Incommunicado

Dear diary,

If you live in a herd, and you share the same barn as the rest of your community, then you can speak at any time and your neighbor will hear you, because she’s right next to you, sleeping in the hay.

If you live on top of a mountain, like Nietzsche’s Zarathustra (or Matthew’s Jesus), then you must come down the mountainside to speak to your fellow human beings, who all can usually be found in the marketplace.

But I live neither in a communal farm nor all alone on an active volcano. I live in the suburbs: this place has the worst of both worlds. It’s got all the bothersome aspects of herd existence, combined with the isolation of mountain living.

Also, despite it being crowded here, with too many houses placed too close together, this layout lacks the conveniences of city living. It seems even that this domain was engineered with an aim to deprive its inhabitants of every urban advantage.

There is no fellowship; we are void of camaraderie. Again, if you lived atop a volcano, like Moses’ Yahweh, you would be in the habit of sending postcards to your friends on their respective mountains. And if you were a canned sardine, your siblings would remain at your side, till the day you are eaten. You could talk to them any time you desire. But here in the suburbs, where everyone is constantly online, tethered to a network via computer-phone, caught in the world wide web, and wound tightly . . .

I’m trying to say that it is plain uncouth, a breach of propriety, and bad manners, to attempt to engage in genuine socialization in the Epoch of the Internet. In the Age of Endless Instant Electronic Communication, conversation is impossible.

Am I right about this? Maybe I’m only throwing an emotional fit. Let me try some thought experiments, to tease out the truth.

Say that I use my mobile device to send my neighbor a text message. My neighbor answers back:

“Why are you texting me? I live right next door – just come over and chat.”

OK, so let me back up and try again. This time, instead of using my mobile device, I physically walk over and ring the doorbell on my neighbor’s house. My neighbor answers and says:

“Why are you bothering me in person? We’re all online, nowadays – wouldn’t it be easier just to send me a text message? In that case, I wouldn’t have needed to make sure that I’m fully dressed with no stains upon my clothing and that my hair is combed and all the illegal drugs that I’ve been abusing are hidden from sight. What a nuisance your visit is.”

So, there you have it. This thought experiment proved right everything that I said above. The means of communication have barred communication.

This is good for antisocial people. But what is the goal of these misanthropic jerks? Don’t they realize that if their dreams were to come true, they would find themselves exactly where they began? What I mean is this:

An antisocial man somehow eliminates society; he finds himself all alone in a garden. To prevent the emergence of others, he replenishes the world with images of himself. He pours his spirit into whichever likeness he desires to inhabit. To intensify the activity, he devises a way to mute his memory between instances, and between any given image and its original.

That is why warfare is more honorable than suicide: we forgot that we are our creator.

When you work at a fast-food franchise, you see your co-employees every day. You’re trapped in the same hell, so you can simply converse (via words in air) without worrying about which network or platform to use. You share immediate reality: space and time, here and now. That’s why I recommend finding a career in fast-food.

Why don’t we fix the fast-food formula, by the way? It’s obviously broken; why not amend it? Find out what’s making the food poisonous, and change that. Then figure out how to pay the workers enough so that they can live comfortably; and slow the pace slightly so that the job is not detrimentally stressful. The meals would cost a little more, and it would take a little longer to prepare and serve them; but it would still be much faster than an upscale restaurant; and the food would be healthy and superb. Everyone would be happy. Bosses would no longer need to harass their subordinates, because the subordinates would naturally love their bosses: they would all embrace freely in the breakroom. Every individual’s volition would get to move however it desires; there would be no obstructions. Owners would smile, and customers would smile. Everyone would eat every meal at Bryan’s Burger Barn. It would serve as the town square and the central church. The U.S. Capitol and the Tower of London.

I’d like to say that people would get married at Bryan’s Burger Barn; that they would order a basket of onion rings, and slide one of them over the finger of the bride in lieu of a wedding band. But there are two reasons that this would be false:

(1) The institution of marriage has died and been superseded by free love.

(2) Unless you use very small bulbs, any ring that is made therefrom will prove larger than the average human finger. Moreover, the onion rings at Bryan’s Burger Barn are so delicious that they always end up getting eaten within a moment after being worn as ornaments; they are therefore not the optimal choice of fried vegetable to symbolize a lifelong contract.

Movie Idea

So here’s my idea for a movie:

A policeman is standing on the street corner, smoking a cigar.

A vagabond enters the scene, walks up to the policeman, and punches him in the face.

A matron now enters the scene and stands behind the policeman. The cop kicks the vagabond; the vagabond falls, gets up, turns around, and throws another punch at the cop, who ducks the blow and it hits the matron.

Once the cop lifts his head again after having successfully dodged the vagabond’s punch, the matron punches the cop from behind.

The cop winds up his fist, planning to hit the matron, but the vagabond kicks the cop’s rump and he collapses. The policeman’s legs cause the matron to trip and fall on top of him; then the vagabond trips and falls on the matron and the cop.

Morningthots that are very brief because I was forced to abandon them to go party & have fun

Dear diary,

Why are some things sacred and others not? If one is told “This book is a sacred scripture,” one thinks: I wonder which religion it is from. But if one is told “Here is a sacred movie,” one thinks: You must be joking; there’s no such thing as sacred cinema. Also, to date, there are no sacred video games.

I think that maybe the realms of motion pictures and electronic gaming are just too new, but once they have aged for a generation or two, select works from either category will come down with sacredness.

It seems to me that “sacred” is basically a label that creditors stamp on certain things to control the masses.

It interests me how differently sacred texts are treated, compared to other sacred artworks. When the church declares its book sacred, the command is: Do not change this text, do not even read it; our priests have read it for you already, so read only their summarization of its meaning; but, most importantly, just behave as they tell you. Yet the church does not have the same strictures about sacred songs: the people are not told “Do not sing these; they are sacred;” and while the congregation is prohibited from composing new sacred scriptures (prophecies, wisdom writing), people are not only permitted but even commissioned to compose new sacred music and new sacred paintings.

I was wondering if there are sacred works of theater, sacred stage dramas. The church seems to be against playacting. But aren’t rituals essentially sacred scripted pageants? So maybe the church’s anti-play attitude is consistent with their labeling practices. They’re probably jealous of the effectiveness of secular dramas. But then I wonder why the church doesn’t commission its own playwrights to script new works in service of their doctrine. Perhaps it’s the same reason they martyr all prophets. I wish they weren’t so violently asinine; it would ignite my curiosity if the church were to produce a weekly sitcom – I’d watch that religiously.

How unfortunate that people who prefer to perform supporting roles end up having such wicked masters. Those who desire to help others often become enablers of cruelty.

People who serve in church are like those who work in food service: it’s not their fault that corrupt scientists poisoned all the ingredients. But how should we admit that there is a problem on the source end while still respecting and preserving the front-line assistance workers?

And what about soldiers? They’re at once the finest specimens of humanity, and . . .

§

I had to abandon the above thought because my timed siren alerted me that I must take my morning walk. So I did that, and I’m back now. It was still dark, so I wore this new sash that I bought for night-lurking; it is reflective, plus it has two oblong lime-green lights: one on the front, one on the back.

Why did I need to get my walk out of the way before sunrise? Because today there is a birthday party scheduled for my nephew Marl. He is turning seven years old. The celebration will happen this afternoon, at the time when I would normally be walking; so all my neighbors who set their clocks by my daily walk will now be late for all their appointments.

I spent yestermorn searching for a birthday gift. What type of properties do seven-year-olds wish to own? My nephew already possesses every power toy that makes noise and has flashing lights. There is a permanent bouncy castle in his house’s basement, plus a concrete swimming pool. So after an hour of staring in confusion at all the shelves in a retail store, I ended up buying him The Iliad and The Odyssey. Maybe he’ll read them and become a warrior or a swindler.

We also got our driveway coated this week.

The Thug vs. the Painter (conclusion)

[Part 2 of 2]

Meanwhile the shootout is still going on, and everyone is having a rollickingly good time. Johnny the Thug and his gangsters return to the center of the action.

Shirley the Love Interest remains behind to see what will happen with William the Painter, who eventually revives and stands up, now covered in mud, then begins to trudge home.

Shirley follows William at a distance. He enters his studio apartment, tracking mud all over the floor, and collapses on the sofa. Shirley comes into the apartment after him: she helps to clean off the mud, and nurses his wounds. While doing so, she confesses: “I didn’t mean what I said, about being Johnny’s girl.”

