The flowers spoke in soft voices, never making loud noises like the denizens of the world outside. She was the only one sensitive enough to hear what the flowers said, the only one who would listen to their quiet conversations. They never complained, for they had nothing to complain about. They were never hungry – the sun gave them everything they needed. When the girl tried to explain the feeling she got when her mother couldn’t afford to buy her dinner, the flowers only murmured in subdued confusion. At first they had told her to lie in the sun, and she had tried that, but when she had returned home she was still hungry. The girl wished she could be like the flowers – stationary, in a world that fit, always content and never hungry.

A car alarm in the street below began to wail as the girl’s mother entered the room.

“Lisa Marie, git yoself off that floor an come help Mama get dinna made!”

“But Mama, I hava take cara my flowas o they die,” the girl replied.

“Well, dinna ain’t gun done make isself. ‘Sides, those ain’t no flowas that need carin, they jus drawins you did with yo crayons. Can eat nona those flowas. Now come help Mama make dinna or Mama gun make dinna oudda you!”

“Yes Mama. I be der in uh sec.” the girl replied in a reconciled tone.

“You bedda be, cus I be workin’ all DAY to make sho’ yo ass ain’t starvin’ an I don wanna be doin alla tha cookin too.”

The girl’s mother departed from the room, leaving her lying on the floor between the rows of drawings: lined paper covered in waxy colored scribbles. After her mother was gone, the girl rose to her feet, picked up the flower she just finished drawing on a crumpled piece of paper that she had found on the street, and gracefully moved towards the narrow window that looked out from her bedroom onto the exhausted city outside. When she reached her destination she removed from her pocket a small piece of tape that had become covered in lint between the journey from school to home, and joined her drawing to the windowpane. After this task had been completed, the girl carefully trotted back through her garden to the door. As she left the room, light trickled in through the window over the rows of color, tinted by the sheet of paper the girl had covered in sunflower yellow crayon.

Like a tape rewinding, the return trip required only a fraction of the time the initial trip had taken. As he lay on his aching back at the bottom of the spout, the Eensy Weensy Spider contemplated the wisdom of yet another attempt at paradise. He had never even managed to attain heights even close to heaven – for all he knew, the light was constantly moving farther and farther away from him at a speed he could not even hope to match, much less overtake. It was always the same – he always ended up laying on the wire trap at the bottom of the drain he knew so well, the intertwined mesh that seemed like the end of the world to him.

As far back as he could remember, he had lived in the drain, and as far back as he could remember, he had tried to escape its dingy premises. Why did he even try? Did he really hope that someday he might actually be lucky enough to make it to out in spite of the fact experience had told him that the only foreseeable future was the wire trap at the bottom of the drain? Why did he attempt the apparently impossible? Why didn’t he just accept the futility of it all and reconcile himself to a life of meaningless existence in the cold, dark pipe? What did it matter?

As the Eensy Weensy Spider considered his worthlessness, he was suddenly possessed by a thought. A great gust of mental breeze tore through his brain and loosed him from the web of disillusionment that had entangled his thinking. If it didn’t matter whether or not he tried, then why shouldn’t he? If heaven were truly unattainable and he had therefore been sentenced to a life of perpetual existence inside a dank, cramped pipe, then his life was truly irrelevant and it didn’t matter if he spent the rest of it trying to catch flies with a fishing net – it didn’t matter if the task at hand was hopeless or not, because life in the drain was hopeless, and the only way out was to ascend to heaven. Instead of asking why he should start climbing again, the question the Eensy Weensy Spider asked himself had became why shouldn’t he attempt to escape? Why shouldn’t he crawl towards rapture with every breath in his body, until the constant spray of white-water and endless falls beat the very living spirit from him?

The answer, because there was nothing else for him to do, proved a satisfactory rationale for the original question as well.

