of jumping through hoops. Worse, Kathy started to be stalked by this weird looking guy-gal-both who said that she owed zim a lot of money. Worst; no one was offended by her books. She re-read the books and found the ideas contained in them much too obviously subliminal and revealing. She was embarrassed and changed her name back to Martha Baumstein and moved to Queens. She burned her laptop in the fireplace and contacted Ace Hole, as more brain work was required. The visual appearance of the black plastic melt was reminiscent of the Wicked Witch of the West; though the odor was more foul than Ace's cigar. At least the little demon remained silent.

### The Importance of Being Precise

Brief Notes Regarding a Long Term Study Concerning the Necessity of Exactitude in Accounting Especially Insofar as its Effect on the Standard Profit Dependent Capital Asset Pricing Model Published Posthumously

"It is all too often that the financial writer engages the reader in sensational abject nonsense. The popularized dictum which states; 'Truth is told in fiction; and fiction in truth,' has been utilized, knowingly or not, by every crackpot fiction writer to espouse their personally biased claims. It is a 'cheap' method to convey 'facts' which have either not been tested or have been 'tested' in a statistically insignificant group. It is thoroughly unfair to the reader to be subjected to reading long winded diatribes only to find them useless speculation. It is in their interest that my associates at MotleyTrader.com and I offer the first of a series of thoroughly researched and unbiased studies of a subject most dear and central to our collective consciousness; the calculation of profits."

"The longstanding general acceptance of the Modigliani- Miller theorem which postulates that, all other things equal, PTP, formerly referred to as NIBT, is maximized through the usage of the LIFO method of inventory valuation, ignores the studies done by the Lepke-Rogers group which suggests that while Modigliani-Miller's observations are true in year 1, the PTP level may actually decline in years 2, 3 and beyond, in the typical mildly inflationary environment, if the LIFO layers are reduced, either by aggregate or selective count; thereby rewarding growth; i.e. I2>I1 and penalizing contraction I2<I1. Of course in the historically small possibility of a deflationary environment the situation is reversed; making Modigliani-Miller correct for the wrong reason.

In addition, PTP is strongly affected by the SOTYD method of accelerated depreciation especially when I>2 and I<10. Despite the acceleration, and perhaps counter-intuitive, while SOYD10 maximizes PTP1-3 it minimizes PTP4-10, but just as in LIFO inventory valuation the continuing positive effect is dependent upon rates of growth in the capitalized asset sector after YR3 factorial, the degree detailed on attached Chart A. Conversely, you can easily see the effects of a reduced capital asset acquisition program, the degree specified in attached Chart B.

So, the question, even using a rudimentary tax neutral model, obviously becomes one of two independent elections; those elections only being allowed one change, moderation or deviation each, is what decision or series of decisions maximizes PTP, which is dependent upon future decisions and random circumstances, assuming that the decision maker is rational. That matter is currently under study by thirteen teams of well credentialed bean counters, and preliminary results have been widely divergent. This seems to have a mildly statistically significant direct relationship with the text book used by the researcher in their freshman year of college.

Until a consensus is reached we will continue to have a proportionate caveat regarding the all-important capital asset pricing model. For the few out there unaware of this definitively utilized model, it places the value of an equity instrument at the expected profit in year 1 divided by 1 plus the expected risk-free interest rate in year one; plus the expected profit in year 2 divided by 1 plus the expected risk free interest rate in year 2 squared; etc. In practicality, this calculation is usually ended by year 20, as by that time the denominator has grown to a number which effectively causes the numerator to be insignificant. However, in unusual times, such as those current; wherein the risk free rate of interest is historically low, the calculation may well be extended. You will no doubt appreciate the need for a precise income calculation.

You might suggest that a solely profit based calculation of the equity value is patently absurd. It may seem obvious that even if the equity entity had no expected income and was therefore indicative of a zero equity valuation, that the assets of the organization; say a tractor or a fleet of them; could be sold, resulting in the attainment of money. You are far from alone, but in the minority opinion group. Your assessment is effectually rendered moot through the profit addition and division approach followed by the vast majority.

So, until the bean counting experts can come to some sort of agreement, we are relegated to attempting to do our best with imperfect tools. Further, if and when the bean counters come to some sort of agreement, we will then be obliged to consult with those who claim to have the ability to accurately predict the future risk free interest rate, recognizing that there are irrational political considerations involved. It is undeniably true that through extrapolating the implied appropriate rate for any given time period from the market based price differentials between US treasuries, US mid-term obligations, and US long term bonds works well. In fact it is uncanny in its logic and consistency which can be measured down to the thousandths of a percent. The weakness of this simple calculation is that the answers provided today will not be the same as the answers provided tomorrow. The radical minority take this as evidence of the fallacy in this procedure. However, this approach provides a market unanimity at any given point; and perhaps more importantly, a professional safety in numbers.

While the aforementioned considerations no doubt seem banal to the casual investor, we here at MotleyTrader.com, spare our customers the tedium of aggregate considerations, trade balance, marginal propensity to save, invest or consume movements, beta scores, standardized and un-standardized deviations, mean as opposed to average expected divergences, currency exchange rates, oil price predictions and considerations, what George Soros is doing through his sock puppets, and whether or not Kramer's predictions are a contrarian's paradise.

We gotcha covered. That's our job. ............"

### Crab With Josephine

Upon rising, more out of lay-about guilt than aspiration, he carefully lifted the lid and pushed the "on" button in a reciprocal, mechanical, un-thinking manner. As always, it responded with a border-decorated, blue screen and three bars of a song capable of stumping an all-star panel of "Name That Tune." He used his payola-dictated browser to access the archival storage of a public access TV show. He had not previously seen any of its offerings, but was intrigued by the title; "Crab with Josephine." It sounded right for his state of mind, unless it had something to do with catching horrible tasting things with cutting talons. Titles can be extremely deceiving.

His hopes elevated a notch when a bucket-less woman came on screen and sat at a desk, which she immediately and haphazardly cluttered with papers. She appeared to be sixtyish, thin and as energetic as a Comanche who had just spotted white people with rifles. She said; "Good evening ........... Good morning ........ or a good whatever time you're watching. It's night time for me, but ........... Anyway, welcome to 'Crab with Josephine.' I'm Josephine Nuccio. You may have thought that with this outfit, I was a Native American. No, not at all. My mother and father got here by way of Sicily. ....... Did you expect me to say Florence, Venice or Naples? If that's where they were from I don't think they'd have left." Muffled sounds reached the mike.

"Whooooo yourself. For those of you new to the show, for its initial seven years this unprofessionally produced public access presentation was called 'Mesa Grande Political Action.' But, after seven years of not getting any; ........ action that is ......... What's so funny? You guys must be messed up on something good. ....... Oh. Anyway, after having not been able to stir up any meaningful interest .......... Oh, come on. You're getting ridiculous. Keep it up and I'll tell the manager what you're ingesting back there. I changed it to 'Crab with Josephine.' It's a place to vent all the frustrations no one wants to hear. I listen and then vent mine or vice versa. Fair enough? ............ These phones working? ........... That's one of the problems with this new technology. I'm here to take calls at 8PM, but you're probably watching at some other time. ........... The suicide hotline works the same way? .......... No, it can't. You're putting me on. ............ Really? No. Because if you call them when they are on tape, you can at least leave a message. ....... I don't know. It might do some good. ......... Probably not? Okay. This week I've written some thoughts about the entertainment industry. Appropriate? Let me just read them. It might stimulate someone to call. ....... Oh, shut up, stupid. ............. You sure these phones are working?"

With some difficulty Josephine collected some of her loose papers, put on her glasses and read. "Older, isolated areas were seen as a monetarily inviting opportunity to those whose inflated stock prices were on the verge of a crash. The paper pushers were dependent on constantly growing market share. In their wisdom the conquistadors of bite and mega-bite, saw a "new," and ideally envisioned, sequestered market of those inclined or destined to be alone. They were more than willing to re-purchase things they already had, if those things were put in a modern package, substantially out of a boredom engaged to a propensity to appear 'hip.' Their naively American and mass marketing-conducive willingness to be subjected to the manipulation of the learned was an incalculable plus. This morally problematic scenario was envisioned and shrugged at in conference-room-meeting-groups of up-and-coming Ivy League MBA's. Their self-satisfaction and affected superior mannerisms were put on bottom line trial. Laughingly, from their exalted and removed stations in the overly air-conditioned rooms, they discussed schemes, which if correctly marketed and implemented, would prove to justify the existence of the glassed room filled with those desiring to view themselves in the Narcissistic reflections provided by the smudged waves.

They didn't take long to agree that the problem was really a simple one. All they had to do was combine old, needy human nature with new technology. Just change the format again, and sell it to them as a 'new' product; a maze of derivatives. They were already entertainment and drug addicted. Their employers already had the technical ability to reach everywhere; and only needed paying customers. Now they would extend that reach with inexpensively available products; old movies, old TV shows, and old footage of concerts, in full expectation that it would sell, at least to those isolated and desperate.

In their artificially-lit rooms, their only view, other than that of their own reflections, was of the others who worked for their companies, in an undetected photocopy of themselves. They considered this aspect idyllic. As good business-men and women, their self-indulgent visions glossed over the imperfections obvious in their self-reflecting views of those in 'lesser' rooms.