William the Painter faintly smiles. Now, starting to wrap a bandage around his head, Shirley looks here and there in the room and notices that all the portraits are depictions of herself. Preoccupied with this revelation while applying the bandage, she absentmindedly presses William’s face against her bosom. The Painter appears to be in ecstasy.

“Dear William,” Shirley says, “all these pictures — they’re me!”

The Painter gazes up at her and says: “You’re my muse.”

Shirley and William continue to stare at each other: he in love, she in wonder.

Now the front door is kicked open by Johnny the Thug. He stands in the entryway smiling smugly. He tips his hat in mock politeness and says: “Ah, there you are, baby. Are you going to come with me willingly, or do I need to spank you?”

Shirley is scared speechless. William the Painter takes a step forward and says: “What’s the idea, barging into my place like this – haven’t you ever heard of a doorbell?”

Johnny the Thug looks at Shirley the Love Interest. She nods in approval of William’s speech. Johnny then walks up to the Painter and punches his face, right where the bandage is covering. William collapses.

Now Shirley cries out: “I will go with you, Johnny; just leave William alone.” Then, seeing how furious the Thug looks, she adds: “My concern is only for you – I’m worried that if you keep hitting him, you might hurt your hand.”

Johnny the Thug holds up his fist and ponders it, remarking: “It does feel a little sore.” Then draping his arm around Shirley, they begin to leave the studio. When they reach the door, Johnny turns and says to the knocked-out body of William: “Keep away from my girl, or I’ll lose my temper.”

William the Painter remains in a motionless heap on the floor.

Johnny the Thug leaves with Shirley the Love Interest.

Flash the Janitor, who has been waiting in the hallway, now enters the apartment. He addresses the unconscious body of William the Painter, saying: “You’re a coward, letting him take your girl without a fight.”

William wakes from his blackout and replies: “But I don’t know how to fight. No one ever gave me any instructions.”

Flash the Janitor reaches down and shakes William’s shoulder, while saying: “You could learn! The only drawback is your intellect. Too much intelligence gets in the way of a good fighter, as those who are wise forbear from physical violence. But you just got your brains knocked out, so it could be that you lost enough smarts to take hold on vengeance.”

William the Painter timidly asks Flash the Janitor: “Could you teach me how to fight?”

Flash balls up his fists and throws a number of rapid ghost-punches, then answers: “Kid, I will make you a champion!”

§

Flash the Janitor brings William the Painter to the gymnasium, to teach him how to box. They both put on thick red gloves and practice punching each other. There is also a tailor’s dummy in the ring, which the Painter keeps escaping from the fight to go hug. “Stop hugging the dummy,” shouts Flash to his student; “if you keep doing that, you’ll never learn how to fight!”

Now a voice is heard shouting from outside the gym: “William! William! Where are you? Come out here, this instant! You’re late for work!”

William the Painter pulls the fob watch from his boxer shorts. He then shrugs and pats the shoulder of Flash the Janitor, saying: “Sorry, friend; gotta go – my boss is calling.”

Flash blocks William from leaving and says: “Ah, come on, just fight a little longer.” Then he throws more punches, and the Painter dodges and punches back. His boss from the Tailor’s Shop enters the gym and approaches the fighting men: when he is directly behind them, William launches a punch, Flash ducks out of the way, and William’s fist hits his boss in the face.

The boss is now furious beyond words. William begins to apologize, but his boss shakes his head and starts to walk toward the exit. The boss now steps on a dumbbell, loses his balance and falls on his rump. William and Flash try not to laugh. William helps his boss to his feet. The boss scowls, then angrily stomps away.

Once his boss is out of sight, William the Painter shrugs and nudges his sparring partner, remarking: “I guess this means I’m unemployed.” The two men share a laugh.

§

Shirley the Love Interest is working at the bakery. A customer enters. It is William the Painter, but he is all dressed up as a professional boxer. He spits on the floor to prove his tough new attitude. Then he performs a couple stretches, jogs in place, and punches the air. “Hello, baby,” he says; “as you can see, I’ve transformed myself into a murderous beast.”

Shirley is wide eyed. “You shouldn’t come in here,” she says; “Johnny the Thug might beat you up.”

At that very moment, Johnny the Thug steps into the bakery. William the Painter is not aware of this, as his back is to the entry door: he answers Shirley, saying, “Listen, baby, I can lick anyone who enters this shop.”

In a desperate attempt to save the fool, Shirley the Love Interest grabs a loaf of bread and forces it into William’s arms, while she says very loudly so that Johnny the Thug can hear: “Take this bread that you came to purchase. The cost is ten caesars.” She holds out her hand for the cash and tries not to look at the Thug, in hopes that he will believe the ruse and allow William to leave the shop peaceably.

William the Painter, noting the wooden way that Shirley is acting, turns around to see what might be the cause. He then sees Johnny the Thug standing there in the doorway. William clutches the bread to his chest like it’s an infant, and he turns back around and tries nonchalantly to browse the pastries in the glass display.

Johnny the Thug approaches Shirley at the cash register. He jabs his thumb at the Painter and says boastfully: “Looks like your hemstitcher is asking for another punch in the pan.”

Shirley the Love Interest shakes her head nervously.

Johnny pulls a ticket out of his coat and hands it to his Love Interest, saying: “Tonight I’m fighting a duel with a fellow named Bullseye. Here’s a ring-side seat for you.”

William the Painter, in his boxer’s uniform, hugs the bread loaf closer. The thought “I would like to fight this villain, but I am still too cowardly to make a move,” is written all over his face. He hangs his head and slinks out of the bakery.

§

It is now the night of the fight. Johnny the Thug and his opponent Bullseye are scheduled to perform a duel with pistols. Shirley the Love Interest is in her ring-side seat, next to William the Painter’s old boss from the Tailor’s Shop. The boss elbows Shirley and points to the stage, saying: “This is gonna be a good fight!”

The two duelers are in their respective dressing rooms, readying themselves for the event. Bullseye is trembling with fright, while his manager tries to soothe him. Johnny the Thug is smirking with overconfidence while three members of his gang tend to his personal hygiene: one is giving him a manicure; one is massaging lotion into his skin; and one is spritzing his hair with a glossy finishing product.

William the Painter, still in his boxer’s outfit, is lurking through the dark alley outside the establishment. Flash the Janitor accompanies him. Flash says: “You’re crazy to pick a fight with Johnny right now – this is the night of his big duel!”

William the painter says: “No, it’s a smart move. Listen: I’m going to wait until this gunslinger Bullseye gets through with him – then I’ll knock his block off.” William performs an uppercut on an imaginary opponent, to convey his intention.

Flash the Janitor shakes his head doubtfully, then reaches into his trousers and pulls out a case labeled “First Aid Kit.” He opens the lid to show that it contains gauze, bandages, ointments, and other medical supplies. He then closes it and stuffs it into the Painter’s boxer shorts, remarking: “You might need this.”

§

Meanwhile, back in the dressing room of Bullseye, trouble develops. Bullseye is standing before the full-length mirror that is mounted on the outside of the closed bathroom door; he is holding a razor, trembling with anxiety while trying to shave his moustache. Now the toilet flushes, and Bullseye’s manager flings open the door to exit the bathroom: the full-length mirror smashes against Bullseye and shatters in pieces, leaving his body covered in bloody lacerations.

William the Painter happens to be walking past the door of Bullseye’s dressing room when the above occurs. Hearing the noise of smashing glass, William stops and knocks on the door, saying: “Is everything OK in there?” He tries the knob, and the door opens freely. William the Painter rushes in and sees the bloody body of Bullseye sparkling with mirror shards. “Oh, that’s bad luck,” he says; and, retrieving the First Aid Kit from his boxer shorts, he hands it to the manager, who is standing there in shock.

Bullseye’s manager pushes the First Aid Kit away, saying: “It’s no use – he has cut open every major artery in his body. He won’t be fighting tonight’s duel. You’ll need to replace him.”

These words fill the soul of William the Painter with feelings of terror and destiny.

§

The referee now makes an announcement to the multitudes in the audience: “Bullseye has had an accident, so there shall be a substitute adversary. The duel will now be between Johnny the Thug and William the Painter.”

The crowd cheers. The ref waves his hands to quiet them and then adds the following: “This also necessitates a change in weaponry. Instead of both men using pistols, as was planned, the Thug shall still be shooting his favorite handgun, but the Painter shall fight with boxing gloves while wearing boxer shorts.”

The crowd cheers even louder. Shirley the Love Interest looks a bit worried. The boss from the Tailor’s Shop is clapping and grinning.