Now that everything made perfect sense, the Eensy Weensy Spider tackled the wall of the cold, metal pipe with every ounce of vim and vigor at his disposal. Riding this squall of refreshed self-purpose, The Eensy Weensy Spider shot forward on a ferocious shockwave born of the implications of his own insignificance. Nothing mattered but his goal, the shining, glittery prize of eternal bliss, and anything in his way would be utterly obliterated.

. . .

“Aww, mom, it was so much fun goin’ ta see Gramps. Can we do it soon ‘gain? Plee, huh, plee?”

“Billy, Mommy is very tired from driving all day back from Gramps’ house, and she needs you to stop asking her questions and to go wash up for dinner, ok Sweetie?”

“Ok, Mom.” said Billy, a little crestfallen, as he turned to sludge towards the bathroom.

. . .

As he neared the Light of God, the Eensy Weensy Spider began to lose strength, yet managed to continue forward with all the momentum of a runaway Mack truck carrying a heavy load of ore down a steep road coated in ice. His internal drive had become so powerful that even if every mitochondria in his body had decided to cease manufacturing energy in an industry-wide strike, he wouldn’t have even noticed the slightest change in his consistently upward trajectory. Powered by nothing but his own irrelevance, he shot towards the light like the creature he was – a meaningless arachnid on a mission, and just damned enough to be totally confident.

. . .

As little Billy entered the bathroom, his mother heard a loud squeal, which was followed mere moments later by the creak of the bathroom sink’s valve abruptly turned as far open as it would go. Dropping the handful of frozen french fries she had been arranging in a cast-iron skillet, the mother dashed to the bathroom from whence the scream had come.

“What is it, dear!? What’s wrong?”

“I jes saw a Big Spider come oudda a sink it was skery so I turn onna wadde an he wensa way!” Billy replied, still obviously unsettled.

“Where? Where’d he go?!” the mother stammered as an icy, smarting fear began to creep along her scalp. There was a giant spider on the lam in her house, and her husband didn’t return from work for 2 more hours. Until then, it was just her, Billy and the spider. She wondered it were poisonous.

“Billy, I need you to tell Mommy where the big scary spider went, ok?” the mother said as calmly as she could.

Saying nothing, Billy pointed down into the darkness of the sink’s drain.

“Of course!” the mother thought. “He washed it out the drain!” She breathed a long sigh of relief and dropped to her knees, arms akimbo. Billy moved towards her and found himself comfortingly enfolded in his mother’s embrace.

“Oh Billy, I’m so proud of you. Such a sharp boy! Who else would have thought to turn on the water and wash the spider away?”

Seeing that his mother was no longer afraid, Billy forgot about the gargantuan tarantula that had peeked it’s leviathan head out of the drain only moments before with the thoroughness of which only a child is capable.

“Tweedy bowd woulda, Mama. Tweedy woulda.”

“Oh Billy,” the mother doted, “let’s go have some ice cream!”

” ’Fore dindin Mama?”

“Yes, dumpling. Brave boys deserve ice cream before dinner!”

As Billy left the room, his mother opened the window curtain, allowing a few stray rays of sunlight to play in the sink and dash down the drain.

. . .

At the bottom of the drain, the Eensy Weensy Spider lay contemplating the implications of what had just occurred. At first, all he could remember was the rushing water, tearing him from his foothold and washing him down the pipe, away from heaven. Slowly, the series of events that had recently transpired began to trickle back into his conscious mind. Now he remembered! He had ascended to the heights of heaven. When he had reached the source of the sublime light he had stuck out his head, basking in its radiant perfection. “At last!” he had thought, “The Rapture of the Light is mine! I knew it was possible! My faith in God has finally been rewarded!” At that moment, a giant being, a mighty god had leaned over heaven, blocking out the light with his nephilim bulk. When the god had seen him, it had bellowed forth a mighty cry of furious anger, and, reaching forward a hand the size of the Eensy Weensy Spider, had unleashed a torrent of water that had swept him down the drain.

“So that’s how it is!” thought the Eensy Weensy Spider. “God has been washing me down the drain the whole time.” God was not generous, willing to share paradise with even an Eensy Weensy Spider – He was greedy, interested only in hoarding the precious light for himself.