They were grad school taught that the majority of the non-MBA world was easily vanquished as it was without defense. Who would dare to be a self-sacrificial-impediment to the cunning? No one, but the few formerly institutionalized crazies, temporarily 'liberated' in the aberrant sixties. They were further fortified by the fact that this plan did not require reliance upon the vagaries of the ever changing capital asset pricing model. There was staying power in the old adage attributed to PT Barnum; 'No one ever lost a nickel underestimating the intelligence of the American public.' Sure, public libraries would be possible competition. But, one of their own had already made inroads into supplying a surreptitious and sophisticated form of fireman 451. Besides, only 18% of the people read 80% of the books; and the other books read are of the cooking and zombie varieties.

The future palaces of the impeccably-credentialed, in places like Propicio and Greenwich were assured. But, this alone was not satisfying. They had a need to publicly demonstrate their superiority to the lessers of men. They needed the worship of the broke and broken. Any sensitivity to the contrary was only a desperate sucker's inclination to play the fool.

As a further proven-to-be-successful scam aimed at the sufferer, the slog-resistant, found reason to extract or posit an uninteresting, paid-for announcement rising at the inglorious moment of habitually capitulated monetary confrontation. The scheme was irreconcilably contrived by the denizens of the un-naturally, cold and uncomfortably sleek. They thought it a sure shot to make the audacity of their co-opted, sixty year old, 'smiley-faced,' and anointed joke favorably evolve, without any merit other than a possible nostalgia for its worn out cuteness. It had proven to be un-attackable for decades, in its cunning proficiency to be regarded as everyone's friend.

In their dearth of creativity, the buttoned-downed proposed the seemingly simple, engineered to be further addicting distractions, with which it was imprudent to argue; inexpensively available, proven hits from times past playable on demand at any time with lucrative advertising space sold to other commercial enterprises seeking to expand their markets; and if they were the slightest degree of fortunate; to the entirety of the un-fulfilled world. It was instantaneously accessible, irresistible homesickness at a 90% profit margin. All things from all times thus became easily available with three left clicks of a mouse and an automatic monthly charge to an overburdened credit card. Future planned product 'enhancements' would add to the gravy.

The appeal was immediately overwhelming to those memorabilia freaks wishing to escape to the past and pay for the TV they freely watched in years prior. The MBA's wildest dreams came true as everyone got on board. A few de-institutionalized freaks saw the machinated mind set as something riotously banal and in an effort to reduce the popularity to absurdity, spoke of the retrograde manifestation as the completely un-imaginative arrival of the monetary bull-horn, irresistible to the hopelessly addicted sucker's acquiescence to the call of the time-and-place-faulty presentation, which overly compensates the powers that loom; a very old, but continually repeated, and demonstrated winning story, enjoyed in disdain of the masses, by the bespectacled and monetarily proficient 'elite'"

Josephine put the papers aside, removed her glasses, loosened her long, tied back gray hair and defiantly stared at the camera. A phone rang. She picked up the receiver and said; "This is 'Crab with Josephine.'"

The male caller said; "Where do you get this stuff?"

"My head. Where do you get yours?"

"Not from fantasy. I see what's real. ......... Were you ever there?"

"Only in spirit."

"That won't hold up in a court of law."

"We're not constricted to one. ......... Look, do you have any doubt that a profit seeking enterprise wants to supply cheap goods at high prices to perpetually consuming customers?"

"That's how things work. Are you some kind of Communist? What's wrong with maximizing profits through maximizing choices?"

"Should we be allowed the drug of our choice?"

A muted "Yeah, yeah, yeah" was heard from the film crew.

"That's different."

"In what way?"

"For Christ sake. Drugs are harmful. Don't tell me you didn't know that."

"And I suppose that ignoring your family to stay mesmerized by the grandchild of the boob tube isn't."

"You're getting all over the place."

"No, the grandchild of the boob tube is; just like the plague. It's gotten to the point of ridiculous. When I walk my dog in the morning, I often pass by a young boy and young girl; each maybe 15, waiting for the school bus. They stand about 50 feet apart and each is busily typing in messages to some handheld, 'connected' device. Now, given their ages, I would have to think that he's looking to meet some girl and she's looking to meet some guy. And there they are, right there, ignoring each other in favor of an electronic device replete with phonies, predators and false promises. There is no way anyone is going to convince me that that is not an addiction; a venomous detachment detrimental to humanity for the profit of the few."

"You know, you draw conclusions before the evidence is in. Maybe they've already met and don't like each other."

"I have a revelation for you. The evidence is never fully in. If you wait for it to be you will die first. ......... Listen, the evidence is that you called a show titled 'Crab with Josephine,' and you're not crabbing. You're an apologist for the stupid metal and plastic devices, which are worshipped more than Jesus."

Another phone rang.

The caller said; "I'm crabbing. I'm crabbing about you."

Josephine laughed and replied; "Crabbing about the crab. I suppose that fits nicely into the concepts of death dying and disease becoming diseased; so po-po-mo. You spoke of your notion of reality. Get real yourself; then watch somebody else with your infinite supply of choices. I've got another call." Josephine hung up one phone and picked up the other saying; "You're on 'Crab with Josephine,' and if you think everything is just wonderful, call somebody else."

A young male voice answered; "I don't know what I think. I'm fifteen and one thing I'm sure of is that Wikipedia has enabled me to know more at this age than my father did when he was forty. But, I'm beginning to suspect that something is wrong. Let me just recount something I've seen virtually every day for the last three years. Whenever my family; mother, father, sister and I have dinner we all bring our laptops to the table, plug in the earphones and watch .......... watch whatever is on the screen. We don't speak. We rarely even look at each other. But, when I watch the old shows, I see that dinner was once a time when families told each other about what they were doing, joked, got chastised and learned manners. I'm not trying to sound superior. I've been doing the same thing myself. But, lately I've been investigating psychological theories, which seem to suggest that someday this will come back to haunt us in ways not presently precisely determinable. Be that as it may. The damage has already been done, and the forces are strong enough to remain in place for some time. I have a question. Are these machines compelling us to separate? Or, do we inherently dislike each other, and use the machines as an excuse to ignore the others? I'll hang up and listen to any replies you or your viewers may have."

Josephine gently put her receiver back in its cradle. Her eyes blinked and her forehead seemed to display lines deeper than they were seconds prior. She murmured; "I don't know. ...... I really have no idea. It seems to me as if that is an unanswerable chicken or the egg question. If David Foster Wallace, one of the geniuses of our time, were still with us, I am convinced that he would have clearly stated that we do not like each other. I hope he was wrong about that one, but the odds are against it, as he was right about everything else."

He was disconcerted and very un-entertained. He thought the best thing to do was to stop watching "Crab with Josephine," shut down his computer and get out of bed. Now, all he had to do was find something else to pass the time. Not having any inspiration, he did a half assed job and reverted to the old stand-by through pulling the blankets back over his head.

### Look Who's Talking

A radical condensation of conversations under the elms

"Yeah, got the fuckin' shit. Meet your exalted standards, dude?"

"What fucking ever. Bring it."

"I can bring it a way you can't handle. ........." He rolled. "Sorry, re-phrase. You're my friend, whatever the fuck that means." He snorted something visible to no one else. "We can do this bullshit two ways. We can have a good time or we can fight. Take your pick." He struck a match and inhaled deeply. He passed it.

The beginnings of the anticipated, temporary passage into another place came on as a defensively needed, mentally induced convenience. Trying to appear cool, he slowly sucked at the joint, and made the potential protagonist wait. He held the smoke as long as his carcass allowed. As he choked an exhale, he rasped; "Hey, man. ......... What the fuck is between us? ........ Gash? It's all over the fucking place. No big shit." He handed the source of light back to the provider in pedestrian defiance.

"Good fuckin' shit, man. Grower's a friend of the family. Takes good care. ........... Expensive as all fucking hell, but there's no competition. .......... The gash around here is into weird shit. You ever notice?"

"Gimme that fucker. You're a hog." He sucked and held, before coughing out; "I'm new here. It's different back East. ............ That chick in my reg room, Linda, you know her?"

Shrug, tending toward a disinterested yes.

"Whatever. If you every day started your morning with a view of her panties, dark hair protruding, you'd remember." Draw and protracted exhale, then a pass. "Anyway, I made it my business to 'accidentally' meet her at the entry. You know, she's a fuckin' cheerleader?" He snorted some type of incredulance. ............. "Kind of funny, right; but no big shit to me. So, you know, I'm like talkin' shit to her, trying to look into her evasive eyes; and you know what she does?" Without waiting for a response he continued; "She starts telling me about weird stuff; you know, like chupacabra, cow molesters, alien abductions and crap like that. ............ Of course, I tried to convey interest; I liked her. ........... Like I said I'm new here. Is everybody here into some weird shit?"

"I'm new too. Two months in the paradise of Propicio. ....... From Boston. ............ I don't want to make fun; but the city girls seem to avoid the long winded subterfuge. ........ Hey, you know who's good in your reg? .......... Barbara. You must have seen her with her skirt up to her ass."

"I must have the wrong angle."

He held the squelcher before him and asked; "Any use for that?"

"Chuck it. There's always more when we need it."

"Weird shit, yeah. It seems like everybody's into it. Getting common, in its attempt to be different." Derisive snort and shredding destruction of the roach.

"Maybe I'm just spaced, but I got an idea. Maybe everybody senses that something is wrong, but they can't put their finger on it. So, they focus on non-traditional answers."