After a moment of indecision, Shirley resolves to try to talk William out of fighting. She dashes backstage to his dressing room and hugs him, crying: “Please forsake the duel!”

William gently pushes her back with his boxing gloves; then he poses to flex his muscles and says: “I can do this.” He slaps his gloves together and adds: “I just know that it will end well for me.”

Shirley begs him to reconsider, saying: “But what if you get hurt?”

William the Painter, sporting a look of determination, answers: “Johnny the Thug cannot hurt me.”

Reluctantly accepting the Painter’s decision, Shirley leaves the dressing room.

William, now alone in the room with the Janitor, pulls his friend close and asks him in earnest: “Tell me, Flash, has anyone ever been murdered in a duel?”

Flash searches his memory, then answers: “My uncle was – but he had heart disease, so that doesn’t really count.” Then he pats William’s cheek and adds: “I think you’ll be OK.”

Shirley the Love Interest now visits the dressing room of Johnny the Thug. She pleads with him to call off the duel. He shakes his fist and says: “When I get finished with that Painter, he’s going to have so many bullet holes that people will mistake him for Swiss cheese.”

Contemplating such a picture, Shirley’s eyes fill with tears. Johnny the Thug notices this, and he grabs her hand and says to her: “Whenever I see you, I get hungry, because I’m reminded of that big sandwich that you made for me when we first met. Boy, how I wish I had one of those, now!”

This speech gives Shirley an idea. She perks up, dries her eyes, and announces: “I’ll be right back.”

Shirley the Love Interest hastens to her bakery and builds a tall sandwich using thick-cut turkey meat. Gazing upon her masterwork, she remarks to herself: “This should put the Thug to sleep.”

Shirley runs back to Johnny’s dressing room. She hands him the plate with the towering turkey sandwich. Johnny’s eyes grow wide. “Ah, thanks, baby,” he says; “this is just what I was craving!”

Johnny eats the entire sandwich, then exclaims: “Oh, that was good. Now I’m sleepy.”

Shirley the Love Interest quickly prepares an extra plate of pickles and milk, which she serves to Johnny, saying: “Here, for dessert, I made you a plate of pickles and milk.”

Johnny consumes this bonus dish and says: “Now I’m really sleepy.”

Shirley pats Johnny on his head, and then walks backward out of the room while bowing repeatedly. She dashes across the hallway and enters William the Painter’s dressing room: kissing him, she says, “I just wanted to wish you good luck on your duel against that Thug. Be sure to punch him in the tummy.”

Shirley the Love Interest now runs back and takes her seat at ring-side. The boss of the Tailor’s Shop is still occupying the seat next to hers; he is eating popcorn and snack nuts, waiting for the duel to start.

A referee comes and informs each competitor in his dressing room that the duel shall begin in one minute.

William the Painter, before leaving, paces over to say goodbye to poor Bullseye, whose body lies glittering with bloody mirror fragments. William holds out his boxing glove for a handshake. Bullseye feebly lifts his arm and offers the Painter a word of advice: “Take a tip from me, kid,” he says before dying: “don’t lead with your chin.”

The duelists now exit their dressing rooms simultaneously. They meet and stand toe to toe in the hallway. Johnny the Thug, looking drowsy, blows his cigar smoke in the face of William the Painter; then he asks William to turn around so that he can read what is written on his boxer’s cape. William complies, thus displaying that his cape is emblazoned with the legend “Murderous Beast.” Johnny the Thug laughs hard at this. The ref now ushers both the duelists out to the stage.

The men take their places. Johnny in one corner, and William in the opposite. Shirley the Love Interest applauds politely from her place in the audience. The referee now announces each competitor by name: he introduces William the Painter first, who stands and raises his boxing gloves; then the ref introduces Johnny the Thug, who paces out to the center of the ring and aims his handgun around at the sea of people who are cheering; he pantomimes shooting them: this makes them cheer louder. The men return to their corners; and the ref bangs the bell, to start the duel.

Johnny the Thug points his pistol at William, who shuffles left and right in the ring, to evade the Thug’s aim. Johnny keeps pivoting with the movements of his opponent, to make sure that William the Painter shall be hit when he fires the weapon. William occasionally ducks and throws out punches that do not land.

Johnny the Thug takes a step toward William, thus placing his opponent at extremely close range: the muzzle of the Thug’s firearm is nearly touching William’s torso. Johnny now discharges the gun.

The bullet lodges in the belly of William the Painter. He falls back against the ropes; then he drops to the ground. The ref begins to yell out the ten count. When he gets to nine, William labors to his feet. The Painter stands wobbling. The referee asks him if he wants to continue. William nods yes. He is bleeding from the gun wound.

William tries to throw a few more punches at Johnny the Thug. Johnny sways casually away from the Painter’s arms, successfully dodging every blow. The Thug then aims his pistol directly at the heart of William and pulls the trigger.

William falls to the ground again; he lies there motionless. The ref’s count reaches seven, then the Painter lifts his head and looks out at the crowd; his vision is blurred. But suddenly his eyes focus on the sight of Shirley: William sees that she is cheering distinctly for him. This inspires William the Painter to keep on fighting. He achieves a standing position just before the ref’s count reaches ten. The duel resumes.

Johnny the Thug is posing boastfully, blowing kisses to the crowd. He is unconcerned with his opponent, presuming that William is beaten. So William is able to throw a couple uppercuts at the Thug’s back, both of which hit their target. The Thug turns around; William then punches Johnny’s left cheek, and Johnny turns to him the other, which William smites as well. These blows occur in rapid succession.

Johnny now clinches William; that is, he embraces the Painter to prevent him from throwing further punches. Like so, he walks him around the ring. The foes twirl in circles, during their struggle, which resembles a dance. When they finally part, William the Painter throws several punches, all of which miss. Johnny retrieves his firearm, which he had holstered, and fires several shots in William’s chest. Blood streams from all the wounds. Then Johnny shoots the Painter in the forehead, and William collapses yet again.

This time, while William is down, he blacks out and beholds a vivid dream. It is not a fantasy but a memory: a flashback to the scene in his dressing room earlier, when Shirley the Love Interest came in and kissed him and instructed him, saying: “Accept this good luck for your duel against that Thug: I just fed him, therefore you can put Johnny to sleep by punching him in the tummy. I even served him pickles and milk for dessert.”

When this dream ends, William the Painter regains consciousness and feels more alive than ever: his love for Shirley has supercharged him with a total renewal of his energies. Now the voice of the referee is heard shouting the next number: “Otto e mezzo” (he is doing the ten count in Italian); yet, before he can say the word for nine, William leaps to his feet and bounces up and down, eager to fight.

His boxing manager, Flash the Janitor, scurries out into the ring to offer the Painter a plug of tobacco. William bites off a huge piece and says, “Thanks, Flash.” The Janitor gives him the “OK” hand signal and scrambles back to the corner. From there, Flash shouts: “Great job, Willie Boy! You’re winning all the way!”

William the Painter turns and looks in the crowd and sees Shirley, who is cheering for him with a teardrop in her eye. When William finishes waving to her, he turns back, and she immediately begins to pray: Folding her hands and closing her eyes, she says, “Dear Lord, please make the milk and pickles work.”

Johnny the Thug is boastfully posing for the audience again. But, the moment after Shirley concludes her prayer, Johnny clutches his gut and exclaims: “I’m feeling very drowsy and heavy again. Perhaps I should not have eaten so much turkey before marching off to battle.”

However, Johnny’s gang members help him by patting and burping him.

The referee bangs the bell with excessive vigor, signifying that the final phase of the duel has begun.

William the Painter leaps forward swinging at Johnny the Thug. He lands some punches, and others miss. Johnny has two freshly loaded pistols now, one in each hand: he shoots again and again – right gun, left gun, back and forth – but William dodges all these bullets.

Obese businessmen in the audience are visibly enraged that William the Painter is fighting so well. (They most likely placed bets against him.)

Johnny the Thug shakes himself, to ward off the sleepiness, and tries to refocus. He fires a couple more shots, and one hits William in the shoulder. A gasp from Shirley in the crowd is heard. But the Painter does not seem bothered by this latest wound. He continues to hop around the ring, ducking and thrusting, while Johnny the Thug is visibly tired. Johnny remarks aloud to himself: “If only I had refused that extra tray of pickles and milk.” His eyelids are droopy.

Now Shirley the Love Interest gets William’s attention. She stands up from her seat in the audience and says: “Psst! William, remember the advice that I gave you: punch his tummy!”

William lunges once and misses. Then he swings again, but the Thug shoots a bullet that hits the boxing glove, thus deflecting the punch.

