Who is Henry E. Panky? And why should you, in particular, interest yourself in the lurid bouillabaise of arrant nonsense ladled up so enthusiastically in the following pages? The publisher insists that, “like it or lump it,” I, as editor, have to come up with some believable answers. One can only be consoled by the thought of how few people bother to read these things.
Well, to begin with, let me direct your vagrant attentions to the carefully crafted author biography. A lot of effort went into it and it really must be seen to be believed. Furthermore, if his critics are to be credited, and a process of elimination is helpful, Mr. Panky is clearly no Dave Barry, Al Franken or David Sedaris. The consensus is he's not Thomas Pynchon either. Honestly, that last jab hurt his feelings a little. (Like many of us, in the absence of definitive evidence otherwise, he'd long hoped he might be the mysterious Mr. P.) “How can they be so sure? Then how about Janeane Garofalo or David Foster Wallace?” he whimpered. “Can I be them?” Forgive me, but in order to avoid another distasteful tantrum, I heartily assured him he could.
Then, not long ago, the author suggested, if I understood him correctly (he was communicating via charades), that he was...the Kwisatz Haderach of Planet Dune! Which if true has significant ramifications. You may recall the Kwisatz Haderach as the messianic Deliverer in the futurist bestseller, "Dune", who drank the hallucinogenic sand-worm juice and then, in a sequel, became a giant worm himself. (Though that never rang true to me: I mean, come on! Who’s going to trade being a Messiah, swirling in his robes on the stormy mountain top with all the attendant power, glory and chicks, to be a humongous, eyeless worm? That's the problem with sequels: the inspiration is spent, but the money…she is good.) It may ring some bells if I mention that Kyle MacLachlan played the Kwisatz in the David Lynch film which also starred Mr. Sting. More recently Mr. MacLachlan performed, with exquisite delicacy, as a serial masturbator in “Sex & the City.” (Messiah to doleful onanite: now there’s a career path I can empathize with.)
Oddly enough, I once had substantial, and I believe somewhat legitimate, hopes of being the Kwisatz Haderach myself.
In any case, born into any previous age, Mr. Panky would almost certainly have been abandoned on the steaming midden for the hyenas and buzzards, or sold into slavery for a few copper rupees, or, if the family was pious, donated to the local, baby-eating deity in exchange for a good crop of peanuts. In the unlikely event of his living to maturity, one might reasonably expect a public burning, impalement, stoning, flaying and/or defenestration to entertain the riff raff.
In fact, he just barely avoided such a fate under the Bush administration. (And, OK, I came close to defenestrating him myself over the holidays.)
This modest book of "tender mercies” was conceived in 2002 when Mr. Panky had the between-medications epiphany that everything in his life – the drug abuse and religious quackery, the sexual obsession and dysfunction, the brittle mania and sweaty paranoia – had been for a reason. He wasn’t, after all, just another mood-swinging, moral munchkin sliding, squealing with terror, down the dark, offal chute of life. No, something had moulded him, like playdough or Jell-O salad -- to deliver a glorious message! That communication now lies, like a slouching beast awaiting only your hesitant poke to awaken, within these very pages.
In a few moments, dear reader, for the negligible price of a three-egg omelet, two side-meats and a small espresso beverage of your choice, Mr. Panky shall unstintingly heap the empty plate of your credulity with the bulging breakfast burrito of his own inexplicable wit.
And so, without further ado, I present to you the stories and parables, the letters, lectures and lunatic magniloquence of the new Kwisatz Haderach of Dune, Mr. Henry E. Panky!
Bon appetit! And welcome to the granfalloon!
Patrick M. Carlisle
Editor
March 2004
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