"The class war, the presidents all being related, the FEMA camps, the surveillance and Ebola are undeniable facts, bro."

"They're gonna stick you in one of those camps right next to an Ebola dude."

"My dad is military."

"Don't matter anymore."

"Hell, not as long as we've got places like this to hide and get away from it all."

"God bless Calle de la Congelacion!"

"Look at that filtered sun through the leaves. It makes me dizzy."

"So does Barbara's legs. ............... Think you can get her here for a smoke?"

"If I do you ain't gonna be here."

They laughed and slapped fists.

"Someone told me that the trees are actually vehicles for spying."

"See how stupid this stuff can get."

"See 'South Park" last night."

"Yeah, love those little eggs."

"Fuckin' awesome, dude. Cool how they tell the teacher to; 'go fuck yourself' without the least bit of emotion."

"Cool like in the North Pole before global warming."

"You believe that shit?"

"Fuck knows. Fuck cares."

"Turn on that thing.

Heads started noddin' as Eminem rapped out "Cold Wind Blows."

"Feels like its warmin' up, man."

"Not till later on the CD."

"Mutha fucka's mad, shit"

"It'll work out in the end."

Laughing agreement.

"So, it's cool in the woods?"

"Yeah, look who's coming. Hi ladies. Who's your new friend?"

"Audrey. That's with a 'D' near the middle. Just moved here from LA. Can ya believe that? Who's yours?"

"I don't know yet. Dude, got a name?"

"Yeah."

" ............................ "

"Gonna bless everyone with it? Or else we'll have to call you Batman."

"Name is Batman, friends. I let Robin wear my cape and mask today."

"Are you gonna pass that already?"

"When you give me a kiss."

"Mmmmmmmmmm ........................... "

"I didn't mean on my face."

"Chivalry is a corpse."

"Blame your suffragette old granny."

"Gimme." (Inhaling sound.)

"Hey, Batman. What kind of car you drive?"

"Batmobile, stupid."

"What's your father do for a living?"

"Some tedious shit with computers. Don't they all?"

"Yeah. Mine used to get a regular check from Homeland Security. Now he freelances."

"Ooooh. That carries all the cachet of being a Consultant."

"Fuck you, asshole. Thanks to that I got some DMZ pills right here. You never have seen anything this good. It's like acid on acid. Take one and you think that 'South Park' is hilarious. Take two and you think that 'Return of the Zombies' has deep meaning."

"It does."

"Yeah, all right. I can dig that. ......... Permit me the indulgence of re-phrase. Take two and you think 'The Name of the Wind' has deep meaning."

"De- militarized zone. Wanna trade?"

"Depends on the devil in the fucking details."

"Be nice. No need to be afraid. Put on something romantic, dude." All five sat under the tree of their choice and the sacrament was quietly passed as a button was pushed.

Chillin' and noddin'. Back to the button.

"That was Eminem and Rihanna doing 'Love the Way You Lie.'"

"No shit. ....... Nice. ........ Got something 'today?'"

"Got a suggestion for anything better?"

### The Princess and the Prince Discuss What's Real

A Brief Obligatory Intense Aside, Chosen for the Restrained Devotees of What's Not There Complimenting What Is; and What is There Paying Lip Service to What is Not; Routine Unfeasibility, Adorned and Exposed; Also Known As Magical Realism; an Untitled Measured Response to the Dearth Bound Plethora of Abundantly Absent and Silent Interrogations; Suitable for the Rejection of Literary Murakami, Illustrated Gaiman, and Overly Overt Rushdie; Comedic and Hateful in their Seriousness and Love

The cool sun was aghast in its un-robotically, requisite, blasé, progressive retreat as it spread its ardent wings over the peripatetic Crimean Sea above it. The socially maladroit maritime fixture deafeningly fired weakly from its rippling interior, the non-resultant smoke incandescence, previously known only in the Arctic, producing no effect on the planet which did not exist below, as it evinced the faintest of flagrant falsetto flags, strongly indicative of the bounty of nothing. "All too obviously fake. It's all wrong in its correctness," screamed Orpheus Mictlantecuhtli, as he played a lullaby yet another morning with his melodious lack of song. His entreaty of; "Wake up; it has ended," was not answered with a thunderously diminished reply of; "Go to sleep, dummy. It has started." Sixteen libidinous vestal virgin sisters who were biologically un-related, were introduced to eight disassociated brothers, and in unison echoed that they knew them very well. The brothers nodded affirmatively to the lie. The twenty four loners remained together, joined hands and danced off separately.

The Invisible Man was seen as he resurrected from an extended life. His passé attire enlightened the demi monde habituates, resplendent in their well-travelled, Neil Armstrong-Pillsbury dough boy, stay-at-home housedresses. The Visible Man wrapped himself in the covert au natural and effectively rapped out a down ditty in a fashion prophetic of the past thing to come. He didn't do okay for a white boy from Bed-Stuy. The Japanese audience swooned and clapped in their derision, leaving for an encore.

"What about me?" implored Orpheus Mictlantecuhtli; his face contorted in an agony which evinced a joyful disinterest. The seated Bacchantes made a production of sitting down and made their presence unknown. They spread their un-decorated legs, revealing the hidden embellishment. The chaste, skillful, experienced black one at the center of the eight said; "Come and don't get it. We all misplaced something right here for you." They mirthlessly giggled as Orpheus backtracked to get closer in search of an eagle's long range perspective. His failure was fruitful. As he ate he drank from his black coffee cup and offered everyone tea.

He rejoiced in his depressing inability to discover the openly observable source of his loss for words; which he articulated at length for the benefit of catnapping justice; his alert doggie. Seeing the heat through the kitchen window; he bundled up and went inside.

### One World

Having one world is like having a crackless ass.

### Stop Thinking

She said "Stop thinking and just fuck me."

She then proceeded to articulate the circumstances under which she wanted to be fucked.

I didn't hear the details as the plug was already in.

She couldn't prevent me from thinking about someone else.

She sang; "With the light out it's less dangerous, hmmnn, mmmn, hymn, hymmnn, entertain us.

### Readers

Nurses do it with patience.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Readers do it with the dictionary.

### Libido

Libido. Ya know?

### Suicide Hot Line

The Suicide Prevention Lifeline and Services put me on hold again.

"Are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Figured. ......... Look, you've used up your month's allocation of ten free chats. An unlimited subscription is available for $39.99 per month plus tax, 12 months payable up front. Got your credit card handy?"

"Yeah, but that debt is one of my depressing problems."

"Don't worry. If you kill yourself you won't have to pay it."

"Cool. Never thought of that."

"Hold the line for the next available suicide counsellor."

Suicide is painless. It brings on many changes. ...... "

"Catchy tune. Is anyone ever going to pick this fucking thing up? I got the gun in my fucking mouth, man."

"This is Katrina. This call is being monitored for quality control purposes. How may I help you today?"

"Glub, glub, prashit."

"Is that Hindu?"

"No. It's broken English. I had the gun in my mouth and I knocked out three teeth."

"Did you know that the funeral parlors rip you off on that stuff?"

"Not really."

"Yes. Unless it is otherwise specified they standardly perform all sorts of cosmetic services at high rates, while in just a few days you'll be getting your face eaten by worms. Total waste. For $10.99 plus tax per month, payable 12 months in advance, we'll send you and whoever you designate for burial obligations information which will save thousands of dollars, with monthly updates. May we charge that to your card?"

"No, godammit. When the fuck is someone going to start to talk me out of committing suicide?"

"There's no reason to use bad words. We're just trying to help. Secondly, I'm not here to talk you out of suicide. I'm here to help facilitate it."

"Well, I want to be prevented; not facilitated."

"Well, you just got yourself into the wrong department. Didn't you? Please hold while I switch you to Prevention. .... I didn't hear a thank you."

"Thank you? I'm paying for this shit and I'm getting farted around. This is Suicide Prevention. Is it not?"

"And Services. We've expanded. I can also connect you with a horny babe who talks dirty. That'll probably take care of all your problems. We're having a special on that, right now; just $5.99 plus tax per ten minutes, 3 hours payable in advance."

"I'm having some trouble doing the math in my head."

### Master Bader Lies

"What do you think about when you do that?"

"Same as you, probably."

"Come on. Say."

"I think of you wearing red ribbons in a field of multi-colored flowers."

"Yeah. Me too."

### My Trip to Alphabet City

It's probably been gentrified now, but back in the day Alphabet City was a derelict section of Manhattan. It bordered the Village and word on the street was that the cops didn't even go in there as it was only populated by criminals. Anybody going in there was doing something illegal, so tough shit.

I was 21 and had a friend aged 35 named Mike, who had been a heroin addict since the age of 15. Did some time for B&E's, but I think he got away with the pimping stuff. He was strung out, maintaining and puking for a few days on downs. He wasn't that bad a guy, kinda smart, liked Salsa, just had trouble with routines, and I'd have to be careful when with him, as if he saw an expensive watch, he was gonna take the guy off, and I worried that if he got caught I'd be an "accomplice."

Never happened, but on this day he was all fucked up with the shakes and nose stringers; had zero money, and needed to cop. So, he asked me to accompany him to Alphabet City, where he said he could get some low grade for free. I wasn't too thrilled with the idea, but didn't want to look like a cunt, so I went.