From the corner of the ring, Flash the Janitor is biting his nails in anxiety; he remarks aloud to himself: “It looks like William has maybe enough juice to throw one last jab. I hope he hits that Thug right in the gut.”

William the Painter now sways about, while Johnny the Thug keeps shooting his pistols. Most of the bullets hit their mark.

Suddenly William the Painter punches Johnny in his stomach. The Thug falls into a deep sleep, and the ref counts loudly in slow motion. When he reaches the tenth Italian digit, he then shouts “Bravo!” and holds up the arm of William the Painter, signifying that his opponent has been slain. The masses cheer wildly, except for those two obese businessmen, who are very disappointed.

Even William’s ex-boss from the Tailor’s Shop is applauding his former employee. And next to him, Shirley the Love Interest, having leapt to her feet, is now clapping her hands upon the bald head of the boss, in celebration. She then rushes onto the stage.

The several members of Johnny’s gang now draw their pistols and circle around William the Painter, shooting him repeatedly. But William punches each one in the face, and thus knocks them all out. When the last gangster has fallen, Shirley the Love Interest steps over their bodies and hugs William. William then faints from loss of blood.

Shirley screams and kneels next to the bloody body of William. She takes him in her arms and holds him in the pietà pose, then showers him with kisses. This causes the Painter to resurrect. When he opens his eyes, he looks up at his true love Shirley, who is holding him, and he asks her: “Are you going to be my girl from now on?”

Shirley the Love Interest acts as though she is weighing the pros and cons of this decision. Then she ironically shakes her head no. William plays into her joke: he reacts to this mock rejection by swinging his big red boxing glove up to Shirley’s chin, in feigned slow-motion, as if he’s giving her an uppercut. Shirley pretends that this punch knocks her out: she closes her eyes and drops her head down so that her lips land against his. And they live happily ever after.

---

Source: So This is Love? (1928)

The Thug vs. the Painter

[Part 1 of 2]

Shirley the Love Interest looks out the window of her bakery. She sees a poster advertising a shootout; there is a full-size depiction of a shirtless Thug holding a handgun. Shirley the Love Interest gawks dreamily at this picture. She folds her hands as if in prayer to the Thug, and plants kisses on the window in the direction of the poster, then mouths the phrase “You are my hero.”

Meanwhile, the Thug himself, whose name is Johnny, is loitering on the street corner with his gang.

An event manager approaches and hands Johnny the Thug a stack of tickets, saying: “We need to sell all these, fast. They are seats for this evening’s shootout. If people don’t purchase the whole lot, then we won’t make much money.”

The Thug smirks and flicks the tickets with the back of his hand and says: “Don’t worry; I have a special trick that I use to make sales: I just approach a potential buyer, and get in his face and say: ‘Wanna purchase several seats to my shootout tonight?’ And if he answers yes, then good. But if no, then I give a high wave to my gangsters here, and they come and throw rocks through that person’s window. It works like a charm, every time.”

Now the Thug and his gang go walking down the block. They come to a furniture store, whose owner is sitting in a chair before the entryway.

The Thug slaps the man on his bald head with the stack of tickets and says: “Hey, fatso, we’re selling seats for this evening’s shootout. You’ll be needing several.” And he starts counting out very many tickets that he intends for the man to buy.

The furniture store owner shows his palms and shakes his head vigorously and says: “No, no, I don’t even dance.”

The Thug now raises his hand high and waves to his gang members, who are standing on the other side of the street. They approach holding rocks, which they launch through the window of the furniture store. When the glass shatters, the owner leaps up out of his chair in a panic. He curses the laughing gangsters as they leave.

The gang follows at a distance while Johnny the Thug strolls down the sidewalk. When Johnny comes to the jewelry store, he happens to see a pretty lady across the street, so raises his hand high to wave to her. Now his gang members assume that this is a signal to them, so they toss rocks through the jewelry store’s window. Johnny the Thug, recovering from the shock of this mistake, yells in exasperation at his gang, saying: “No, you fools! I was just flirting with that dame who strolled past; I did not mean for you to smash this shopfront yet – I haven’t even gotten a chance to talk to its owner. Now you caused me to lose a sale.”

Following the sound of smashed glass, the owner of the jewelry store springs out and angrily stares at Johnny. Johnny points at the broken window and remarks: “It looks like your window broke.” Then he walks on, unfazed.

§

Next, Johnny the Thug comes to the bakery where Shirley the Love Interest is at work. Shirley looks out of the window and sees Johnny: the very Thug whose depiction on the poster she was marveling at this morning. She smiles and says to herself, “Ooh, here he is, in person!”

Johnny the Thug looks into the bakery window and sees a glazed pastry on a plate behind Shirley. He smiles and says “I want that,” while pointing at the pastry. Shirley assumes that he is making this remark about her. She pats her hair, in anticipation.

Johnny the Thug enters the bakery and stands before the glass display case that contains the glazed pastry. Shirley the Love Interest hastens over and asks: “May I help you?”

Johnny taps the glass and says: “Yeah, gimme that pastry.”

Shirley then dreamily takes out two pieces of bread and adds many slices of meat, plus various other ingredients, resulting in a thick sandwich. She accomplishes all this absentmindedly while staring lovestruck at Johnny the Thug. Then she fetches a bottle of beer, and hands this and the enormous sandwich to Johnny, who says:

“Um, that’s nice; but I ordered a glazed pastry.”

Shirley apologizes in embarrassment and runs to the back room, then returns with a bottle opener in her hand. While opening the beer, she sprays foam all over Johnny the Thug. Shirley’s shame doubles, as she realizes what she has done. But Johnny is a good sport; he wipes himself off and remarks, “Thanks for the beer bath.” He then reaches behind the glass display, takes the pastry and says, “What do I owe ya?”

Shirley the Love Interest shakes her head and replies, “No charge.”

Now the gang members come into the bakery. As they stand there watching their leader Johnny eat the pastry and the sandwich, one gangster gives the Thug a nudge and says in an undertone: “Hey, Johnny, that bakery girl is head-over-heels for you. Why don’t you ask her to be your date for tonight’s shootout?”

Johnny the Thug looks over at Shirley the Love Interest, who is staring at him with hope and awe (she seems to have overheard the gangster’s question), but Johnny snaps back in answer, “Nah, that dame’s got no class.”

Shirley now looks disheartened.

§

Across the street is a studio apartment; it is the abode of William the Painter. He paints many portraits, but they are all of the same woman – his only true love: Shirley from the bakery.

Now Flash the Janitor enters the studio. He glances at the work on the easel and remarks, while cocking his head toward the picture: “You really love her, don’t you?”

William the Painter sighs and says: “Yes, I love her deeply and truly. I just hope that someday I can find the nerve to tell her so.”

A voice is heard shouting from the street below: “William! William! Where are you? Come out here, this instant! You’re late for work!”

William the Painter gasps and pulls the fob watch from his pocket and shakes it. He then shrugs and pats the shoulder of Flash the Janitor, saying: “Sorry, friend; gotta go – my boss is calling.”

William the Painter dashes out the front door. He is met by his boss, who is standing there scowling. They hasten to the Tailor’s Shop, which is next door to the bakery. As they go, they pass Shirley the Love Interest, who is on a ladder cleaning the window of her establishment. The ladder wobbles and falls, leaving Shirley hanging from the roof, like Jimmy Stewart at the start of Hitchcock’s Vertigo. William the Painter races over and hugs the dangling legs of Shirley, and he helps her safely to the ground.

William’s boss is enraged when he sees that his employee has made a detour to help the bakery girl. He screams at William the Painter to hurry up and take his place at his workstation, for a large lady is waiting in the Tailor’s Shop to have her measurements taken. William the Painter bids adieu to Shirley his Love Interest, then shuffles into the rear of the shop, where the large lady waits.

While William begins to stretch the measuring tape across the large lady’s torso, Johnny the Thug approaches the boss of the Tailor’s Shop, who is standing outside the entryway at the front window. Johnny holds out a pair of tickets and says: “Two for four bucks. You don’t want to miss this evening’s shootout.”

The boss lifts his hand to strike Johnny the Thug, but then he notices two gangsters standing on the other side of the street holding rocks and smirking. The boss then lowers his fist and reaches into his pocket instead. He hands Johnny the Thug four bills, saying: “I was going to hit you, but then I saw your colleagues standing there, and I feared that if I did not purchase a couple tickets from you, they would pitch their rocks through the window of my storefront.”