As the Eensy Weensy Spider sat in the darkened damp of the pipe, a new sensation crept over him. For the first time, he had a real reason to exist that went beyond some idyllic quest for paradise, a paradise that didn’t exist. If its creator, lord and master was so cruel, how could it be paradise? As his rage built, the poison began to pump through his quivering body. For the first time in his life, the Eensy Weensy Spider was driven by what seemed to him to be an unquestionably absolute sense of meaning – revenge.

For the second time that day, the Eensy Weensy Spider picked himself up and began the long sojourn towards heaven.

           Their song was clockwork, pure mechanized harmony.

Big Joe sat in his plush purple folding chair, presiding over the dance like a shepherd over his flock; his anfractuous, gamboling flock. Sheep didn’t have rhythm like these people. Not by a long shot.

These were the people born into the arms of the Great Depression. These were the people who rebuilt the country from a grungy postwar slum into a beautiful sanitized oasis of convenience and luxury that preceding generations could not imagine and proceeding generations could not sustain. These were the cream of their age-bracket, those who had maintained their health; the ones who never drank, never smoked, and certainly never touched the dope for fear of what the good Lord might think. They worked overtime as civil servants, volunteered at the Red Cross on Saturdays instead of going to parties, ran the Sunday schools, the Rotary clubs, led Boy Scout troops, organized picnic groups, ice cream socials, sock hops, relief funds, county fairs. These were the ones who had paid their dues on time, every time, plus a few dollars. These were the ones who had worked tirelessly for their communities, yet aged gracefully enough that they could still do the Polka well into their eighties. Big Joe leaned back, sinking deeper into the checkered cushioning that covered the seat of his portable customato thrown. These were good people, God’s people, and Big Joe was honored to preside over their dance.

Thud shuffle-shuffle Thud shuffle-shuffle Thud shuffle-shuffle Thud went twelve feet over the glossy floor of the linoleum dancehall. This was their time: 2012. The road outside was filled with their progeny, their daughters and sons, speeding by in their garish German luxury autos, flashing the midlife crisis decadence that their parents inside the dancehall had facilitated. Ungrateful children they were, stuffing the people who had built such a solid foundation for them into crumbling homes for the elderly while they rushed from party to party, leading extravagant lifestyles that allotted no time for their aging parents. They would never understand the understated luxury of the Cutlass, nor the benevolent elegance of the Lincoln Towncar. They would never understand what it truly meant to have class.

But that didn’t matter now. These beautiful people had labored long and hard to retire in style, had abstained from excess for over seventy years so that they could enjoy being old, and now, as they sauntered to the music, none of that seemed important. All that mattered now was the Polka. From his pulpit atop the stage, Big Joe watched the three couples as they skittered across the glistening dance floor and smiled.