We got there, and he must have seen the look on my face when I saw that we were the only white people, and there were lots of mean looking blacks sitting on the stoops. That's when he told me that nobody was going to fuck with him; or me because they had seen me come in with him, and they all knew that he had "beat a nigga to death with a baseball bat."

That was the first of that story I had heard, so I must have still looked somewhat apprehensive, which Mike saw. He said; Okay, watch this, and yelled out "commere nigga," that directed toward a group of six. I don't know exactly WTF I was thinking, but I'm sure that I'd have preferred had he not done that.

One of the group looked our way and Mike again yelled out "commere nigga," this time pointing to the ground at his feet. Lo and behold one nigga started walking toward us, and under his breath Mike told me, "see, that's the way you gotta talk to 'em, or they'll think you're a pussy."

I was beginning to become a believer. When he got there Mike asked; "Who's got the best bag on the block?" and was told something before dismissing the gentleman. Mike didn't really want to know, as he knew where he was going, but just wanted to loudly announce that "Crazy Mikey" was around, and he wasn't in the mood for any shit.

We walked to a three storied tenement, and Mike told me not to come in with him; and that he'd be right back. I sat for what seemed like an hour trying to find someplace to look without staring at some badass. When Mike finally came back out, I said something about him taking long. He said; "Yeah, sorry. The PR bitch on the third floor will give you the dope for free if you let her blow ya, and when you're doing junk it takes forever to come."

### We Lucky Survivors

The "fortunate" we are still here. The ability to write these inadequate words is undeniable proof of that. Though we can't help but wish that our friend's demise was that of our own, that seems not to be our choice. That pain of their loss never ends; the weight much more of a burden than the sack of belongings and secrets we have chosen to carry. Negate, negate. That thought is entirely selfish. If simultaneous death cannot be achieved, it is inevitable that one will have to try to carry on without the company of the other.

Since our births were not parlell, though their order related and seemingly concurrent, that concurrence is not measurable by any known sand filled hourglass, and it seems totally irrational to expect that our deaths will be any different. That's the playing field.

It is a joy, sometimes grudging, and sometimes jokingly so, to be there to try to fulfill the other's needs; too often failing, but nonetheless our efforts appreciated by a kind-hearted other. They cutely nudge us, seeking our efforts whenever they have a problem.

And then that joy is taken away from we, the lucky ones, forever.

First we feel cheated, yet that is quickly confused by the common perception that we have "won" by living; required condolences adequately proffered and suffered. A series of mindsets circle and circle, until we settle upon the one which recognizes that through our living, we were always able to be there for our friend, who has probably taken that benefit innocently for granted up until now, as they never imagined having to carry on without us.

It's okay. It's only a short time until we'll meet again with no such dualities. It's Rainbow Bridge. I've seen many pictures of the place.

### Dead Letter

March 15, 2019

Gaines Laboratories, Inc.  
440 Wentworth Drive  
Salt Lake City, Utah 87451

Dear Mr. Sfachim;

Please be advised that according to the bloodwork ordered by your doctor and performed 3-14-19 you are dead. Please remit $115.87 to Gaines Laboratories, Inc. in the enclosed envelope, as your former insurer denied payment due to your laboratorial demise.

Have a nice day.

Very truly yours,  
W. Butsky  
Lab Technician

### Keep Your Problems to Yourself

Smoking  
and uncontrollably bobbing  
in a modest rain.  
Can't walk.  
Can't get in  
til this stops.  
I made  
her problem mine.

It's wrong she said  
again right.  
Almost.  
As if  
it wasn't her push.  
The brevity  
her math  
hiding certain  
disappointment.

Blank days,  
memory lapsing days  
are the best  
and most.

Blank is blank.  
No flip-flop feet.  
Fine backup.

Don't touch screen.  
It inhibits sleep.

### Psychology

Psychology is the bullshit which seeks to make a science of misunderstood motivational sources.

### News of Spurious Trump Transfers at Deutsche

The problem with stories like this is in the reporting. As I'm a virtual zero on science, others are zeroes on finance or bank operations. So, they hear that Deutsche, that rogue bank, ignored red flags pertaining to Trump and Kushner transactions. Let's forget for the moment that the stories may be totally false.

That sounds terrible unless you know that 98% of the red flags are of no consequence, and the lousy reporters can't add that simple sentence, likely because they are either dumb or seeking to make the impression their employers want.

So, here's fake news. It's not really fake; but incomplete using unreliable sources. And the media is awash with them. Now, I want to upset the nulibs. I now hate NPR and do not trust them at all. They recently reported and agonized over another white cop shooting a black person to death during a routine traffic stop. Hands wrung enough to start a fire with the friction. What they neglected to say was that this black victim had a gun in his hand at the time of the shooting (on film), that he was on a suspected drug dealer list, and his car was carrying 1,000 OxyContin pills.

Now, lets listen as the nulibs say the cop fabricated all of this, and some invisible hacker or rogue librarian deletes or distorts information on my account.

If I had any respect for them, or found them to be of any value, I might actually care.

Would like to address further astute observations, but my priorities have turned to investigating those rabid Martian bats flying over Area 51, when they're not giving the military advanced weapons technology, as well as reports of Donald and Melania having boiled alive and eaten a Mexican toddler detainee.

Sigh. Don't know when I'll again be able to write that sonnet about her Easter bonnet.

Sorry for the delay, folks, but there were conflicting stories. Yeah, right, I was surprised. It's daytime at Area 51, so the bats are probably hanging around in an undisclosed location. CNN investigative reporters at the perimeter report having picked up a few pounds of what appears to be guano, currently being analyzed at a Deep State laboratory. Assuming that the CNN crew knows a little of their shit, looks like we got half of a half confirmation on this one.

The source of the boiled baby Trump cuisine info turns out to be a social worker who was charged with the care of three of the lovely tykes, and when shifts changed could only produce two. Investigators are going over the film and have issued a preliminary report stating that the social worker was asleep at her desk when the tyke walked out. So, at this point we're making a tentative determination, that unless the Trumps can be placed strolling on Las Cruces, NM's Alamo Mine Trail near midnight, our best guess is that either someone else ate the baby or the social worker is doing a CYA she expects to be libtard supported.

More as news breaks.

### Facts

Facts are carefully selected anecdotal "evidence" which are consistent with the writer's viewpoint, if known to him, unless they are the result of haphazard meanderings by some "poetic" fazool.

### Racism

The word "racist" itself has lost meaning. In the common current usage, it has become the word one says when one is otherwise unable to refute the opposing argument. It's a long subject, but if one recognizes that there are cultural differences between people of differing colors, is that racism? I would say no; but the vast majority, armed with a specificity, would disagree.

That's the easiest part. Coming from multi-cultural NYC area, I find it difficult to comprehend how anyone can be truly racist (hating and damaging another color?) in that environ, as without any saintly effort, you just come to see all as people; some liked , some not; mostly ambivalent. The largest oddity to me is that some people who might be now called racist voted for Obama.

Slightly more difficult is that I know there are those who hate a color or two, but have no ability to damage it; and as a Pollyanna believe that this is the norm with the poor-ass yokels who attain "importance" through yelling "I hate niggers. White is right," and stuff 30 miles away from the nearest person of color.

Combining the last two paragraphs, Trump cynically and adeptly plays to this element, as well as those mentally ill yet still capable of masking it. Anyway, since he's a New Yorker, Trump is not likely to be racist in the true sense of the word (He might be a wealth-ist, but that is confounded by his statement that he does not get along with people with tons of money.) but knows how to use an illusion, he has well prepared to nuance, as a political tool. So, what we may well have is a slight of hand magician, the obverse of Bergman's.

This likely has no practical relevance. Personally, I still think that one must understand the opponent's game to have any hope of beating them at it. And there's the infecting tragedy.

### Terry

On a simple level I could say that UK Conservatives, if not UK Parliament in general operate by one primary principle. They stand for giving the girl the hard job, making it impossible for her to do it, and publicly criticizing her to the point where she seeks the loving comfort of a Commie of indeterminate gender; but to make that determination conclusively I'd need a lot more information. I'd need to know ........ Oh, oh; Terry, hey Terry. Come and sit here a while.

### Tacoma Zoo

"A Supposedly Fun Thing No One Should Ever Do Again," from TravelWashblog. We visited the Tacoma zoo this AM. The grounds are well maintained, graciously spread out, and contain exotic plants. What proved somewhat less gracious was that we walked approximately ten miles to see four animals, and two of them showed us their asses. The spacing out proved not only pretty, but practical too, as it almost prevented being knocked over by one of the 6,000,000 hominid brats in attendance, running around yelling, "Where are the fucking animals?"

If you decide to go anyway, brown bag some food and bring a bottle or two of something, as despite what would seem a high level of attendance, no one bothered to open either of the two dining facilities; maybe a good decision as if you have to hit the head, you might have to hold it for a few miles or piss on one of the little hominids.

The fish part was pretty good, and they may even have had a variety or two not available at your dentist's office.

One star, only because I haven't figured out how to do a zero.

### The Ten Reasons Why Writers Write – Book 1

1) They find it the perfect venue to explore their latent, but burgeoning masochism and other mental disorders their psychiatrist dozes through.

2) While taking their daily excursion to the mail box to see if their disability check had come in, their neighbor's shih tzu wandered over and told them that he was the Son of Sam and that he should.