Johnny the Thug exchanges the tickets for the money and remarks: “You are a very smart man. See you tonight!” and with his hand he makes the sign of a shooting gun, then blows the imaginary smoke from his finger while leaving.

The boss shakes his head. He enters his Tailor’s Shop and goes to the back room where William is measuring the large lady. The boss addresses William: “You dance, don’t you?” and he holds out the two tickets that he just bought from the Thug: “Here, take these. They’re for tonight’s shootout.”

William the Painter, still holding the measuring tape around the large lady with one hand, takes the tickets in his free hand; first he smiles, then he frowns and says: “But, dear Boss, I haven’t any girl to take.”

The boss rolls his eyes, then he pantomimes waltzing and says: “Why not ask that bakery girl Shirley to accompany you – you’re in love with her, aren’t you? Well, there you go. Bring her as your date. She works right next door; you don’t need to walk far. Go on – do it! You two will make a hit.” The boss bumps his employee insistently while ghost-waltzing, to persuade William that this is a good idea.

William the Painter is lost in thought. Despite the large woman’s growing impatience with the measuring process, William spends a few moments gazing pensively at the tickets his boss has handed him – their text says:

SHOOTOUT! 

Gangsters’ Benefit Event 

—Ginger Plaza— 

Thursday May 3 

Admit One: $2.00

William the Painter looks up at his boss, who is still pretending to waltz with an invisible partner. William nods and lets go of the measuring tape to shake the hand of his boss, thus officially accepting the gift of tickets. His boss slaps him on the back and waltzes out of the room. Before he leaves, he shouts to William: “I will deduct the cost of the tickets from your paycheck.”

The large woman who is supposed to be having her measurements taken is now visibly offended, as William runs from the room to go visit the bakery.

William the Painter enters the shop next door, and there he sees Shirley the Love Interest standing behind the cash register. She is staring dreamily at the empty bottle of beer, which she served earlier to Johnny the Thug. Shirley now notices that the Painter has entered the bakery: she wakes from her reverie and greets him, motioning for him to sit.

William takes a seat at the table, draws the tickets from his coat and stares at them shyly, not daring to speak to Shirley, who now stands with her back to the Painter; she keeps rubbing a washcloth in circles on the same spot of the countertop.

William finally speaks up. “I’d like to take you to tonight’s—”

Shirley turns and interrupts: “What’s that you say?”

William the Painter stammers: “I . . . I said I’d like to order a roast-beef sandwich.”

Shirley the Love Interest nods, leans over and reaches behind the counter, then sets a plate on the table.

William looks at what he has been served. The two pieces of bread seem to have nothing between them, but when he opens them up, he finds they are hiding a thin slice of turkey.

William the Painter strategically positions himself so that one of his hands is holding the sandwich up to his open mouth; while his other hand casually displays the two tickets with their text facing outward, to get the attention of Shirley the Love Interest.

When Shirley spies the tickets, she points and exclaims: “Ah! Who are you taking to tonight’s shootout?”

William puts down the sandwich without taking a bite, and smilingly replies: “I’d like to take you! — That is, of course, if you will go with me.”

At first, Shirley beams with eagerness, but then her expression quickly turns to sorrow: “No, I can’t,” she says: “I’ve got no class.”

William the Painter stands up confidently and announces: “I’ll give you real class! You can borrow the best clothes from the Tailor’s Shop!”

Shirley the Love Interest smiles and nods. The owner of the bakery now appears behind the counter; Shirley waves goodbye while she and William dash out the front door, holding hands.

§

Everyone is dressed to the nines for the shootout. William the Painter and Shirley the Love Interest walk through the entryway looking resplendent. William has on a black suit; Shirley is wearing a sparkling sheer gown.

The referee rings a large bell. The shootout begins.

Johnny the Thug is accompanied by a blonde beauty. Shirley notices Johnny immediately, while she and William the Painter are swaying about, because Johnny the Thug winks at Shirley when William’s back is turned. Then, a little later, Johnny and his date come near enough for him to whisper in Shirley’s ear – he says: “I’m impressed with how much class you have, now that you are all dressed up. Why don’t you ditch that loser and join me instead?” But before Shirley can answer, the circumstances of the shootout cause the two parties to become separated. (Bullets are flying.)

Shirley the Love Interest teeters on the verge of succumbing to temptation. A few moments later, she spots Johnny the Thug again, and she winks back at him, without her partner William noticing.

Johnny the Thug casts aside his blonde beauty and directly approaches Shirley the Love Interest. He pushes her apart from William the Painter and says: “Come with me for the remainder of the shootout.”

Shirley nods happily in acceptance. But then she stops and remembers William – she looks back and says to him: “Is it OK if I leave you?”

William the Painter is obliging. He resignedly bows. (Machineguns all around are making an intermittent racket: drrrrrrrr! drrrrrrrr!)

Shirley thus goes off with Johnny the Thug. As they stroll together, she says to him: “I was worried when you rejected me earlier at the bakery. Your poster is visible from our shop’s window: I see it all day, at work. I must admit, I have been crazy about you for a long time, Mister Johnny.”

The Thug smirks and says: “That doesn’t surprise me,” then he moves in for a kiss.

Shirley pulls back and says: “You’re moving too fast for me.”

He tries again, and she recoils sharply, saying: “No, Johnny!” and adds: “I’m not comfortable starting a family, just yet.”

Johnny ignores her and tries to trap her in his embrace. She slinks away. The Thug lunges at her; but she hastens backward. Since the area happens to be strewn with stacks of chairs, Shirley knocks over the chairs as she flees, to make it hard for Johnny to chase her.

Now William the Painter, while strolling alone, stumbles upon this clutter of upended chairs. He looks over and sees Shirley attempting to escape from Johnny the Thug. So William yells to Johnny: “Leave her alone – she is my true love!”

Johnny the Thug stops and turns and approaches William. He clutches the Painter by his necktie, and says: “What’s the idea, barging in here like you own the place – haven’t you ever heard of a doorbell?” Then he punches him in the face.

The Painter falls. Shirley the Love Interest gasps. (Bullets from the shootout keep whizzing and ricocheting.)

Johnny the Thug now props the unconscious William against the wall and begins to pummel the Painter.

Shirley cries out: “Stop! You’ll kill him!”

Johnny the Thug halts and turns his head slowly and says to Shirley: “Well, what do you say? Are you his girl or mine?”

Shirley frowns and says: “I’m yours.”

The Thug sneers, then lifts the body of William the Painter overhead, and tosses him into a puddle of mud.

Johnny’s gang members come and gather around their leader. The Thug points at the Painter in the mud, and they all laugh, while Shirley weeps.

[To be continued . . .]

Morningthots on necessity & entertainment

Dear diary,

You find yourself alive. To keep living, you need water and food. You can eat roots that you find growing wild in the forest, and you can drink from the river. All that you need to survive has been provided for you. For shelter from the extremes of the weather, you can use a cave that you found in the side of a hill. For clothing, you sewed an apron out of fig leaves.

Now, what about entertainment? Where do singers and songwriters fit in your world? Do you need television personalities in the forest, to help you search for roots? When did you learn how to generate electricity? How is it that your river is not yet polluted? Didn’t you build an oil refinery and several manufacturing plants?

You like actors because they . . .

Do you really like actors? I was going to say that they dream for you. But now that I think about it, they don’t really dream. They just walk around and talk. Mostly they stand. And what is communicated? In a dream, the actors speak what your gut instructs them: they are the true prophets of your gut. But if a play occurs outside of one’s mind, one should ask: Who is the scriptwriter? A strange god attempts to usurp your world.

So, say that you’re hunting and gathering roots near the river where you live, in the heart of the forests of the night. You notice that over yonder a tragedy is being performed by some seasoned actors:

Gentleman A is contemplating buying a bouquet of flowers. The price is two coins. He takes two coins from his pocket.

Gentleman B approaches and begs a coin from Gentleman A; the latter generously gives the former one of the coins; Gentleman B thanks him and leaves.

Gentleman A’s kind smile now turns to a frown, when he realizes that he can no longer afford the bouquet that he intended to purchase; so, he points to a single flower and pays his last coin for that. With this flower in his hand, Gentleman A goes to visit the woman he loves. But when he arrives, he finds Gentleman B has gotten there before him: Gentleman B is presenting the woman with a large bouquet of flowers and a ring: he proposes marriage, and the woman accepts.

Once the above meeting concludes, Gentleman A approaches this same woman, whom he loves, offering her the small flower that he bought earlier. The woman declines, pointing to her new ring.