Believe it or not, The King did not die while sitting on the toilet, after spending too much of his recreational time with prescription drugs. As is often the case with the truth, the real story of Elvis is much, much more beguiling than the old myth that has been commonly adopted as truth could ever be. All I can say about this movie is that it is of paramount importance that you witness its inherent genius, this instant if possible. It may not be out on home video yet, but the second it is released, rent it, run all the way home from the video store, and slide it into your VCR. Don’t even bother with popcorn – this movie is so good that popcorn is decadent excess, a completely unnecessary luxury that will merely stand between you and the brilliant spectacle that is “Bubba Ho-Tep.” Trust me, this movie does not need popcorn. Elvis Presley is played by His Eminence, Bruce Campbell, the star of such cinematic masterpieces as “Evil Dead,” “Evil Dead 2″ and ” Evil Dead Three: Army Of Darkness,” and author of the sidesplitting autobiography If Chins Could Kill: Confessions Of A B Movie Actor. Despite his self-proclaimed status as a B movie star, Bruce Campbell will dazzle you with his thespian prowess – Bruce Campbell isn’t merely another cheap Las Vegas Elvis impersonator; Bruce Campbell IS Elvis. He manages to internalize the very quintessence of The King after his fall from grace, garish rhinestones and all, and presents an interpretation of Elvis which is so believable that on more than one occasion I was thoroughly convinced that he was Elvis in the living, gyrating flesh. Well, living anyway. By the time that the saga of “Bubba Ho-Tep” begins, Elvis has ceased to gyrate and can barely manage to hobble around without his walker. His place of residence is the Shady Rest Convalescent Home of Mud Creek, Texas, and Elvis is no longer the dreamy, chipper, young whippersnapper he was in his younger days; he is an old man filled with remorse who spends most of his waking hours doing nothing. He regrets his decision to trade lives with a random Elvis impersonator, he regrets leaving his wife and daughter, and he regrets falling off stage while impersonating himself and entering a coma – as a result of his injury, no one would possibly believe he really is The King, and everyone simply writes him off as a harmless old coot with a head injury. Come to think about it, I don’t know of very many people who wouldn’t be remorseful about all that, but Elvis is so crippled by his sorrow that he can hardly function, spending almost all his waking hours lying in bed, awaiting death. Whole days pass by in fast motion, and everything is a jumbled haze for Elvis.

Then one day it happens. After a series of the elderly residents of the Shady Rest Convalescent Home wind up dead over the course of a few nights (not a horribly uncommon occurrence at a rest home), Elvis is assaulted by a large bug, which he initially believes to be a giant cockroach. After he emerges victorious (yes, The King still has some of his old virility, albeit a little dusty), no thanks to his not-so-trusty bedpan, he sees a strange apparition, which quickly disappears. He immediately runs to the room of his friend, Jack (played by Ossie Davis, who I have never heard hide nor hair of before, but who seems to be a talented actor), to tell him about his experience. Before I continue, let me tell you something about Jack. Jack believes that he is actually JFK. He believes that after the assassination attempt of Lee Harvey Oswald, he entered a coma and was surgically rearranged into a black man for his own protection (how it would protect him to be a black man in Texas in the 1960’s isn’t explained, but I suppose that isn’t the point). Jack also believes that his old political rivals are still tracking him down to assassinate him, this time for good. Neither Jack nor Elvis know what exactly is going on, but when they find a fresh set of hieroglyphics on the wall of the guest bathroom which, when translated, make a rather lewd statement about the dearth of Cleopatra’s feminine appendages, It becomes obvious to them that there is something awry, and with another elder dying each night, they know they must act quickly…

The beauty of “Bubba Ho-Tep” is that it is so completely unpretentious – it admits to it’s own corniness and revels in it’s own absurdity. It ridicules it’s own ridiculousness, and because of that every last cheesy aspect of the movie is completely and utterly ameliorated. Truth be told, “Bubba Ho-Tep” made me cry. The last time I cried during a movie was two years ago, and the movie that prompted this reaction was the original black and white version of “Elephant Man,” which is one of the most beautifully tragic things I have ever witnessed. Other than that, no movie I have ever seen has made me cry (excepting when I was a very small child, but I was probably crying about something else then anyway – I was the original Emo kiddy. I digress.) Towards the end of “Bubba Ho-Tep,” my eyes filled with big tears of joy, and I just sat there, laughing while these big tears rolled down my cheeks.

So yeah. See it, or I will become very displeased with you, and anyone who has slipped far enough away from reality to react to “Bubba Ho-Tep” by crying is capable of pretty much anything. If you don’t believe me, just watch the movie. Watch it. You’re still reading this? You haven’t run off to see if the movie is out for home viewing yet? GODDAMMIT! I’M COMING TO YOUR HOUSE WITH A LOADED TWELVE GAUGE, AND “BUBBA HO-TEP” BETTER BE IN YOUR VIDEO PLAYER, OR YOU BETTER BE ON THE WAY TO THE VIDEO STORE TO SEE IF IT’S OUT YET! JUST WATCH THE GODDAMN MOVIE ALREADY!

Okay, I’m done.