3) They think that it adds stature to their overlooked assistant fries manager job.

4) They have discovered a completely ignored genre; carrying Mark Leyner to an adult level.

5) They have read many indie and small press books, coming to the conclusion; "WTF, I can't do worse than that."

6) You were "friended" by a delightful guy affiliated with Dorkey Archetype Press, and have almost saved up the $35,000 contribution which allows you to pick a book they will sponsor for a year.

7) You believe that there might still be a few morons around who think Dorkey's garbagiolareceptacleve about "meaningful" as opposed to popular literature is not a sarcastic joke.

8) Word updated their speel-chek pretty good.

9) When you left the house your parents again had the locks changed, and as you bawled on the stoop, found something poetic in the situation.

10) You view your life story as a horrid tragedy, and are still dumb enough to think that anyone else gives a wet raspberry about it. "The Puddle Under My Colostomy Bag" strikes you as a good first effort.

### The Ten Reasons Why Writers Write – Book 2

1) Your significant other has made another unreasonable demand; this one that you get a job. You figured that with this you could buy some more time doing zilch.

2) You have noticed that your outlook is consistent with other writers; the bulk of which have difficulty in differentiating fantasy from reality. Your trusted imaginary friend since childhood says; "Go for it."

3) You have concluded that if Wittgenstein can be worshipped for abusing and whacking children, on a relative basis, you would at least be lauded for supplying them with crumbum books.

4) You have seen that one of the highlights of your life, is to receive 20 four and five star ratings from one of the Goodreads' circle jerk consortiums, as long as you likey-likey their overlooked masterpieces.

5) Your wife just left with the bug spraying guy, and those Dorkey Archetype lit maven nerds are looking hotter than a pre-incandescent light bulb, with similarly shaped necks.

6) You bit into a pencil left inside a portion of a burger found in the Micky D dumpster.

7) You believe that it will do the world mucho good to read the 10,000,001st homo coming out story.

8) Your English teacher made you do it, and if you don't hand in something you brightly recognize you'll have to sit through "The Recognitions" again next year, or opt for a GED.

9) You got an A in the community college's remedial English course.

10) You have an uncanny, natural understanding of demand-supply dynamics.

### The Ten Reasons Why Writers Write – Book 3

1) Your donut induced ass sags more than an everyday meniscus, producing discomfort when you stand.

2) The Goodreads popularity of your goof released, sixth grade, classroom notes containing the classic; "I Bukkake Orgied and Brawled with Purple Fruit Flies on Pluto" has resulted in your being sought as a commentator on world affairs, politics, fake news, psychology, and the effect of gamma rays on man-in-the-moon marigolds.

3) You always liked meeting fun people.

4) You're amused how the sharp, numnutz lit devotees take you seriously.

5) You noticed how easy it was to pick up a few bucks by publishing anything detrimental to Trump. You followed "Hitler's Secret Love Child" with "Don and Melania's Cajun Recipes for Boiled Wetback Babies," and now the publishers stand in line, begging for the next one.

6) "Screw the Calibrations; Eat Lead, Scum" by Bernard Goetz was an irresistible inspiration.

7) You believed the three "awesome" ratings you got early on from friends who are now so intimidated by your talent that they go out of their way to avoid you was a prognostication of the wonders to come.

8) Everyone else you know wrote at least one.

9) It's fucking easy, as all standards ended at least twenty years ago.

10) Desperate, rejected, supposed females offer you blow jobs, sight unseen.

### The Ten Reasons Why Writers Write – Book 4

1) It's kind of a tautology, Einstein.

2) Insufficient childhood cuddles.

3) The keyboard is the only thing yet to figure out how not to listen to them.

4) They find questions like "Why must we die?" interesting.

5) With less than average competence and some editing, the vicious creeps can sound like a nice person.

6) They think there is some financial benefit in being viewed as a nice person.

7) Chronic nerdism runs in the family.

8) It's cheaper than collecting stamps.

9) After schooling is done they get curious about what those weirdos they previously avoided are like.

10) You can get government and university grants for nascent assholery.

### The Ten Reasons Why Writers Write – Book 5

1) Dorkey Archetype Press announced a new imprint; "Marginal Late Stage Depressives."

2) They crave the status and exposure one gets from a Goodreads author page.

3) It brings back fond memories of when Uncle Todd bounced him on his knee and read him short stories from the NAMBLA bi-monthly at age 16.

4) It's easy as you can just make stuff up like CNN and MSNBC.

5) When William Gass died, he thought he saw an open niche in the 800 page tribute to chair category. Somewhat humble, yet with expansive plans, he started with a 400 page accolade to Walmart's assemble-it-yourself, looks-like-real-wood, kitchen table hoping to one day work up to a 1,600 page glorification of a painted and shellacked, Bugatti, art nouveau cabinet, further hoping that this literary hidey-hole was not merely a function of temporary fascination with Gass' rotund posterior.

6) Writing "abilities" are not diminished by sloppy alcoholism, or at least the writer doesn't notice it or think so.

7) If successful, one can look forward to their book being displayed in very select company at Wal-Mart.

8) You can do book signings at the last remaining book store, and smile as people come up and say; "I don't really like any of your shit. Can you make this out to Bernice, the cousin I hate. It's her birthday and I'm obliged."

9) It makes the abhorred hominids keep their distance in fear of a one click sales pitch.

10) It confirms your early instincts of art being 98% bullshit.

### The Ten Reasons Why Writers Write – Book 6

1) In a world of billions, most literate in the US, UK, and Australia, you can be a large borborygmus with a paying viewership of only 8,000.

2) Rock music has been pathetic this entire century, and shows signs of getting worse.

3) It's still considered respectable, and can be used at felony sentencing.

4) Reviewer impressing quotes are largely comprised of shit you heard for the tenth time pre-kindergarten.

5) In 2019 playing humble, stupid, and horny is the height of literary fashion, and you figure you can fake at least 2/3 of that.

6) You're still angry about Thomas Pynchon's having wasted your time with a crying lot.

7) Since the book is ultimately your well known subject matter, you often find reviews of it to be hilarious revelations of the reviewer's limitations.

8) You were exhilarated in rooting for Moby Dick, commonly disliking Ahab, but also not giving an Arabian rat's ass about Queequeg tats or dilettante Ishmael, inspiring a fagged out JJ Allin resuscitation, replete with uncontrollable laxatives.

9) You thought that the time was right to replace the writer-wring-a-book-about-a writer-writing-a-book-while-in-identity-crisis with a new genre of a writer-not-writing-a-book-about-a writer-writing-a-book, knowing that he was Andy Kaufman.

10) There is no better way to get some privacy.

### The Twenty Reasons Why Reviewers Review

1) They're college professors who must publish or perish. GR reviews now count as long as they ignore the book and use their essay to make pro-commie, pro-homo, or anti-Trump statements. Their circle jerk likey-likey system provides the status inherent in a top 100 ranking and uncontainable fun.  
2) They're grammar school teachers who have come to feel very smart after having spent their adult lives surrounded by eight year old, fellow nose pickers.  
3) They aspire to ascending to 1) and/or 2).  
4) They seek a propitious niche in their forsaken and betrayed world of lit mavenhood.  
5) They still think that by obviously being pathetic losers they'll get sympathetic "likes."  
6) Despite having their faces pissed on, they still love the cruel, masterful owner of the site.  
7) What else can one do with a B.S. in an un-needed, thereby unmarketable subject from a less than "B" school?  
8) They think they have the final word, and cry uncontrollably if contested, while staunchly in pursuit of one of the declining number of sales clerk jobs in actual brick-and-mortar bookstores.  
9) They are able to influence a few weak willed, sissy suckers.  
10) Lack of any discernable approximation of a life scientifically determined to be beyond that of a clumsy, but cute panda.  
11) An all too convenient lack of ambition.  
12) A desire to revel in aggrandizing the banal, and denigrating the excellent; thinking that serves as a cover for their twisted rejection.  
13) They're actually a foreign bot with an agenda of US sabotage.  
14) Their only real life bf-gf left them for a deformed, imaginary rodent, leaving them an infinite supply of free time.  
15) They like it a lot that pitiful indie writers suck up to them like any crippled predator would a Parks Department groundskeeper.  
16) Some weirdo with possible ulterior motivations told them that they were "special" at age thirteen, and they still believe it, despite all evidence to the contrary.  
17) Without much usefulness or talent, they can become a respected member of the upper echelon at the barrel's bottom.  
18) They once wrote an un-noted, shithole book, upon which they can now get a quid pro quo in the loser circle jerk circuit.  
19) The warehouse boss isn't always watching.  
20) They were blessed with one chromosome too many."

### BO

Think warm and close elevator.

### What Passed for Poetics in Charming Antiquity

"Benny P. was all the rage.

Just wait. It's there. On the hundredth page.

The dead time just stokes.

While the obvious provokes.

An easy turn from the Thompson.

Hidden lust for wage.

The school girls have a fleeting romance.

With a book which won't fit in their pants.

It was once much, much too rude to point.

Toward the salamander.

Ensconced at the joint.

It all could be too easily dismissed.

As the regurgitation of Bunuel's ants.

Mr. National Book Award now betrays his station.

With a naïve hood in worship of fornication.

His loud soliloquies are artfully phonic.

It would be much too unkind to say oxymoronic.

It is the edge which does bleed.