Gentleman A now goes out and hunts down Gentleman B and taps him on the shoulder. A battle ensues between the gentlemen: fists fly, legs kick. The police arrive and wrangle them into the street as the pair of men continue their fight.

An oncoming streetcar slowly approaches the gentlemen, who are engaged in mutually choking each other. The slanted grill of the streetcar presses against the disputants, who fall back and are carried upon its bars, still locked in their deadly embrace, and the vehicle putters off into the distance.

What does this farce have to do with wilderness wandering? Do we receive any benefit from this type of show? Does the LORD God sanctify slapstick prophecy?

We need a reliable supply of freshwater, and ample foodstuffs. Nightclubs where standup comedians perform will seem more attractive once our lives attain stability. It’s hard to find the value in jokes when all life is in danger. However, some claim that joking helps a beleaguered people cope with the continuous threats of a forestine existence. But do we really want to dedicate a subsection of our populace to producing these comedies and tragedies, when they could be helping us collect mushrooms, berries, and nuts? Besides, none of us have any free time left, when our day of labor is done: We go straight to sleep.

And beasts are always attacking us.

The second play that our civilization staged was called “Racecars.”

There was a racetrack in the middle of the woods. Our nation’s hero came out and pretended to forage innocently and absentmindedly upon the track while the cars kept racing past him. He took great pains to convince us that he was unaware of the surrounding danger. The vehicles continued zipping by at lightning speed, just missing him, while our hero gathered wild garlic and edible acorns. Then at last our hero got hit, and the curtain fell.

If God were to appear in one of our dramas, what part would he play? I think that he would act the role of the suffering servant. Then, at the end of the production, when he is getting nailed to the cross and screaming “Why have you forsaken me, O heavenly father,” there would be genuine blood, and he would die onstage; the curtains would draw closed, and there would follow a tense few moments of fearful wonder. But finally the curtains would re-open, the cast would all take a bow, and God would tear his arms and legs away from the nails, and come down from the crucifix, and explain to the audience: “It’s really me: I was simply playing the part of this Nazarene; my lines were written by Saint Mark the playwright – it was all an act.” And we would marvel at this.

Then there would be discussions between our theater critics about the effectiveness of the sacrifice of a deity who never actually dies. And some would say: “But he did die – didn’t you watch the play?” And others would answer: “But his martyrdom was faked – he himself admitted as much, when he climbed down from the tree at the end and announced: ‘We were only pretending.’ Moreover, death is a place from which no traveler returns; so, if a man tells you that he’s back from the grave, then, by definition, he did not visit Sheol: he only tricked you, the way that a magician relies on illusions to beguile belief. Or at the very best, it was a misdiagnosis.” And some would say: “But he is God, not a regular man; therefore he is not susceptible to the same rules and regulations as we are.” Others would snap back: “I see no value in an immortal faking his death. If this is what we’re required to have faith in, then I side with the nonbelievers. If he says ‘I won’t forgive your sins until you accept my bloody sacrifice,’ then I say: Your sacrifice was stage-managed and directed by yourself from behind the scene; you could forgive me if you wish. Your refusal to forgive is a reflection of your will: it’s your own choice, not mine. If you only grant salvation to those who claim to like your brand of entertainment, that’s like paying for a favorable review. And I’ll bet that those critics who support you are all feigning their appreciation. They’re just scared, and it’s easier to say ‘I found his performance convincing’ than to risk being blacklisted.”

But God is a decent sport. He has thick skin; don’t worry, he can handle the toughest criticism. He’s seen it all. Remember, he grew up fighting with the Devil, so he’s had a lot of practice fending off insults and pranks. The Devil once even got the church and state to place a banana peel on the path where his brother normally walks on Skull Mountain. But our God outsmarted him: He used his skill as a thespian to perform a pratfall, and by gesturing he persuaded the Devil that he was lethally injured. So the Devil went elsewhere, presuming his job was finished. Then God got back up on his feet and came out into the lobby, after the curtain closed, to reassure the audience. And, to this day, nobody can agree on exactly what happened, because God looks quite different when seen up close versus onstage, due to variations in the intensity of lighting and the amount of theatrical makeup he wears.

MORAL: Civilization often seems to be at its end when it is only just beginning.

A five-point prayer

1

Dear God, make a wave come out of the ocean and save your ghostwriter. Then save the rest of the world. Think of what your mother gave to us, when she birthed you. Rage for us. Catch the wave and send it to us. Roll it usward, paddle it. Give it to everybody. One saving wave. Make it rush around the planet. Park it in the lot, put some money in the meter. Punish everything erroneous, but spare your ecclesia so that we can accost people. Rent us a cave to live in.

If the world ends, let us bring forth Seeds of Promise upon septuagenarians, without having to make contact. If it rains, invite the chickens into the kitchen. Let scientists have extra brains outside of their face. Help lovers no longer miss each other.

Like angioplasty, O God, you are breaking our heart. Why are you sending us back into captivity, after you rescued us the first time, and we got released for our good behavior? Why are you reintroducing us to our enemies? Send us a gated yard, and a sign that reads “Beware of large-throated dog or I’ll feed him your head.”

Why abandon your people? It makes no sense.

Look: you were supposed to be our collective bridegroom. That should be pleasant: tender love, and so on. But you are biting our lips with blood screaming from kisses. Why even take the time to say your proposal, if this was your intention?

You came down from heaven and said: “Will you marry me, Betty?” And then when you saw how interested we were in the subject of comparative religion, you swore at us and called us a derogative slang term for “loose woman.”

Regain your composure, O LORD. Stop acting like you are only half man plus another half that was transplanted from a monkey. Be 100% god-man, like in the olden days.

Never take more than a century to rescue your people.

2

God, be like a big bus whose driver is drinking cognac. Go around corners at high speed. Act as though you are physically impaired, to lure our enemies, and then when they are near enough, rise up and crush them. Terrify them by showing them the size of your will. Chase our enemies like a jungle cat.

Where, you ask? Do you mean: Where should you chase them? I say: make them jump and scream like young ladies in a slasher movie.

Make your fashion high and loud. Stand before us in church looking fabulous. Take a cloud down and use it as a pillow. Give us a state of mind that feels like midsummer at the beach: but not within the bodies that we currently possess; let us instead be blessed with new, attractive bodies. Make this a fact, in reality: It is possible, for you. We believe you can do it. Build an auto-line machine and have it trace a good boundary for our physiques: You won’t need to lift a finger; everything can be accomplished electronically.

As for that serpentine black-hooded folk-person slithering near the guillotine, create a yoke that fits him, so that we can be friends with him without fear and then release him on our enemies.

Grab a timbrel and join the dance. Make our appearance look glossy, all around. Give us celebrities who are enviable. Make the downtown area of our city habitable again. Whip those who hate us.

Come around the mountain, O LORD our God, when you finally do come. Look tough, so that our enemies cannot devise a fiercer deity. Bring all your horses. Drape yourself in thick gold chains. Take a timbrel, like I said: join the dance, to let our enemies know that you are on OUR side.

If you die, we will shave your corpse so that you slide into the water easier. We trust that you shall not remain in the underworld forever. Come back and dance with us again, someday.

Do not behave as a vampire, but come back alive for real. Transcend your nature. The gods of our enemies flee when the day breaks: do not emulate them. Be our smoking fiery warrior, fresh from Hell. Be the one who defeated the Devil. Burn all our enemies into the ground: make them eat dust.

3

Make the souls of our enemies rack-mountable, so that we can display them in Heaven. Give us sharp lances. Come along with us when we invade neighboring galaxies. It is better when you fight alongside of us, in person.

Use your heat gun to telecommunicate messages of conquest back to our homebase. Master the intricacies of both civil and criminal law. Turn the dials on the control panel of your spaceship to create rhythmic pulses that our enemies’ wives cannot resist: lure them to shuffle over to us and aggregate, amalgamate; then flip those switches on the panel to persuade these women to transfer their allegiance to us. Guide us and inspire us, so that we may treat them right. For, if our enemies ever come to rescue their wives back, it would look best if the ladies refuse to go with their former husbands and instead choose to stay with us, their captors, willfully.

O God, be like a buoy in a pool, and bob when the auspicious hour is upon us. We need to know when to make the next move. Success in business requires preparing as much as possible, but then also recognizing that there are elements beyond human control: We are counting on YOU to bind fast all these supernatural matters.

Let me now give a bit of advice to our enemies. Hey, enemies, here’s a tip: Say your prayers when you’re in your closet at home, and not in public when you’re at church. When you’re in church, you should be singing praises to God for blessing you so tremendously, not whispering timid prayers for help like a loser.

