NIP & TUG
Dear Z
Jeannine keeps bringing up the idea of selling one of my livers to provide “a safety net during this period of economic uncertainty,” and, more specifically, to pay for her annual naked-yoga retreat in Bali. With the advances in medical technology, the procedure is evidently no more complicated than cutting an abalone out of its shell: one scoop of the carpet knife, a quick tug and it’s out. One barely has time to scream through the leather strap in one's mouth. And with the purchase of a large life insurance policy, she points out, it becomes a “no-lose proposition” financially.
There’s also the bonanza of good karma: not only will I be prolonging the life of some rich, elderly alcoholic for a few extra years, but Mr. Chapatti, Jeannine’s perfect guru, says the Tantric yoga J performs in Indonesia with him and his friends will help promote world peace (which I more or less support). Last but not least, fresh liver prices are at an all-time high -- though we need to move quickly before the market is flooded with cheaper Brazilian livers, interest rates rise and/or the liver bubble bursts.
Of course, you know me, I keep niggling over the details. “Dumpling bottom?” I ask, “The Britannica says I only have the one liver.” But, apparently, the encyclopedia is getting the livers mixed up with the kidney and lung, which makes sense, since they’re all jumbled up together like in one of those abominable organ-meat “pies” the Brits love so much. Then, as a test run for the procedure, I suggested buying that children's game "Operation" where one tries to remove the patient's internal parts from their crannies with tweezers without lighting up the red light (red light = crisis/defibrillators/death) -- but Jeannine said "Operation" had been thoroughly discredited in the nineties, and is no longer used in reputable medical schools. She promised that next time they open someone up on House or Grey's Anatomy, she’ll point out the various parts as they’re pulled out of the thoracic cavity -- somewhat disturbingly, more often than not, to become slippery hacky sacks or mini-basketballs for the staff. (“Only five seconds left. The Bulls are down by two. The pancreas goes to Jordan: he feints, he pumps, oh no! He scores from the three-point line!”) J says the morbid humor is merely a defense mechanism for our overworked health professionals, and that I shouldn’t take it personally during my own operation.
“But, love puppet, um, isn’t this illegal?” Nope, not in the rebel-held zone of Sierra Leone, it isn't. And anyway, am I going to let a bunch of right-wing fundamentalists dictate what I can and cannot do with my own body? I’d be subverting Roe vs. Wade -- and I don’t want that, do I? Of course I don’t. So hush now and Mama will make her big, brave boy his favorite fish sticks and mashed potato buds for dinner.
Jeannine’s been fairly patient during my learning curve, but at some point enough is enough, and now, at the least quizzical hitch of my eyebrow, she tucks her fists into her armpits and lurches around the living room, flapping her “wings,” jerking her neck like a chicken, and making “buck buck-buck-buck” noises. She took Rhetoric at Milpitas Community College, so I’m not going to win in any toe-to-toe battle of intellects with her.
Anyway, Z, while I'm there, I'm hoping to score some authentic African juju thingee -- a freeze-dried pygmy head or rhinoceros pizzle -- that we can pop between two pieces of Wonder Bread and slip into the office fridge next to Langostino's cottage cheese. That could be the straw which snaps Jumbo's mind once and for all -- which would open up his window-side cubicle for someone more deserving, eh Bubu?
DEAR LEONID STILTSKIN
Dear Leonid Stiltskin
Thank you for your letter about my most recent collection of essays. You make some good points, Leonard Stiltskin, and I appreciate your close attention to the usual swarm of erroneous facts and conflicting details.
But talk about incomprehensible, you might want to pick up my first book, "Brussels Sprouts: Tiny Cabbages of Malignant Mystery and Power." I blow the lid off the tinned, poisoned pabulum the FDA has been feeding us.