Not able to distinguish a need.

From the sack on the back of a Haitian."

### A Quantum Mechanically Induced Regurgitation in the Key of G

The totally un-disciplined, as that word is defined in the sense of genre, writer has stumbled across a Goofreads Quantum Mechanics thread which has piqued his interest. It would appear that some of the participants are not on the same page of the book. So, in the interest of rational communication mixed with a desire for harmony and personally having little else to do, the writer seeks to instill a common ground through the rationality of being wrong.

It seems readily apparent the thread participants here are seeking an answer to the ultimate question. I will gladly take some time away from my non-schedule and attempt to be of assistance with that matter in brief. The answer is that "Two is true to the power of infinity minus one."

Mathematically deficient participants may be more comfortable with the verbal description. Two, the duality if you will, is at the core of every thought or action, until at the zenith it morphs into a singularity. I believe that this is the root cause of the confusion.

Retreating from the world of theory into the world of flawed observations of the physical world, David Foster Wallace depicted this concept in "Brief Encounters with Hideous Men." The singularity, which has morphed from the duality at the peak, is the closed window which has gone opaque from the contrast between the heat inside and cold outside.

To be even more "real," in his personal life he chose to leave the place which bored the bejesus out of him, utilizing a rope; not subject to the possibility of empty chambers and statistically significant malfunctions. His calculations were very likely to have been that through the utilization of the rope he had a 50% chance of entering another, but more personally satisfactory world of "Two is true to the power of infinity minus one." You will note that the odds are against him, though infinitesimally so. This is a testimony to more faith than is apparent anywhere else. In addition to his well-known library appearances, he spent a great deal of time in church.

On a more biased and personal point of view basis, he was seeking to enter a world in which he did not physically as well as metaphorically smash Mary Karr's glass cocktail table at her feet.

See, this is the shit, man. Can you dig that The Man was cursed with the desire for that one, that fuckin' MK singularity. We all know he had access to a lot of other bitches, hoes, baby mamas, drama mamas and various sundries; but unlike most indifferent male seekers of any hole, he had a thing for this one.

Hey, who the fuck asked you for any advice, Pedro? Every stupid mofo gotta put their two cents in. You ain't on the net now, man. Fuck you, pretentious jackass. Sheeeeit. Where the fuck was I? Oh, yeah, Mary Karr. You know this soul sista is an artist with eclectic tastes. All Davey the Walrus wanted to do was be with Mary and dig on her beautiful art, like all the fuckin' time. Unowhumsayin? The rest of the shit is kinda "take it or leave it," right? So, like this great humanitarian, tell me what the fuck that means, would give up everything here just for an against the odds shot at something else. Yeah, he worked the odds down as far as he knew how to take them, but still ...... that ain't any kind of fault. In my dreams I see him with Mary and they were able to work out the fucking details this time. Shit man, I'm outta here. Pedro, go bother somebody else, all right? I'm talkin' some serious shit here. Dummy.

P.S. This shit took me a long time to do. I mean, like I had to re-work it like all morning to make it sound proper and all of that. They censor everything nowadays. But, like okay, let's get real. I put it down and now I'm relying on my trust in you. Things are reciprocal or they are not. So, I want you reviewers to say that you've read the next book I turn out, if I ever get the time to edit the last 200 pathetic pages. It's called "Blasé Eight." It's a confusing, long assed piece of stupid shit which makes quantum mechanics seem to be sophistry, or not. ........ No value judgements. Nowhumsayin? If you do, please inform moi, as to what that is in your section of the multiverse. I'd like the small courtesy of you saying the eloquent equivalent of the putdown with one little star on there somewhere. See, 'cause then I'm gonna take a hold of my old lady and we're gonna trip out into one of the parallel worlds in which your reviews are top notch, five stars and superlatives on the shit, and you got your millions of followers to pay for the fuckin' mess. Dig? Yeah, negotiation is always an option. You can have the movie rights on the next one. Hey, you know damn well that the best indication of commercial value is what the last one did. Come on, man. I need this one. See, I ain't one of those greedy ass muthas. If you would just say how awful it is, then Diane and me can get to Carmel and we can spend the rest of our lives in great weather hangin' with the stars.

Is that askin' a lot for the answer to the whole fuckin' thing or more accurately things? ........... Most of the time. ........ Never mind. This could go on forever. Yo!

Kant Einstein Do It?

A Time Constrained, Commercially Interrupted Presentation of a Parochial, Sunday Morning, Space Odyssey, Re: "Pure" Reason

In response to an overwhelming demand, the writer has attempted to synopsize Immanuel Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason" the writer has complied with the vast market demand in less than forty words. In an attempt to not appear perfunctory or discourteous the writer has taken the liberty of expanding the discussion somewhat.

Cant said; "What goes up must come down," adding a bit of a lengthy if.  
Al said; "That entirely depends upon how you define things," adding a bit of a lengthy if" before proceeding to be a tad insulting.  
Overlapping Circles said: "There are any of a number of answers which will correctly solve for X."  
The Frenchman on Stilts said: "To use reason to critique reason is the equivalent of using a banana to critique a banana."  
Paul said; "Let's all get up and dance to a song which was a hit before your mother was born."  
Harry said; "I can expand on that and better yet, sell it in the big store."  
Yeshu said; "I am the alpha and the omega. No one can get to the father, except through me."  
Pete said; "The hell with the father. I like the mum better."  
Fred said; "Mama's boy."  
Rudy said; "If."  
As he left the room, still wanting to be liked; David confused all present with his buried thought; "This banality is so un-entertaining, I'm out of here forever."

The Thin Man took copious notes and wondered what he'd say if and when he got home.

The one eyed midget said; "Now!!"

The Reader remained seated beneath the window, turned to The Marvel Man and said; "The clever erudition is reminiscent of a proletarian Terkel reporting the events having taken place in senior Philosophy-Math class at Cliff U. It is recommended to geriatrics sporting bi-focals. Three stars."

Hercules entered through the open front door and said; "How could you possibly know?"

Desolate Bobby said; "Pound and Eliot are at it again. Jeez. Singers laugh. Fishermen bring flowers."   
The writer said; "Please stop it. My mind is on the verge of an explosion."

Peebles said; "This shit could go on forever."

Vlad showed open derision when he said; "It's all in the technique. When I put my pencil to paper I am making art. That is all."

Patti said; "That's all?"

### Someone Told Me This Would Be Fun (Somewhat Revised)

I come to bury Bizzaro; not to praise it.

Great I've gotten your interest. ............ Hello? ...... Ah, whatever. I just wish you wouldn't get your sardine sandwich all over the book. When you saw the title you thought the story might be about romance and sex, in its Millennial induced re-interpretation. The intimation of matters of the heart and genitalia always command prime attention. Millennials especially love to talk and lecture about it. I thank all of them for their wonderful discovery and information.

Now prepare to be severely disappointed, as you are with your own matters of the heart and genitalia. Come on; admit it, at least to yourself. If things were so great you wouldn't be sitting there with this jackass book right now. In addition, this isn't about cocks, pussies, and deep feelings at all. But maybe it is. Maybe it's the lack thereof which is suggestive of what is not there. Metaphors make some borders truly porous. Who was it who said that? ................ Me. It helps if you pay some attention.

Still there? Whatever. Maybe this is a Mark Leyner book reading. He's too big for online publishers. Not. Though familiarity does not necessarily breed contempt, it seems quite capable of breeding repetition and boredom. The proverbial thrill has a nasty habit of relocating as regularly as "improving" suburbanites. After a few months worth of Bizarro boilerplate, Virginia Woolf's boilerplate started to again look very good; sexier too.

We've all heard that "All roads lead to Rome." But, what we haven't heard is more about the person who supposedly coined the phrase. I have no doubt whatsoever that it was someone who started their journey with great expectations and enthusiasm and after a few years on the road settled into doing their ten miles per day clickety-clack, wishfully oblivious to their pedestrian surroundings with the lack of aid supplied courtesy of an MP3 set to Katy Perry's latest. This is far from the worst possible outcome as the Bizarro gang stops at every turn to write a "cool, funny" book about it.

When I started writing about six and a half years ago I regretted not having done it all my life. Now I know that I was blessed, but was too dumb to recognize it. Hello, hello, hello, hello. Daily, I sprinted through all my husbandly duties so that I could get back to the keyboard and punch in the brilliance discovered since my last sitting. I was overwhelmed and excited, writing myself little notes of things to include the next time fingers met keys. Over morning coffee I'd discover the methodologies of writers long gone, and analyze the techniques of post-modern superstars George Saunders, Jonathan Franzen, and most of all David Foster Wallace. It was wonderful. It was better than being young and in college as the subjects were not dictated to me. It was a beautiful deluded period and I didn't yet require sedation.

I watched numerous author interviews on YouTube. These weren't podcasts. They were filmed by real TV stations which actually paid money to their guests. At first, I thought I'd refuse any such invitation, because of all the cantankerous, stupid questions the interviewers asked. Second thoughts came when I found out how much the writer's got paid for an hour's drudging sham.

However, I decided that I really wouldn't go if they begged me, the "literary" media that is, but sometimes I fancy myself being interviewed on those TV shows with a smug working-on-my first-book-literarily-pretentious host. Hey, give 'em a chance. They've only begun to utilize their senior citizen discount card and all they need is the last 200 pages. The guy or gal host, obviously not having read my book about infectious, prolific, and, much-too-obviously-symbolic skull worms and their brain eating cousins, would ask questions like; "How do you gauge your audience?"