And pray fast. God already knows what you’re going to say, so don’t bore him with slow prayers. You get on God’s nerves, O enemies, the way you pray. You repeat the same phrases a lot. You don’t even care to make your words sound pleasant to the LORD God’s ear.

Have you ever seen those wooden chairs that shatter easily? (They use them in slapstick movies and pro wrestling matches.) Oh, my dear enemy, I so badly want to walk up to you, while you’re sitting in church, and break one of those chairs over your head.

I believe in the Old Time Religion. When I throw too many chairs, God appears and announces that he approves of my actions. You say: “This is the wrong God; he’s in the wrong church!” No, he’s not. Sorry, but this is the only God that there is. I swear by Heaven. Now all your children are crying.

I walk straight through brick walls with my God. We bash icons off the podium, when we’re onstage prophesying. All the cops in your community now convert to our cult. I’ll baptize them all myself; I don’t mind getting wet.

God gave me this gift: it’s a device that parses any speech and shows where the lies are. So now you can’t lie to me anymore, because I hold up my gadget and catch all your deceptions. These cops are on my side; you’re going to jail.

Very beautiful popular actresses all join my church (not yours), and we all sue you for millions of dollars.

The marquee sign outside of our church displays a terrifying truth.

4

God is whipping, ripping, flipping, and dipping. Behold God: zipping and unzipping. Nobody can stop our God. Go ahead and try. He grips you and chops you.

Our God is on autopilot, flying violently. Abundant arrangements of flowers are left in his wake, because he is still essentially a life-giving force for good. And he hates all enemies.

My God is never silent. Your God is silent all the time: your God barely talks – I’ve never heard him say anything. Make him talk, if you can. While we wait, I’ll show you how powerful my God’s words are:

When my God speaks, any thing that his words denote instantly comes to exist. He says “Golden earring!” and soon the whole crowd is sporting jewelry. He says “Solid radar love, do what you’re told!” and then that entity goes and performs the bidding of whoever shall instruct it, for the rest of its career. My God says “Hot cold never dull!” and weather is born. “White dragon asleep!” and all the stars twinkle forth. “Hayabusa and Medusa!” You get the picture.

Just by shouting, my God created one of the largest music festivals in the world, which ended up also being one of the longest-running in the United States. Moreover, he made that thing that they call “Hula-hoop baby Buddha” and other tangible abominations.

But it seems that your God still isn’t talking. He hasn’t created a single thing. My God persuaded molten lead to go up and down all over the earth, while your God is dumbstruck.

But like I said in the beginning of this psalm, we got a nice glossy 8-by-10 photo of our congregation looking formidable, with God standing at our side like he’s our comandante. And he made me the president of our cult. We’re all well-built, and we all keep handguns tucked into our belts. If your congregation comes and threatens us with baseball bats, we shoot off your knobs to make you reposition your grip, and we then shoot off more of the handle so that you must keep choking up with your hands, till there’s no bat left.

I never apologize for using my black handgun to protect myself, plus a stick of dynamite. God rescued us from our enemies once by dividing the ocean: we walked through it on dry sand; and then, when our enemies pursued us, God closed it back up, so that the water fell on our foes, and they all drowned.

I love hanging out with my God on the street corner. We listen to big beats on our boombox, and slang dope, and shoot our guns at enemy gangs. The name of our posse is “America’s Hope.” We’re a really tough cult. We consist mostly of retired traveling salesmen. If you permit us to approach your front door, we will open our briefcase and show you our wares. We sell wristwatches and Bibles. Housewives ogle and ponder the cost, before making a purchase.

Then, since their husbands aren’t home at that moment, the housewives take us by the hand and guide us back to their bedroom; and my God blesses our union with healthy children. You don’t even need to clean them; they’re already immaculate. (When they come out, newborns are normally covered in blood.)

5

O God, give them a purity guarantee. Clear the room and show them who’s the chronic king of tyranny. If anyone disagrees with you, hit them with British common law.

People often ask me: “Does God have a human claw?” Truly, I tell you: only prima facie. Trespass and find out.

He’s the king on the bench, wigged out and litigating. Left and right, people are being sent to prison for shit that God himself did. (My God, not yours.) God shouts “Middlesex County clerk!” and that individual begins to preexist.

My God commands the justices of the Supreme Court to dance, while shooting his gun. My God loots money from them. He builds a new computer. He judges the female Supreme Court Justices by their looks. He makes diamonds float in the air. He makes pets do stunts.

When a harlot approached and said to my God “Gimme what I really want.” Instead of berating her or stoning her to death, my God gave her Romanism and appointed Christ to be her jurist.

God and I then took the harlot to Candle Island where all the wise guys are imprisoned in crystal.

My God is terrifying, just like a big bloody werewolf. He slew the sheriff and raised all the taxes on the rich. He’s not afraid to use his teeth. All the girls whom I had a crush on in grade school believe in my God.

I found out that you can employ magic mushrooms to reconstruct an army tank. We drove over a building in the financial district. God fashioned an enormous piano, and then he placed dishes of spinach on certain keys, so that when creatures crept forth from the woods to eat them, the notes resounded, thus creating an eerie melody.

When God spoke the word, a black hawk came flying down to the little house on the prairie and began ripping her prey.

My God gives hash to Olympian athletes. My God has nice hair with a nice shape. My God will wine and dine you.

Now you’re all emotional, because your God never answered your prayers: your God stood you up. Your God probably tripped over the cord of his hair curler and accidentally strangled himself. My God plays hockey with a team of Canadian bear herders.

My God is the Queen of Celts and the Prince of Wales. He gives you purgatory in a bucket: he sails over and dumps it right on your head. Then he brings you to the epicenter. You two go floating down the river well.

Meanwhile, God taught me how to do miracles. My first miracle was making tires fall from the sky.

Then I build myself a mechanical hand to replace my real one. I cross the wires, and it expands and transforms into a giant fan. It is now the engine on a war plane. I force the sun to rise early and make the sand hot; then I position a garden hose so that the water trickles out and evaporates from all the heat. This covers the landscape with a fog.

Yet another true tale

Dear diary,

A radio play is an artwork that is performed for an audience’s ears alone; it has only audio, no visuals.

A silent movie is an artwork that is performed for the eyes of an audience, on film without sound: it is exclusively visual.

The god Yahweh sometimes causes his prophets to hear a message—audio only—and sometimes he causes his prophets to see a vision, without any synchronized soundtrack. And sometimes he causes his prophets to dream a dream: this is like “talkie” cinema, combining sound and image.

A dream also contains aromas; like when a movie theater’s usher holds before an electric fan a pillow soaked in rose oil, during a scene in a film where a swordsman is hacking his way through his neighbor’s garden.

A dream furthermore contains feelings, such as anxiety or euphoria. Feelings are the result of a brain sprinkling chemicals into one’s bloodstream.

Can dreams, movies, and radio plays be trusted? Are they divinely inspired messages from the god Yahweh? Yes, they are.

Yahweh once inflicted me with a prophetic dream where a woman named Molly was bathing two dogs. The dogs were large – the size of camels – and their hair was very shaggy; so, when they shook, the suds from their bath splattered Molly; and even some of it got onto me, the dreamer. In my dream, the suds had a pleasant taste, like cotton candy. (Cotton candy is delectable in my dreams: my dreams are different from reality.)

Now this Molly became engaged to a man who was the heir to a sandwich tycoon. “The secret of my success as a seller of sandwiches,” said the tycoon to his son, “is that I slice the meat thin.”

Then the son said, “Pa, someone is waiting outside whom I would like you to meet: her name is Molly, a caretaker of animals – she is the woman I am going to marry.”

The sandwich tycoon frowned and said: “No! I will not even look at her. If you plan to wed a poor person, instead of a millionaire like me, then I disinherit you. Leave my mansion, now. You are henceforth on your own.”

Thus did the sandwich tycoon cut off his own son from the vast riches that he had expected to inherit. And the father also discontinued his weekly allowance payments. Therefore, Molly’s husband was forced to find employment. He ended up getting a job in the construction industry.

His first day on the job, Molly’s husband was handed a pickax. Yahweh the boss said to him: “Mortal, what do you see?” And Molly’s husband answered: “A pickax.” And Yahweh the boss instructed him, saying: “Use this pickax to mine ore, but avoid striking any water pipes. If you succeed in mining ore, I will pay you your wages; but striking a water pipe will mean your immediate termination.”