A flash of white light and the ball shot across the swarthy black screen, bouncing and rebounding in a kinetic dervish of unparalleled audacity. It rocketed towards my feeble paddle at an astounding speed. By the blessed will of God, I managed to maneuver my paddle in front of it, reversing the course of the ball towards my ornery opponent, but before I could regroup myself, the ball was hurtling back in my direction. I had no time to move in front of it; in an instant it had vanished off the playing field. “UH-OH.” blared the announcer in a tone that suggested he was a small forest creature who had been force-fed helium. His squeaky prepubescent voice was intolerable as it mockingly screeched the words that signified a victory for my opponent. “Zounds” I thought. I decided to remain philosophical about the matter – after all, my rival still had to score 98 points before the match reached its close. I had to put up a fight. I would not lie down and die like a disheveled cur. My honor would not allow it.

Towards me flew the ball; again I deflected it, but almost immediately my opponent shot it back at such an angle that my paddle could not possibly have been manipulated into position to parry it’s thrust. My rival was so experienced that he wouldn’t even allot me the opportunity to defend myself against his attacks of ever-increasing pinpoint precision. Again the garish squeak of the announcer – “UH-OH.” Yeah, uh-oh is right, I thought. Even the announcer, which was likely a hamster hopped up on methamphetamines, could see that I was no match for this maniacal genius, this master of the game. I stared for a moment at the face of mine enemy. It was every bit as blank as before, and though he had no need to keep his poker face on, he chose to anyhow. He was reveling in my feeble inadequacy. I knew it, and he knew I knew it. It was all part of his game.

This time when the ball came hurtling towards me I had accepted my fate, much as does one who suffers from hypothermia. Maybe his cold glare had gotten to me, or maybe my will had been covered over in a thick layer of frost. Yet somehow, in spite of my rampant apathy, I managed to move the paddle in the right direction and to deflect the ball back towards my rival. It was in that moment I realized hope was not lost. I could win. Damn the odds. I had been the underdog my whole life, yet I always won anyway. I could do this, for what was he, my antagonist, but a series of electrical signals? He may have the skill, the training, the ability, but I had the drive, the soul, the human spirit, and I’d take all that over all his skills any day. Hell, I realized, in Welsh, my given name MEANS warrior. All my ancestors were Scottish berserkers. They would paint their faces with a mixture of their own piss and special plant that turned blue when mixed with human urine, and charge across the battlefield, often barefoot, at full gallop wielding swords taller then themselves, IN SKIRTS. My opponent, the machine, could never paint its face blue with a combination of plant matter and his own pee because he didn’t even excrete urine of any variety. What kind of warrior, what kind of highland Scotsman would I be if I curled up and died in the face of something that couldn’t even empty it’s bladder on account of not having one? What would my ancestor, Bonnie Prince Charlie say if he saw me in a dejected stupor of self-doubt?

This time when the announcer bellowed “UH-OH!” in it’s nitrous oxide voice, it was my turn to smile.

In the end I emerged victorious. My opponent lay on the ground, his face cracked and oozing liquid crystal blood, his feeble electric soul crackling and escaping into the ether from his broken plastic corpse. It had been a close match – 99 to 98 (which means I had played 197 matches of pong without so much as a coffee break) – but in the end I had attained another victory for Man. I felt like Faust, or Ned Ludd, or Neo, or possibly Ted Kazinsky. I had overcome the machine (I say possibly Ted Kazinsky because he bombed people because he hated technology. The important part is that he didn’t like machines.) Though he was a worthy opponent, I had bludgeoned the fucker to death. God had created man and man had created machine. Man had killed God, but machine could not kill man. If you don’t believe me, just ask the computer that is sitting on the floor of my room. It won’t respond, but you’ll get the picture anyway I’m sure.

