Bolivia, November 1994.
During the past few days, I've been visited by that all-too-common travelers' companion, intestinal bacteria -- you know, the ones that turn otherwise perfectly healthy stool into noxious primordial ooze. The little scoundrels are everywhere, in the vegetables, the water, and everyone I know down here has, at one time or another, gotten got. It is easy to throw blame around, to cast aspersion upon that suspicious pasta salad, or perhaps it was the ice cream (I thought it tasted a little funny), but to do so is of no use. The bug is, sooner or later, without fail or evitability, sure to arrive and nest in your bowel. And the cure is simple, really. Just go into any pharmacy, make a sad-face, and pat you belly, and they'll take care of you right quick, usually selling you an unlabeled antibiotic of questionable origin, but which works nonetheless. And, I suppose, in a very general way, the advent of antibiotic pharmacology is the hero in this instance. But, from a more personal aspect, I revere a hero which is in my view far greater, far stronger, and far worthier of praise. For while antibiotics may be capable of killing the little buggers in my bowel on a strictly cell-by-cell basis (and believe me, I'm taking my pills), my hero accomplishes a much greater feat; my hero controls the whole of the problem; my hero is capable of stemming the black tide for unbelievable quantities of time. I speak of none other that the mighty sphincter, guardian of the gate, keeper of the peace.
My first hint that all was not strictly firm in the nether organs came in that proverbial and much recounted of situations, the beginning of an 18-hour bus ride from La Paz, Bolivia to Santa Cruz, a city of 800,000 across the Andes and down into the Amazon Basin, a journey from high altitude to low, from brilliantly cold to blazingly hot. And, like ice melting in the sun, I could feel the once firmly established material in my intestines begin increasingly to gurgle about, assuming a more and more liquid form. Great. I began to rationally assess my circumstances. The bus, as they say, no tiene baņo. Two stops were schedules, six hours apart, but already, only 45 minutes into the trip, I could feel the internal pressure mounting. Pressure to expel. To bow to it would have been catastrophic. So, with no other recourse, I simply resolved to batten down the hatch, clinch up real tight, and wait. The pain was spectacular. Like the tides of the river Styx, it ebbed and resurged cyclically, as the assorted fluids and gasses rearranged themselves in my gut. BUT -- my anus held true. Its ringed clamp, in accordance with my determined will, braved the no doubt tempestuous storm within without so much as a pucker, and the first leg of the trip, although no joy, remained leak-free.
Finally we arrived at Cochabamba, our first scheduled stop. With a one hour hiatus before the continuation of our journey, I headed for the bus station bathroom. 50 centavos. 10 cents U.S., and ten of the best cents I ever shelled out. If only they had known what they could have charged me, I'd be a poor man today. I entered the stall, placed my feet of the designated footprints, and, squatting into position, muttered quietly, "OK, my friend, time to open up." I was actually speaking to my butt-hole -- and politely, because I knew that my happiness depended upon its future cooperation. And, like the obedient little muscle that it is, or perhaps more like an iris widening to accept the light in a dim situation, it opened, and unleashed the waters of hell which it had kept so successfully at bay.
I shall refrain from the fullest description of the fiery carnage which ensued, in complete audiolfactory sensaround, for the next half-hour or thereabouts. Just trust me, it was truly something to behold, and 10 cents shouldn't have been able to even begin to cover it, regardless of what country I was in. It was spectacular, but eventually I had to once again restrain myself and return to the bus.
The second part of the trip went off much like the first, except that my anus, having acquired my thorough respect during the initial portion of the journey, seemed to want to expand -- not its aperture, so much, as its range of sensitivity. It seemed to feel itself capable of distinguishing between the varieties of that which it was incarceration, and I let it, allowing it to release only the gaseous inmates from its pestilential prison. I trusted my friend my anus, it was worthy of my faith, and as a result the remainder of the drive to Santa Cruz became so much more bearable.
And now that I have turned the problem over to the products of medical science, I feel the need to commemorate my faithful friend and trusted ally, to acknowledge its loyal service and unwavering tenacity in the face of grave adversity. If I could, I'd throw it a party or something, because I still have a few weeks left in South America, and you never know where those pesky bacteria are lurking, waiting for the chance to spring again. But when they do, I'll be ready. In this regard, I am not traveling alone. I have a friend. Hail Sphincter!
The Obedient Son
by Guy Petzall
James Crystalson was born to middle-class parents who were very happy to have him.
As a baby, he hardly cried at all, and was his mother's pride and joy.
At the age of ten, James got into a fight at school. Afterward, he ran home and, crying, confessed to his father, who punished him with a light spanking. James never fought again.
Throughout high school, he worked very hard to achieve slightly above-average grades. His parents approved of all of his friends, which pleased James greatly.
He applied to four colleges, was accepted at two, and attended one, on a partial scholarship.
Four years later James graduated with general honors. His parents told him that they were very proud of him.
He got a job in a bank, and after five years of very hard work, was promoted to a middle management position. It would be his last promotion.
Once each week he telephoned his mother and father. They were very happy to hear from him.
The years passed uneventfully, until James' parents were both killed in a car crash. At their funeral, he was very sorry he had not spent more time with them.
Each month thereafter he brought fresh flowers to their graves.
When the proper time arrived, James retired from his job at the bank. Except for his parents' funeral, he had not missed a single day of work.
Never having married, he moved to a rest home where he filled his time with cards and television.
At the age of 85, James died in his sleep.
His funeral was sparsely attended and quickly performed.
Thirty years later, the last person who still remembered him died.
14.Oct.94
Hello my friend...
It has been some time since we last spoke, and so much has happened in the interim. I feel so different now than when we were together, fighting side by side for a cause given us to defend with our lives. Yet in spite of the time and the distance, I have felt your presence often in myself and now I somehow feel compelled to write, to tell you about me. Where to begin?
