Cover design (the fabled Rathskeller bar of Mankato, Minnesota) by Gary
|It was one of the most pressure-packed situations
I’d found myself in throughout an already long, illustrious masturbatory
|The crowd would glare balefully at this naked
interloper with eyes that said You’re not our real mom and Durward would
spout mean poetry at her until she went away.
“Well, all right, then. Hey--you flaccid?”
|Then, as if to punctuate his point, his large
bowel unleashed a long and rippling expulsion, evocative of two soggy decks of
cards being shuffled together by a clumsy blackjack dealer.
|We each must choose our own path through life, our own road from cradle
to grave, and my friends, true Midwestern men to the core, seemed hell-bent
on competing to find the best shortcut.
“Hey, look. I’m just tryin’ to be affable here.”
He knocked the ball down on the first bounce but lost it momentarily in
the webbing of his throwing hand.
|It’s said that every generation believes itself to be the one that invented sex. I for one never suffered such delusions on behalf of my generation, but for God's sake at the very least I thought that we had invented the Wheelbarrow. Imagine my chagrin years later upon learning that we hadn't.
|That girl was to penile stitches what Little Boy
was to Hiroshima architecture, what Mad Dog Vachon was to the Very Capable Kenny Jay, what
John Denver was to legitimate country rock: a Force of Nature, a Destroyer
“The fuck you yellin' mollusk for?”
for him to say, the circumcised bastard.
just wasn’t going to cut it this time.
|The dress was cinched at the ribcage with an
elastic band, over which flowed pleasingly contoured globules of fatty tissue.
||All great fetishes are the evolutionary product of
trial and error, and someday I would be hailed by a generation of
mouth-breathers yet unborn as the Father of Bra Sniffing.
To The Very Capable Kenny Jay, that doughy sacrificial lamb of the American Wrestling Association, Falling
Just Short was more than a pastime: it was a way of life. By 1975 he was
roughly halfway through a losing streak of some six hundred fifty consecutive
televised wrestling matches, along the way authoring a resume bespattered
with the sweat and saliva of many an AWA Hall of Famer. He had been bolo-punched
by The Crusher, drop-kicked by Vern Gagne, whipped into innumerable turnbuckles
by Nick Bockwinkle, ardently masticated upon by Mad Dog Vachon,
pounced on from the top rope by Handsome Harley Race--even though that’s banned in some states and should be in this one!--tomahawked
by Wahoo McDaniel, clawed
by Baron von Raschke, poleaxed by Ivan Putski, and tummy-tickled into submission by Pampero Firpo, the Wild Bull of the Pampas. There were career prostitutes near
Medicare age who had spent less time on their backs flailing in feigned
emotion than the Very Capable Kenny Jay had.
“But the deeper point is, why beaver? Does that”--here I gestured in the general direction of Donna James’s
venerated reproductive organs--“resemble a beaver any more than it does,
say, a possum or a muskrat?”
“Okay, I see what you mean,” said
“Beaver!” insisted a tomato-headed
patron with growing resolve. The cry was picked up by his fellows:
“BEEEE-VER! BEEEE-VER! BEEEE-VER!...”
And then from Donna’s nether
regions sprang blinding lasers. It was the lights catching her spangled
G-string as she ever so briefly pulled it down to offer the addled masses a
glimpse of the Promised Land
There was a long instant of
stunned silence followed by a uniform hoot of approval, spiked with hoarse cries
of “Beaver! Beaver!”, for these are
men who know it when they see it. And then it was gone. In a blinding, spangly
flash, the highlight of their week had passed.