In case you didn’t get how this story was a “review,” I was merely trying to relate to you that Pong is obscenely dull and tedious and will make you want to hurt your computer, and will also incite you to make up stories like the one you just read to restrain yourself from poking your eyes out with chopsticks and yelling “Mummy, I’m an ostrich. Come bury my head in the sand.” Pong is mildly entertaining in small doses; however, never set the number of points you play to before the match is over above whatever the factory default is. Otherwise you may feel the urge to damage your computer, yourself, or whatever other articles may be within hand’s reach at the time (in my case, a thesaurus and a CD entitled “Highland Heroes: The Pipes and Drums of the 51st Highland Brigade”.)

If you want to challenge your computer to a game of this stupid, archaic and monotonous apparition, you can download it at www.pong-story.com/pcpong.htm, but I wouldn’t recommend it. Neither the staff of bamboozled.org nor the hideous people at pong-story.com (footnote) should nor can be held legally accountable for any damage, which may or may not occur to you or your property as a result of pong. If you do, we’ll simply point and laugh at you and you’ll feel stupid.

So just remember, PONG WILL FUCK YOU UP MAN.

(footnote)I’m just kidding. We love you, people at pong-story.com.  If you want us to prove it we’ll bake you cookies. Please be our friends. All the other kids hate us cus we’re mean. But really, somewhere deep down inside, we’re human just like you, and just like you, all we want is to be loved.

Though none of the particularly nasty bits of the saga are described in lurid detail (thank God),
the book does contain some really sleazy bits – it was definitely not written with your
six-year-old cousin in mind. Within the pages of Youth In Revolt, the term “Thunderous Erection”
is used so frequently that it is abbreviated to “T.E.” The book is riddled with moments, like when
the abridgement T.E. is explained, where the only way one can react is by thinking (or screaming
out loud) “eeewwwww…wait…he didn’t actually…awwwww.” In spite of this significant handicap,
C.D. Payne manages to raise the overall quality of the book to a stratum far above smutty
pornographic trash. Payne has a remarkable ability to twist the storyline of the book into a
confused jumble of chaotic complexity which always manages to tumble towards the strangest
possible destination, and then abruptly diverge from it’s original course in the direction of an
even more bizarre one. Throughout the entire book, he manages to exploit his phenomenal ability to
manipulate any situation his characters find themselves in to his own ends, ensuring that every
development will offer up a refreshing batch of dry, satiric humor.

As I mentioned earlier, our narrator and protagonist Nick Twisp has only one real goal in life: to
get a girlfriend so he can get laid. As Nick is neither attractive, good-natured, nor loaded with
cash, his chances of finding a girlfriend are slim. The only elements which are on his side are
his wits, of which he has an abundance, and his outstanding ability to pull off the most
outrageous deceptions without any compunction about who he might hurt along the way. In his
interactions with just about everyone, Nick relies almost entirely on the latter trait. Though
Nick Twisp is truly a revolting human being, some of the complex lies which he tells result in
such eccentric exploits that the book is worth reading just for these bits.

Nick’s saga begins in Oakland (an industrial city-port known for its high crime rate, located to
the east of San Francisco), where Nick is spending the summer sitting in his room (which his
sardonic mother has painted pink because she read somewhere that the color helps to calm violent
psychopaths) in a bored stupor, waiting for the next school year to begin. Nick’s life is a
delirium of being yelled at by his mother, writing, hanging around with his friend Lefty and
spending hours staring at old copies of hustler and playboy. The only escape Nick has from Oakland
comes in the form of infrequent visits to the Mill Valley (an upscale demi-suburb northwest of San
Francisco) residence of his deadbeat penny-pinching yuppie father and his father’s live-in
“bimbette,” Lacey, on specific dates mandated by the California Family Court System.