Well, let's see. After the war I was transferred to a secret Soviet military prison. There I was beaten, flogged senseless as a matter of routine. Whether this was for amusement, sport, or simply to break my will I shall certainly never know, and it is this uncertainty which gnaws at me nights, continual, dependable, intolerable, worse than the rats with whom I shared my cell, gnawing, clawing, into my heart, never allowing a moment's rest... This torment haunts me still... And each day I rise and pretend to live, pretend that it's all in the past... And like Prometheus, each day I heal and grow just enough to provide the rats with their regular evening meal.
But I digress. After being shuffled from gulag to gulag (mercifully in warmer, more temperate regions of the Soviet Bloc) I was ultimately relegated to a camp in southern Krygistan, near the Caspian Sea. A rather luxurious compound, by the standards to which I had become accustomed. It seems that both sides were tiring of the Cold War, and my continued survival was becoming more politically important to Moscow. I was not long in the South before they played their hand. I was visited by an agent of the State Department, a transfer was arranged, and before long I found myself in another government compound, this one in northern New York state. Evaluated, medicated, interrogated, commendated. Briefed, debriefed, released. I was given a name, a job, a pension, and a medal. And now I am forgotten, condemned to tedium, left to the rats.
I don't mean to sound bitter. I understand too well my position to believe myself victim to anything other than circumstance, than random situation beyond the doing of any person, of any government. But this condition is much harder to bear. I am the purest, most pathetic type of victim, most pathetic and most noble, victim to nothing, victim to everything. The game will continue a few more years, and already I know the outcome: I lose. And so I only really play at playing. Liberated by early condemnation, life assumes a much different face. For me it is now something laughable, seeing people live and work and try as though trying were enough. It is not.
But my friend, it is not my aim to complain. Complaint is more than useless, it is inappropriate in my position. I should rather try simply to assure you that I am well, I am employed, fed, and, although I am forgotten, I do not forget. So many nights I turn to the fullness of the past as solace against the present, against the emptiness, against myself. I weed through the memories, avoiding many, to be sure, but always finding, somewhere amid the torture, the pain, the humiliation, always finding some bright moment in which I can bask, some episode or nuance of past which serves to remind me that life was once valuable, that I was born for more than death. I was a pawn, yes, and a captured pawn at that, but in spite of my capture, or perhaps through it, I served a purpose. And now, from the side of the board, I watch, and I wait, and I remember...and I remember you, who were once my friend.
I am sadly prevented from giving you my present address, or even, for that matter, my name. But please at least know that, although we can no longer act as friends, I remember and cherish those times we spent together, my thoughts always return to that luxuriant land where we depended on each other as ourselves, and that those memories warm me the most when the night is cold. Thank you for that, and,
forever,
good-bye.
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God exists. Stop. Appeared in New York demanding sacrifice. Stop. Drew lots. Stop. Your ship lost. Stop. Maintain present course. Stop. Goodbye.
The disgruntled seaman pounded up and down the deck of the cruiseliner thinking to himself how badly he would like to be anywhere else in the world right now. Women and children scurried by on their way to the dinghys having said goodbye to their men, who had now taken over the on-board pub. But he, he wanted to see this coming, he was not worried about himself but only for his little daughter, Drusilla, who without his and only his healthy blood would quickly be overcome with her still formative ailment, and waste away into rotting living and then dying flesh.
The moment drew near, the message given over the radio ringing through his head, Drusilla's face swimming in his eyes. But he needed resolution. Fate was irrevocably set, and he was going to watch it happen. Because it was Drusilla who had really picked the short straw, and he knew that God knew it too.
Your Huddled Masses Yearning for Freedom of Choice
Mass popularity is a often an indicator of mediocrity in terms of music, television, art, movies, food. Yet it is the sole basis upon which presidents are elected.
Jane is on the living room couch. She is fairly fat, and wears a "New Kids" t-shirt. She is listening to a Walkman, and grooving to the music. A television is on, but no one watches it. John, a clean-cut fellow with a University of America sweatshirt enters and approaches.
John: Whatcha listening to?
Jane, unaware of his presence, keeps grooving. John taps her on the shoulder. She looks up, and pushes the headphones down around her neck. The repetitive drum beat is audible at about the same volume as the TV.
Jane: Huh?
John: What are you listening to?
Jane: The new Milli Vanilli album. Number one on the charts this week.
John: Wanna go see Police Academy XXVI tonight?
Jane: Sure, but we'll have to get there early. I hear the ticket lines are really long.
John: Okay, but then we have to eat quickly if we want to get good seats.
Jane: No problem. Arby's just opened a new store right around the corner.
John: Cool. If we eat fast and see the 7:15 show, we can be back in time for 90210. You ready?
Jane: Yeah, just lemme change clothes real fast.
John: All-right, but hurry. I really don't want to miss the movie.
Jane: Five minutes. I just gotta squeeze into these jeans.
John: Okay.
Jane exits to her bedroom. John waits, and we hear Jane's grunts as she tries to force her body into skin-tight pants. A 1-900 phone sex ad plays quietly on the TV.
Jane: [from the bedroom] Where's it showing?
John: The mall.
Jane: Cool. We'll see some friends there too.
John: Yeah.
Jane re-enters. Her pants are grotesquely tight around her generous folds of flesh, and her new shirt bears a large Batman emblem.
Jane: All set.
John: Cool. Let's go.
They open the door, turn off the lights, and leave, closing the door behind them. They leave the television on. In the new silence, a political ad is clearly audible.
Television: In the next four years, the President of the United States will influence Washington, the nation and the world. Who do you trust to make that kind of decision?
-curtain-