Sixth Sense Shyamalan wanted the movie rights to Book 3 ("Really Big Lima Beans"), but he's too scared to make it. Tough bald-guy Bruce Willis put his hands over his ears, and shrieked “La La La! I can’t hear you!” Of course, he’s not half the man he used to be without Demi. (Apropos of which, I have some advice for beautiful women contemplating boob jobs: DON'T! You should hear the groans of dismay at porn screenings when yet another set of concrete tits show up. Do you hear what I’m saying here, girls? Don't trade your sweet, soft, pendulous breasts for hard, plastic cones that cannot jiggle and sway. Since you didn’t identify your sex, I don’t know if this applies to you or not, Leonid Stiltskin).
Then, in the unbelievably gruesome but uplifting finale in Book 7, "The Canning", I put the lid back on! You’ll want me to. You’ll beg me to! You’ll lick my fingers and weep in gratitude. As a registered “Panky Pal,” living safely under the “Panky Umbrella of Protection,” you will receive timely newsletters and pay me a reasonable percentage of all your income and assets.
Order blank and application enclosed.
Thank you again for your letter, Leonid Stiltskin. I look forward to hearing from you again soon.
Sincerely,
Henry E. Panky, Associate of Arts (candidate)
REAL FAN LETTERS TO HENRY
TO: Henry E. Panky
FROM: brumhandel@upyerass
u suck fagot
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TO: brumhandel@upyerass
FROM: Henry E. Panky
My dearest brumhandel
First of all, valued reader, I apologize for the delay in responding, but it was not for want of trying! You see, the Mailer Daemon rejected your email address as incomplete: you fucked up! LOL (laugh out loud). I do the same thing all the time! We’re both wacky, well-meaning chuckleheads over-excited at the prospect of making new friends. That’s no crime. Not yet anyway! ROTFL (rolling on the floor laughing).
However, I did want to continue the dialogue so intriguingly begun by your generous, though somewhat enigmatic, communiqué, and from the lilting rhythms and gusto of your syntax, it occurred to me that you might be part of the Senate Minority Leader's office. So there I sent my reply, fluttering like a white, hopeful messenger pigeon into the sweet blue sky. Alas, the “Mitch Mac” who responded was not you, though he still offered to give me “a thorough, soup-to-nuts blowjob” at a mutually convenient public toilet of my choice. He said -- and this really resonated with me -- that creating more and better "jobs" for the American working man was the number one priority of virtually every GOP member of the Senate!
Still, being no closer to you, I became discouraged and mopey. And then – Wake up, Henry! – I realized you were obviously a regular visitor to the website, and I could post my reply here:
My dearest brumhandel
Nice hearing from you, podner!
Sincerely,
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TO: Henry E. Panky
FROM: biteme@yourenotfunnyjustafag
You stink as a humorist. GO KILL YOURSELF!!!
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TO: biteme@yourenotfunnyjustafag
FROM: Henry E. Panky
brumhandel, is that you, you silly dinkey donkey? It is, isn't it? Well, I’m not buying it! I sniffed you out!
You know, old knob, with a website like mine, one opens one’s email very carefully – breath held, cold stone in the belly, a rictus grin on the face, eyes squinted half-shut and peeking through one’s fingers like during a Sarah Palin interview – trying to decipher from the slightest clues: what’s in this one? Threats? Insults? A virus? Yet another plaintive email from “Mitch Mac”?
And then, surprise and delight! The sun comes up, the bluebirds break into song, I taste a glutinous sweetness at the back of my uvula: I’ve got mail! From you!
It makes all the work and loneliness worthwhile.
brumhandel, buddy of my bosom, enough of this elaborate courting ritual! I can play hide n’ seek no longer. I want us to twitter each other until we collapse in sweaty exhaustion. I long to bathe in your breath like the Bedouin; to pinch your cheeks, steal your nose and noogie your head; and, after long lazy bubble baths together, snap my towel at your hairy bottom until you squeal in coy surrender.
When next you write, I’ll expect to see a cell phone number. Or else!
Sincerely,
ps: if this wasn’t brumhandel, please delete the above and substitute the following:
“Nice hearing from you, podner!”