Nick’s summer sojourn in his room is interrupted when his mother and her fat, pervy trucker
boyfriend named Jerry decide to take a respite in Ukiah (a small cow town far north of San
Francisco). His mother does not trust Nick enough to allow him to stay in Oakland alone, so she
brings him with her to Ukiah. In Ukiah, Nick meets and falls in love with the local pretentious
teenage intellectual, Sheeni Saunders, who also happens to be every bit as liberated from her
conscience, and capable of lying, as Nick himself. With much persuasion, a few low blows and
plenty of cute antics, nick manages to convince Sheeni to dump her attractive, poetic boyfriend
for him.
Unfortunately for Nick, his vacation is over all to soon; before he can convince Sheeni to go all
the way with him, he is forced to return to Oakland with his mother and Jerry. However, before
Nick leaves, Sheeni convinces him to adopt her dog Albert, who her parents despise, by agreeing to
sleep with him if he will do some research on what brand of condom is rated least likely to break.
Figuring that Albert is the only way to keep Sheeni interested in a long distance relationship,
Nick decides to take Albert back to Oakland.

At this point the book switches gears into overdrive and Nick becomes a full out inordinate amoral
schemer, a “Youth In Open Revolt.” Now that he has experienced the possibility of getting laid,
Nick will do anything to get with Sheeni. It becomes apparent that Sheeni has other plans however,
and the rest of the book is basically a hodgepodge of deception, manipulation, political
maneuvering and crime. Over the course of the book, Nick adopts two alternate personalities, helps
a friend fake suicide, steals another friend’s car and then frames someone else when he runs out
of gas in the middle of the freeway, spies on his friend as his friend is getting laid and gets
caught, writes and unleashes the largest computer virus in history, hides out from the law in Los
Angeles, and burns down half of Berkeley, among other felonies and misdemeanors. For more
specifics, you’ll just have to read the book.

It is rare to encounter a 400+ page novel that one does not feel like putting down once in a
while, and Youth In Revolt is no exception; some of the more licentious parts are so despicable
that one may feel the urge to hurl the book across the room (I know I did on at least 4 or 5
occasions.) The difference between Youth In Revolt and most other long novels is that in these
moments one is simply compelled to keep reading. There where many moments when I sat reading the
book, completely repulsed but utterly unable to put it down. Though most of the time Nick is just
disgusting, there are also many moments where you feel sorry for him that he ever got involved
with Sheeni in the first place. There are parts where you will laugh, and parts that are so
nauseating you just might cry. However, I will promise you that the vast majority of the book is
extremely entertaining, and I would recommend it to anyone who doesn’t have a weak stomach for
debauchery.

“Hell,” he said to himself. “If that sniveling bitch had gotten me young
enough, she probably could have even convinced me that I was a worthless
liar.” It suddenly dawned on Joe that the laws of gravity were about to
serve him his sentence, and that all of this shoulda-woulda-coulda
nonsense was getting him nowhere very, very fast. However, this train of
thought was violently hurled from its tracks before it could even hope to
reach its logical destination when Joe’s head made contact with his dusty,
unkempt lawn.

———-

Joe woke up in Heaven, and realized it hurt his eyes. He didn’t want to
sit up, but he felt some strange urge to and worried that if he didn’t he
might be disobeying the will of God. Though nothing he did was ever his
fault, Joe had enough answering to do to the Big Guy In The Sky as it was.
He was a constant victim of circumstance.

When Joe sat up, he was disappointed. Damn. They didn’t have sterile
hospital air in the promised land, of this Joe was certain. He looked
around. No one in sight. The room was empty, except for a tangle of
medical equipment next to him and a small table in one corner of the room,
on which rested a perspiring plastic jug of what had once been ice water,
a disposable plastic cup, and a rather official looking document. Maybe it
was that fishing license Joe had applied for six months ago. The table was
just close enough to allow Joe to reach out and grab its corner. He
pulled. It inched slightly closer. Joe hadn’t noticed how weak he was
until now. Another pull, another inch. After about five more tugs, the
table was close enough that he could reach out and touch the official
looking document. He grabbed at the edge and yanked it in his direction.
Now that it was within range, Joe shuffled the papers off the desk and
read the authoritative letterhead. Odd. He’d thought that the Department
Of Fish And Game was in charge of issuing fishing licenses, not the local
police. “Wait. Local police?” thought Joe. It was then that all became
strikingly clear. Joe wished that it had stayed blissfully opaque.