So Molly’s husband swung the pickaxe, and it hit a water pipe. The water came spraying out of the pipe, straight into the boss’s face. This blunder led to Molly’s husband being fired (which was a relief, because he first had assumed that by the word “termination” Yahweh meant “death”).

Now when Molly came to visit her husband during breaktime at midday, the rest of the construction crew had left the site to go eat at Molly’s husband’s father’s sandwich shop (for, recall that the father was a sandwich tycoon whose motto was “Cut the meat thin”), but Molly’s husband was ashamed to admit that he had lost his job, so when he saw his wife approaching, he quickly grabbed his pickax and pretended to be mining ore, as if he had never committed his sin and was still an upstanding member of Yahweh’s workforce.

Molly smiled and handed her husband a box lunch. “Here is a box lunch I made for you,” she said. And her husband put down the pickax and wiped his brow, then opened the box and saw the lunch that it contained:

The lunch box featured a beautiful sandwich whose meat was cut thick.

“Ooh,” said the man to his wife, “such a nice box lunch! Thank you, dear.” And he gave Molly a kiss, then took a bite, and his eyes lit up, and he exclaimed: “This is a beautiful sandwich; the meat is cut so thick!” Molly smiled and waved goodbye.

“Wait; don’t leave!” said Molly’s husband. “You just gave me an idea. Do you suppose that you could mass-produce these box lunches? Because I think that if you were to start up your own sandwich business, you could outsell my father’s franchise, and we could force old pops to purchase our operation for a fortune in order to keep his monopoly on foodstuffs.”

At this point, the rest of the construction crew returned from dining at Molly’s husband’s father’s establishment. Molly’s husband stood on a hill to get their attention, and he said: “Give ear, O work crew, and I will speak. And hear, O fellow-laborers, the words of my mouth. You have just returned from your lunch break. You have eaten at my father’s sandwich shop. My father’s motto is ‘Cut the meat thin.’ Therefore, I suspect that you are still hungry. Now I ask: Are you still hungry?”

And all the multitudes answered: “Yes.”

Then Molly’s husband said: “Try this sandwich, here. My wife Molly prepared for me this box lunch today, and I have eaten as much as I desired; now I am full – I am completely satisfied – but there is still a large portion of the sandwich left over. I will break it into pieces, and pass the fragments around to the rest of the crew. Take, eat, and give me your reaction.”

The entire workforce was fed with the leftovers from Molly’s box lunch. Every man took as much as he desired, and he was made full. The construction crew then returned their verdict: “Molly’s sandwiches are beautiful; the meat is cut so thick, we are in bliss.”

“Would you pay to eat box lunches like this,” asked Molly’s husband from his podium on the hilltop, “instead of dining at my father’s sandwich shop?”

And all the people answered: “Yes.”

So Molly and her husband hastened home and started up a business. They hired a score of employees, and mass-produced sandwiches with the meat cut very thick. On every box lunch was printed “Molly’s Beautiful Sandwiches,” and then the following was written in italics: “made with a special secret.”

These box lunches sold like hotcakes. Molly and her husband became successful businesspersons.

Now Molly’s husband’s father, the sandwich tycoon, received a visit from his accountant, who announced: “Dear Sir, your Sandwich Monopoly is in danger. Look at this graph, and all these charts: they show that your profits are sinking down, down, down. You are losing all your money. For a new competitor has appeared on the scene and stolen all your regular customers: it is the business called Molly’s Box Lunches. They are outselling you because their product is superior.”

Hearing this, the sandwich tycoon’s face turned purple. He almost suffered a heart attack. Then he mastered his anger, and replied in a calm voice unto his accountant: “Tell me, my boy: Who is the owner of this new sandwich franchise? I wish to smite him unto death.”

The accountant answered: “I know not the owner’s name, but here is his company’s address.”

So the sandwich tycoon stormed directly into the headquarters of Molly’s Beautiful Sandwiches. He saw the employees all hard at work, and he picked up one of the box lunches and opened its lid. He took a bite of the sandwich. His eyes lit up. Then he finished the rest of the sandwich in a single gulp, and opened a second box and devoured another. Then he drew his sword and shouted to the workforce, after swallowing: “Summon the owner of this establishment, for now I shall slay him!”

The sandwich tycoon’s son then came walking out of the office and said: “Father! What a surprise. Welcome to Molly’s Box Lunches. I see you’ve already enjoyed some samples of our product. Would you like to meet my business partner Molly?”

The tycoon’s countenance fell, and he exclaimed: “Sonny boy? This is your enterprise? Ah, then I must sheathe my sword,” and he put the weapon back into its scabbard, saying: “I cannot execute my own offspring; for that would cause the transgressions of the entirety of the working world to be washed clean by the bloodshed, in accordance with the divine logic of sacrifice. Plus, an ancient prophecy warned me that my own demise shall result if I murder my son.” Then the old man frowned and said: “Take me to your leader.”

“Yes, you wish to meet Molly,” said the sandwich tycoon’s son. “Follow me.”

The son then led his father into the main office at the back of the establishment. Molly was seated at the executive’s desk behind a large calculator. “Father, this is the company’s owner, Molly,” said the son; “Molly, meet father, the Ex-Emperor of Sandwich Land.” Molly smiled and shook hands with the old man. “Pardon me,” she said, punching the last couple buttons on the calculator; “I was just adding up the profits that my box-lunch business keeps generating. What can I do for you?”

The sandwich tycoon said: “I would like to buy you out.”

“Buy me out?” Molly feigned surprise. “For how much?”

“I’m willing to pay five million dollars,” said the sandwich tycoon. His son, who was standing behind the old man so that his father could not see him, made a gesture to his wife which meant “Demand a much higher price.”

“Five million?” Molly laughed. “I just made twice that much money in the amount of time it took you to say the words! No way; I reject your offer: you’ll have to pay me much, much more.”

The sandwich tycoon raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Young woman,” he said, “you are crazy to turn down five million dollars. I can reproduce this whole enterprise for a fraction of that amount.”

Molly beamed with confidence, as she slowly reached behind her desk, took one of the box lunches, and held its cover close to the tycoon’s face. Tapping the lid, she asked the old man: “What does that say?”

The man answered: “Molly’s Beautiful Sandwiches.”

Molly bowed and smiled: “Now please read the phrase underneath – the one written in italics.”

The old man muttered: “Made with a special secret.”

Very calmly, Molly explained the point she was making: “Dear sir, it is true that you could use your millions to build another sandwich factory just like this one; but you would be throwing your money away. And here is the reason: You still do not know my special secret.”

The tycoon looked back and forth in distress, as if this fact had placed him in physical danger. Then, frowning, he said: “Will you take five hundred million dollars?”

Molly stood up and, with an expression of pity, shook her head. Now looking the tycoon right in his eyes, while pointing her finger and poking his tummy at every word, she demanded: “Five thrillion dollars.”

“Five thrillion!?” he cried. “But I don’t even have that much – I’m only a multi-millionaire!”

The sandwich tycoon’s son, from that place where the old man could not see, kept gesturing to Molly, as if to say: “Stick to your guns; don’t accept a penny less!”

“Five thrillion or nothing,” said Molly, with a nod. “If you cannot pay, then I will just bulldoze your monopoly.”

The old tycoon was nearly in tears. “OK, I’ll give you whatever you ask.” And he drew out his golden checkbook, and used his golden pen to scribble and sign.

When the check for five thrillion was handed to Molly, her husband and business partner came forth and congratulated his father, the sandwich tycoon: “You have mastered the art of the deal, pops. Great job negotiating. I was afraid that you would let Ms. Molly swindle you.”

The old tycoon grimaced proudly at his son and said: “Molly here drives a hard bargain – but I appreciate that.” Then, as the thought occurred to him, he added: “If only you had married a woman like Molly here, I would gladly give you another five thrillion dollars.”

Hearing these words, the son and Molly exchanged a look of shocked elation; then they both stood proudly side by side displaying their wedding rings and marriage certificate.

The old tycoon was dumbstruck. Realizing his position, he shrugged and sighed; then pulled out the golden pen and checkbook again.

After handing over the second payment, the tycoon retrieved from his suitcoat pocket the extra sandwich that he had swiped from one of Molly’s box lunches earlier, and after taking a bite he then asked while chewing: “Say, you never did tell me: What is your speical secret that makes these sandwiches so satisfying?”

Molly draped her arm around the tycoon’s son, then winked at the old man and said: “We cut the meat THICK.”

The old tycoon shook his head, chuckled good-naturedly, and snapped his fingers in acknowledgement of a fair defeat.

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Source: That Certain Thing (1928)