MORE ABOUT THE JIG
Dear Resident
I know I fucked up regarding the jig. And would that I could, I'd gladly go back in history -- in a time tunnel or a time machine or one of those weird, kitchen-drain wormholes in space -- perhaps to the time of Boleslav Chrobry, called “The Brave,” or Babur the Mughal (not to be confused with Babar the Elephant, also worthy of our praise-songs) – and recall every thoughtless syllable I ever uttered about the jig. Especially anything suggesting it might be “up.”
I've let you down, I know that. I feel lost and blameworthy, and I'm blinking back the tears in my eyes like one of the Dead End Kids -- maybe Muggs Maloney -- whose mother just flew out a tenth-story window. (“Who’s cryin’? I aint cryin’!”) This sad business about the jig, and my unfortunate role within it, makes me want to rend my clothes and ululate; to bang the drum slowly; to cut off my little finger like the Yakuza in Japan, wrap it in silk and send it to you...sealing it with a kiss.
Later this evening, I’m supposed go to a sausage-grilling party at the Catalonian-American Community Center. I’m bringing the spicy garlic, lard and blood variety that my Papa used to love so fiercely. (I miss you, Papa!) But I don't want the people there to see me like this. They want to squeeze long scarlet streams of cabernet from the bota bag into their red, wet, gaping mouths, and grill their mealy turkey-artichoke-cilantro sausages until their blackened skins crack open in the licking flames. They want to shake and bake to “Hellbound Train” and “Take a Letter Maria.” They don't want to see me ululating or drum banging in a morose manner. So I will wash away the tracks of my tears, and put on the face that I keep in a box by the door. Who is it for? Forgive me, I thought I had explained: it’s for the people at the party.
Would it be inappropriate to confess at this late date, that there is yet a manic, hopeful nugget (or bean) inside of me which yearns to shout, "The jig lives!" from the rooftops and down in the grimy streets, on the riverfront with the fishwives and fishmongers, and from the tops of those double-decker buses they have in London. [With one caveat: I definitely want to be far enough away that no one can catch me if they take exception to my views -- I made some terrible miscalculations in grade school and ended up getting my testicles twisted by Fat Maggie, who could run a lot faster than I had supposed.] My voice shall vie with the roar and whistle of the hurtling train and the cries of the tamale vendor. I shall raise my arms to the sky and spin and laugh and weep in a carelessly mixed gumbo of extravagant emotion.
"We are the jig! You and I, the deer and the dachshund, and everybody else in this mixed-up, shook-up, horror-drunk shithole of a planet. That we all love so dearly."
But whom am I trying to kid? Whom am I not trying to kid? Who, indeed, is willing to be kidded? (Let's see a quick show of hands.) There's something shameless and insistent, brutish, grunting and petulant inside of me that says, "The jig is up, dammit, and there ain’t nuttin' we can do about it.” Also, more simply: "Fuck the jig." I'm not proud of it but there it is.
That said, I'm hoping I will have the honor of your vote in November. For the sake of the children.
Henry E. Panky, Associate of Arts (candidate)
GROUNDHOG DAY
Dear Z
Your response regarding potsticker stuffing (how should I know if they’re pork? It’s a secret recipe like Coke and A1 Sauce) tells me that you haven’t fully embraced fatalism, and that makes me wildly scared for you. One can get hurt so badly when there’s the illusion of control. I want to grab your head, twist my fingers deeply into your curls, and crush your face to my bony paps, while I stare stricken into the middle distance.
In the next scene, I see you and me and Roberto Benigni dancing wildly to antic Jewish-Italian klezmer music, clacking marionettes tied together like a donkey train, being dragged herky-jerky by the Jack-in-the-Box clown-head guy, while in the courtyards perfectly lovely Raphaelite Madonnas, barely teenagers, play jacks with their laughing bambini.
Our shadows twitching, jerking and making complicated hand-animals on their white walls.
Yes, it’s a bit of a Seventh Seal rip-off, so what? I have the perfect title: Spumoni!
By the way, do you and Sue have any plans for Groundhog Day? I’m sleepless with worry about how it’s going to turn out, would love some company. Call me!