Joe had suddenly realized that the combination of personal distaste for
the color of your neighbor’s house and a high blood alcohol level did not
give you the legal right to spray paint various threatening passages from
the Old Testament across the side of your neighbor’s garishly colored
house at three in the morning, despite the fact that it seemed like a
righteous thing to do at the time. His second revelation was every bit as
profound; Joe noticed to his horror that the slogan “overpaint you’re hous
or be murded in te nigte” could easily be interpreted by many judges to be
a threat of physical assault, even when put into context. Most people did
not understand what a real pooling experience was like, and therefore, did
not understand the frustration of having it ruined by the offensive color
of your neighbor’s house. “Philistines.” thought Joe.

As it was highly improbable that any group of twelve randomly selected
citizens would contain seven or more connoisseurs of fine pooling and
cheap liquor, Joe began to think of ways in which to justify his actions
to the jury. As he was unable to manage this task, he began to contemplate
the potential evidence which the local prosecutor may have had against
him. Though he wasn’t in any way certain, Joe did not remember wearing any
gloves. Neither did he remember properly disposing of his boots, or even
bringing empty spray cans with him for disposal at a later date. The only
thing he could be sure of is that the day after his crime spree, he had
awaken in his bed, miraculously un-hungover, and had felt like a brief
sojourn in the pool. He had tromped through the thick teal shag carpet in
the living room, across the threshold of the sliding glass door (which he
would have walked into if not for the large number of cracks from a
previous drunken escapade), over the roll-out patio and up the ladder of
his big, beautiful vat of pristine water. He had immersed himself fully in
his glistening sanctuary, lapping up the morning sun while suspended in
liquid perfection. Then there were sirens, those harbingers of conscience,
reminding him what he’d done. Moments later, he had begun his short,
downward flight from the law. The piece of paper in his hands was an
official court summons.

———-

It was a year after the incident. The sirens had apparently been involved
in a high-speed
chase completely unrelated to Joe. His ex-wife, three kids and their
“replacement daddy” (who also happened to be a cop) had arrived that
morning to find him lying on the ground, unconscious, neighbor’s defaced
house looming in the background. Apparently during his fall, Joe had
somehow managed to knock down the flimsy fence that divided his yard from
his neighbor’s. Needless to say, Officer Nosy had taken one look at his
position in relation to that of the vandalized house and had assumed the
worst. While awaiting the arrival of an ambulance, the heroic officer of
the law had dusted some prints off of Joe’s martini shaker (which Joe had
regrettably left sitting on the kitchen counter, uncleaned and half full)
for further analysis after they had gotten a set of prints from the scene
of the crime.

Joe had spent 2 weeks in the hospital. After he had been discharged (and
given a prescription for some rather potent painkillers after claiming
that the stress had triggered arthritis), he had been immediately tried on
charges of vandalism, public inebriation, and assault. Fortunately, one of
Joe’s bar buddies was a good lawyer and managed to convince the jury that
Joe had simply been drunk, walked through the fence and, seeing the
graffiti, decided to touch it to see if it were real. Since there was no
significant evidence to prove otherwise, Joe was let off the judicial
hook. Apparently you couldn’t dust prints off of spray can nozzles. Since
his lawyer had alleged that Joe spent the entire duration of his “heavy
intoxication” in the privacy of his own back yard, he wasn’t even found
guilty on the public inebriation charge. The jury did, however, order him
to rebuild the fence. Having no other suspects, the police were forced to
put the case on the back burner. They have yet to apprehend the
perpetrator(s) of this violent assault on the residence of Joe’s
aesthetically challenged neighbors.

“Don’t you worry, Mr. Judge” thought Joe as he descended the steps of the
courthouse. “I’ll rebuild that fence nice and tall and sturdy, so that I
will never have to see that bastard’s crappy house again. Right after I
take a long, elysian soak in the my precious, precious pool.”
Joe knew that sometimes, one must simply be philosophical about things.