"The truth is I don't. Gauge, that is. Regarding the audience, I have absolutely no idea who the hundred or so losers are anyway, and don't care as long as they paid for it. Probably got the book as a required birthday present from someone who hates them. That's okay with me as somebody paid and has 'instant karma' type, Western capitalist potential. Far fuckin' out."

"What do you think about God?"

"I don't, thinking I'd return the favor; that image and likeness thing an ancillary consideration."

"What do you see as some of the problems with post-modern literature?"

"I don't see anything inherently wrong with the genre that couldn't be fixed by a handful of decent writers. Right now we are besieged by a potload of shitty 'meta' books. About eight million of them are about a writer writing a book. By the way, what kind of book are you working on?"

"Why do you write?"

"Ah, I think you've answered. Actually I've pondered this question since the outset. On different days I have spouted different answers, ranging from attempting to speak at length to the wife who only allows me two distilled sentences to becoming rich when the movie rights are purchased. No chance of either on this book. So, I guess I really don't know. My agent hates it when I say that; so he makes up 'noble' things for the back covers. But, fuck him. He ain't helping me to get to Carmel anyway. Creep sells the shit cheap in Thailand, and thinks I don't know about it. Did I tell you this business is full of sharks? No, I didn't mean the "cool" land shark Bizarro sub-genre, taken from Saturday Night Live like 1970. Never mind. However, beyond the petty concerns of the day, Revelation came springing from the cynical thought I conjured up on one glorious morning while attempting to strike a bogus, self-effacing balance to telling my long suffering fellow dog walkers how great a writer I am and what I am working on now. I told them that the only reason I write is because in my advanced years it's the only thing I can do today as well as I could have done forty years ago. I can sit and risk severe fatigue only in my fingers. Simply put, I WRITE BECAUSE I AM TOO OLD TO DO ANYTHING ELSE, and I strongly recommend the endeavor to other codgers. You've seen worlds the young haven't. Tell them about it. They might come to the realization that their circumstances are not the most difficult anyone has ever experienced. If not, so what? Get that computer nerd cash; shove the Bitcoin. Nobody likes the goddam Millenials anyway. We just haven't sufficiently detoxed from that 'New Age' nicey-nicey, required façade yet to say so. I hate those incense burning channelers. They co-opted a movement in favor of drugs, sex, and rock 'n roll to substitute it with a non-movement of no drugs, no sex, and no rock 'n roll; saying they dig on the sitar excitement, if not the Native American flute shit sold in the gift shops on the reservations. I fill up my day thinking that I will soon be recognized as the next Hemingway, and then recall that he had packed it in by my age, which seems preferable to familiarizing myself with the knowledge of diseases that come with decrepitude, including Eraserhead Press. Jeez. Unless David Lynch owns the place, you can get an idea of the degree of originality from the name. If you need a one liner try; 'Because I'm sufficiently educationally challenged not to know that everybody has heard this bullshit one hundred times before.'

So, to circle back to the beginning of this world weary essay answer, I say that I still enjoy writing more than anything else I do other than walking my dog. You're kind of supposed to say that cheery shit. Right? Or, is it cheesy? Never mind. I also say that somewhere herein I have answered all the questions TV interviewers ask. I just hope PBS doesn't stiff me on the imaginary check as it's supposed to be more than the royalties from the entirety of my book sales. Yeah, even from cheapo PBS."

As I have no chance of appearing on any of their shows, please consider this aforesaid sufficient to satisfy any curiosity you may not have. I refuse to get into Mommy and Daddy stuff because I'm a private person and also because that asshole Leyner has already whined it to death.

Sometime during this last year was I first became aware that this "Bizarro" category was considered another genre in this book and pamphlet writing industry, which still has the audacity to occasionally refer to its products as "literature." DFW referred to the entire entertainment industry as the beast which absorbs everything and merely opens another genre pigeonhole whenever deemed potentially profitable. If that doesn't register, just picture "The Blob" with the blood of 250 Bizarro writers already consumed. Okay, I'll stay off my fantasies.

The funny "jokesters" centered in Portland, Oregon; definitely not the Maine incarnation; came up with the term a little over a decade ago, when they began distributing books, mostly e's, because they could get retarded books for free from retarded writers. ........ No, I didn't send them any, mostly because I wasn't yet writing and also felt outclassed with nothing to put in the required credentials section of the submission. Submission? Submission? The very term seemed repugnant under the circumstances. Submit to a non-paying, low income nerd? Hey, I'm from "The Big Apple." Everyone there knows how to hustle. But, they're also sufficiently genius to get paid for it.

I fully recognize that from the owning nerds point of view it's; "What the hell?" Ain't no distracting, free women lining up by their doors. On a business level, it took a few hours of time from someone reasonably computer proficient to get the garbage on line, and if some sucker paid for it, it was 100% profit. No qualms with that. This is free enterprise America. What does give some pause is twofold. First, the perpetrators of the crime and the putrid accomplice writers involved portray themselves as "cool," often cutesy surreptitiously. A farce is a farce is a farce. Come on. They're as "cool" as the fat boy everyone used to slap in the head in the third grade. You remember the one with the baggy short pants, glasses with lenses which looked as if they were made to fortify a brick wall, and a finger up his nose, digging. I mean, I make no value judgements here. If you think that's "cool," go for it. No wonder so much of "Bizarro" is sexual fantasy, with no relationship to reality. The second pause is that in this market saturated with shitty e-books, some middling writers have opted to do this "Bizarro" thing, because it's the only way for them to get "published." It's quite attractive. One on-line "publisher" now actually pays $50 for 200 pages of crap. So many of the middling writers have gone this route when they could have been writing other kinds of middling books; resulting in a huge loss for the literary world.

From industry experts I've met courtesy of the Goodreads advertising and free book website, I have found that "Bizarro" is as hard to define as "meta," "post-modern," and "post-industrial." One particularly incisive and now defunct website referred, which someone astutely named GoofBookInfo.com advised this; "There are a number of stated ideas concerning what exactly Bizzaro is. Like garbage, you likely know it when you see it, but a precise description may be temporarily elusive, as there are different constituencies. GoofBookInfo.com is only concerned with the term's consideration as a literature genre. If one took into account Bizarro's place in a 'movement,' the word 'bowel' immediately comes to mind, while bogus, redundant Dadaism seems overly complimentary. We mavens here at GoofBookInfo.com don't pay heed to any of the officially written definitions and moreover, essays. It obviously seems to be more of a business, which seeks a one-size-fits-all, small niche; aimed at low-test-scoring-suburban teenagers, who ostensibly want to appear 'rebellious.' The entire operation is a mutual-admiration-society, propagated by a small group of parochial people who, like most writing and wannabe groups, wish to carve out a little cranny for themselves, taking into consideration too few of their own limited interests and skill sets.

There are a few who appear to be on the fringes of the scene, as it is a convenient place to dump their worst writing. That is an elusive positive, as otherwise Bizarro would just be one big inbred 'Deliverance' scene. It may be helpful to add that the common description we most often hear involves the presumed methodology. It is 'Using ersatz traditional language to deadpan the most ridiculous stories possible.' Fans and beneficiaries would add 'entertaining,' likely at the wrong place in the sentence. We've also heard it colloquially said that it is 'Books which are like the movies in the Cult section of the DVD rental place.' So, there is a certain demonstrated market crevice implied there, and it's inevitable that some would seek to mine it.

The 'cult darlings' often fall into the trap of taking themselves far too seriously. The DVD cult section includes 1975's original 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show,' the 2016 re-do, and also 'Chupacabra I Have Known and Loved.' The latter title is much closer to what is being done to the book world through the efforts of the Bizarro people.

We, here at GoofBookInfo.com feel reasonably confident in making a prediction. In a few years, this 'Bizarro phenomenon' will be seen as the short term folly of a handful of weirdos with delusions of grandeur from Portland. Oregon, of course. The most fundamental aspects of book editing might have added a few years to the lifespan.

Having said that there is a minority report to the minority report. There are some who linger at the edges of the scene because they know their subject matter is truly bizarre, but can't really get behind the main purpose of the 'movement,' as it were."

I give appropriate thanks to those at GoofBookInfo.com, who have taken the trouble to enlighten me. With all due respect to them, I've come up with my own definition. "Bizarro" is any writing done with the banality of middling, traditional considerations concerning subjects sequestered nerds find unusual. Book covers vary, but have a predilection for 1950's EC comic art. Like the punk rockers unable to play their instruments, the devotees of "Bizarro" consider incompetence some sort of egalitarian virtue. The participants act as if the stupidity is simulated, though it sounds quite natural to all but the most simulated of reader-reviewers. It is merely what it is; no more; no less. Enjoy it if it tickles your fancy. That's all. Charles Ludlum pulled it off, but his followers have not."

A moralist might have difficulty in laughing at a jerk, as opposed to laughing with one. The duplicate sniggering act would seem to morally require some sort of differentiation between those born stupid and those feigning the one-trick-pony "joke." Personally, I don't feel the need to go through the rigors of differentiation when, in either case, the presentation will appear to be identical. What it is is what it is; if you missed it the first time. Besides, I hate people ever since the day my mother made me wear short pants to school and all the other kids ................ The painful memories preclude continuation.

Having said that, in all fairness, if Chicklit is a legitimate genre, why not Bizzaro? Just recognize that there are genres, and there are genres.

Anyway, being the enterprising adult American I am, I figured; "What the hell?" I've already written 30 books which in good months give me a three figure income. ........ All right, it's not a regular thing, but it has happened. Everybody gets so fuckin' precise in this supposed information age. I took the worst parts from what I'd already done and put them in this book. Only took a couple of hours, and I figured that if some people were stupid enough to pay for it, fine with me. So, moralists, wherever ye be; have no second thoughts about whether or not you're laughing at a retard or one pretending to be one. I'm a throwback to Ed Wood. What is here is not purposely stupid. That's just the way it is. And don't worry about laughing at this retard; as this retard thinks you're a bigger one if you pay for this.

I have dared step into the Bizarro world which attempts to be super cool by being super banal. I want it both ways; beyond criticism. To say it's terrible is a compliment. If you don't laugh at this stuff, I hope you at least get queasy. Long live Rupert Pupkin, "The King of Comedy!"

P.S. My wife has just read this and in addition to complementing me through finding it putrid, she has informed me that if I ever get invited to any TV show that I will go, despite my distaste, and regardless of remuneration. I say that this will be the case only if they give me tons of money and come to my house for the filming, but this seems to be in the process of negotiation. At the bottom line I feel confident in insisting that the payment covers my air fare and hotel bill; which rules out the Bizarro creeps. She sidetracks by saying that she insists that income is directly proportional to the degree of distaste pervasive in the task at hand. I'm not sure, but I think I told her that back when I used to work in a bank. If I had known that anyone was listening to me, I'd have shut up.

So, here's the "entertainment" part. If you can walk, and/or drive, get yourself a 24 pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon and some Smirnoff for an occasional kicker. Do not eat anything. That only ruins the effect. Soon that lady wearing the shark outfit bopping to "I'm in with the in Crowd" will be hilarious. Enjoy her in stitches. If this is not sufficiently, incompetent Bizarro for your refined taste, you must be abundantly chromosomally challenged.

Editor's note: This book attempts to disparage the noble attempts of the Bizarro (capital B) industry to offer something new in literature. The cheap shots displayed herein are consistent with one who is angry and disgruntled with their personal lack of success. It should be further noted that many of the stories contained in this book could well be classified as bizarro (small b), or if you prefer Bizarro Light. A reader may convert them to capital B by imagining the characters to have antlers on their heads, be pinheads or blockheads, and most of all, have some mental condition which has been found worthy of institutionalization by DSM-5. Rooms may be imagined as being decorated with maggoty dead animals, which sprout tiny feet when one tries to get rid of them, contain a potpourri of various forms of excrement, or dead beer cans.

The possibilities are not limited to the aforementioned, and are a function of the reader's level of creativity or depravity. Forgive the possible redundancy.

You may wonder why I took the trouble to write this. You also may have correctly guessed that it's primarily because the writer did not pay me. But, the jerk left me with the final edit.

### Not Home Grown- Obligatory Entrails Number One

Changing times bring about changing ideas and changing people. They all have to think that their generation is unique in some way. Here in the US we have been deluged with immigrants from all over the place. We kind of tolerate them as without them we'd have to once again start doing all the grunt work we now have become accustomed to avoiding. For a few bucks we can use that time to productively experiment with the pharmaceuticals which were once only the privilege of the stars.

The one thing I wish was that these workers spoke better English. I mean sometimes I can't make out a thing, and when I say something they start nodding "Yes, yes," but I can tell that they understand me as little as I do them. The net result is that after ten minutes, my pharmaceuticals start calling, and I start nodding "Yes, yes," just to get back to my luxuries.

Sometimes that becomes a bigger problem. I mean usually the bottom line is that they do a few things I didn't ask them to do and it costs me a bit more, but that's okay, as long as they get it right. That's part of the "No speaka da Yinglish" game, right? It's been played by different groups since I was a kid, my earliest memories of Italians right off the boat. But a few times I wound up nodding "Yes, yes," to the wrong worker.

As you know, most of these guys show up whenever they feel like it. And apparently they don't know how to use a phone unless you owe them money. Besides the annoyance, one learns to be practical as these aliens are all the same. Quit one and you get another one who might break something else, which of course was not their fault, and which they just happen to know someone capable of fixing. That's been the root cause of my lengthy, foreign "contractor" fiascos. For instance, one day I was expecting the Altair 3 gardener.

Knock, knock on the door. I'm thrilled. He actually showed up. We went through our usual routine of non-communication, which I finally ended before headache onset with; "Do what's necessary." I have found they understand these words quite well and may be programmed to keep babbling until they hear them. Well, it wasn't the Altair 3 gardener. It was the Altair 4 stucco man. To tell you the truth, I can't tell one from another, but they'd be angry if they heard me say that. As a matter of fact Altair 3's are not all that thrilled about Altair 4's and vice-versa. Why is a long story I'm not entirely clear on, and may bring up later depending on the knock knocks and my pharma state.

So, I wasn't paying any attention and Mr. Altair 4 didn't do the gardening or patch the five spots I wanted to tell him to. He had removed all the stucco from the eastern end of the house. Blah, blahs aside, I made him happy when he got to re-do the whole house. I mean it's not my fault. Who ever expected one of them to show up a day early?

That's not even the worst of it, as it would probably soon have necessitated re-doing anyway. But they have this nasty habit of sticking their ugly faces right in front of you at every opportunity. I mean like picture a gas mask with that wobbly tube sticking out the middle. They don't tell you but I strongly suspect that it's an Altarian dick. It makes sense too, because the supposed reason they're here is that their homeland is in difficult economic times. There are rumors that this is due to negative population growth; and I think it's because these guys are sucking their dicks all the time.

I'm a tolerant person; believe me. I don't care what they do, but keep it off me. Yunowhumsayin? And when they're talking; Jeez, you got to get downwind. I wonder if there are any decency laws back in Altair, because when they're here they seem to get a real kick out of letting the thing swing around in full view. One day my ten year old daughter said to me; "Helmet head has penis breath." I told her not to talk to him anymore and really didn't want to know how she could identify that aroma. Yeah, okay; you're not supposed to call them "helmet heads," but kids always learn the words they're not supposed to.

Anyway, today I'm enjoying a respite with no one here. Relaxation. I'll need it because tomorrow I have the worst of them coming over; an Altair 2 plumber. They really think they're hot stuff. They openly make fun of the threes, fours, and fives. They speak better English and plumbers are always in demand. They won't say it to your face, but they think that they're even better than Americans. I just know it. They make high enough wages to live in any but the absolute best of neighborhoods. It's funny in a way, as back on Altair they were a low income group which got bullied. I don't know if it was the result of some religious thing or what, but the 2's have an extra piece on the end of their tubes. They found that here they can use it to clear out plumbing blockages. They stink really bad, but you dare not say anything and just hope that your house doesn't get fucked.

### The Forty-Two Meanings of the Word "Fuck"

While I wouldn't have considered this necessary eighteen years ago when I left potty mouthed New Jersey, it has come to my attention that in New Mexico there is a severely limited and incorrect definition of the magical "F" word. If said, it is thought that the one who verbalized it wants to fight. In an attempt to avert the inevitable misunderstandings which will arise as more and more of my ilk retire to the great southwest for the fantastic sun and economical house prices I would like to point out the urbane nuance attached to this word. And frankly, from a personal interest, at 64 years of age and getting worse, I don't want to fight with anybody. Not anybody. EN-NEE-BOD-EE! Period.

Yet, concurrently, I would like to reserve my First Amendment rights for certain times; like when I think the magic word infuses humor or intensified meaning to what I say or write and when my riding lawn mower chooses not to co-operate and unfairly gets stuck in the mud. As an aside, over the years, I have learned that the "F" word, often coupled with other words not gracelessly articulated at toddy time get the fucking tractor moving when all the boards and pushing fail. Ask any farmer.

So, look people. I'm going to lay it out real simple. Fuck can mean;

1) Sex number one.

2) Sex number two.

3) Sex number three. I'll stop there, before more splainin' is required.

4) Ouch.

5) I think I missed that shot.

6) No.

7) Yes.

8) Good.

9) Bad.

10) That didn't work so well.

11) That's too bad.

12) That's just great.

13) Congratulations.

14) Sorry.

15) I wish this machine would work.

16) I wish this machine would start moving.

17) This machine is in danger of being junked.

18) I'm surprised.

19) I knew that.

20) With "ing," a complementary adjective for a female.

21) With "ing," a complementary adjective for a male.

22) With "ing," an un-complementary adjective for a female.

23) With "ing," an un-complementary adjective for a male.

24) I think you missed that one.

25) I missed that one.

26) Man.

27) Woman.

28) Dog.

29) Cat.

30) Neighbor.

31) Boss.

32) Underling.

33) Wow.

34) Shit.

35) I think I see what's wrong here.

36) Baby puked.

37) Baby pissed.

38) Baby did number two.

39) Dog puked.

40) Dog pissed.

41) Dog did number two.

42) Most commonly, a dumb person.

The meaning may be determined for the specific usage in question through common sense, body language, facial expression, or the law of the situation. Advanced courses of study are available.

You will recall that "42" is the answer to the universe. Think about that fuckin' one a while.

The End