GRAMMY AWARD
Dear Z
Do you remember the 1991 Grammy Awards Show where Bob Dylan received the Lifetime Achievement Award? The maestro and his band played an apparently tuneless and totally indecipherable song, later identified by Bletchley cryptologists as “Masters of War,” though frankly, for all I could understand, they might as well have been the Gypsy Kings howling “My Sharona” in Esperanto. Anyway, after this lovely ditty, Bob accepted his trophy with obvious bemusement – he was at long last joining the pantheon of such greats as Toto, Mariah Carey and Milli Vanilli, even if through the back door of a “special” award – and then reluctantly mumbled into the microphone the following Talmudic koan bequeathed to him by his father:
“Son … You know, it is possible to become so defiled in this world that your own mother and father will abandon you … And if that happens, God will always believe in your own ability to mend your own ways.”
Sometimes, Z, that sunny bit of carefree optimism is the only thing that keeps me stumbling forward to the waterhole shimmering in the distance. Who knows how far I could have gone if my parents had given me a pep talk like that?
But getting back to that shimmering waterhole, did you or did you not score the Ecstasy? I find out that you’re holding out on me – like last time, muchacho – and I’ll break your toes one at a time.
HOTEL CALIFORNIA
Dear Z
You’re absolutely right. I have been working way too hard; I need to lay off the steroids and home-made crank, crush a few OxyContin, smoke 'em, and get a good night’s sleep. That sounds real nice: crisp, clean sheets, fluffy pillows, put the cats in the linen closet, earplugs, eye mask, hot mug of Nyquil PM. Don’t worry, Z. You sounded worried. Don’t! I absolutely realize – ha ha ha, what an insane idea – that there is no message being relayed to me through the lyrics of "Hotel California."
Funny. Now that the “crisis” is over, I can see it so clearly for the leaking mind-tumor it is. You know, Z, that I’ve traveled all over the world, and I believe the experience has rounded and matured me, as well as nurturing that dank nest of unkillable third-world bugs in my intestines. But, this is kind of odd: if I analyze it calmly and coolly, in every place I've visited -- Kathmandu to Fez, Quito to Rangoon, in kebab shops, opium dens, New Delhi putt-putts -- I've never yet, not one single time, been able to avoid hearing that I cannot kill the beast with my steely knife!
That just doesn’t make sense to me! Why can't it kill the beast? I can cut through a can of chile con carne with that puppy!
Nothing but a wacky series of coincidences; I know that now. Deep down, I think I’ve always known it.
But, OK, so here’s my question: how the fuck do I kill the fucking beast? Because it's coming. Oh yes indeedy, it’s left the maniac hotel! Drooling and gibbering, choogling a funky chicken right to my front door -- to smoosh its heinous face against the glass and make kissy lips and googly eyes.
Ding dong: candy gram.
And the boogeyman is a shapeshifter, can take any appearance: Fred Thompson in a girlscout uniform, the fighting Uruk-Hai, a bug, a waggy-tailed chihuahua with the face of Rudy Giuliani! Eeeeee! I’ll have to trust my intuition to make a pre-emptive first strike.
"Such a lovely place...such a lovely face...such a tasty bouillabaisse" I hear that idiot jingle everywhere now: the swarming rats squeaking on the garbage cans, the daddy long legs whispering in the hairballs under the couch, the shrews shrieking in their dark, moist holes: "You can check out anytime you want..." Vengeful Christ! Somebody make them stop!
Maybe, one needs...a magic stick sharpened on both ends! Dipped in holy water, carved with Elvic runes! All very do-able and reasonably priced, and then after I kill it I can put its head on the stick in my front yard, like they did with poor, fat, bespectacled Piggy in "Lord of the Flies." If I was a beast, that might give me pause, I might skip that door and visit old Mrs. Grubinsky next door. And there’s nothing in that mind-eating-worm of a song that says it can’t be gouged to death by a sharpened stick!
Yes! Hee hee! I think so, yes! I’ve got my thinking cap on now. After I make the arrangements -- there's no time to waste now -- then I’ll get some sleep. A quick snort of Mommy's medicine will help me concentrate.
Go ahead and drop the kids off at 6, Z. I’ve got all 4 of the Alien DVDs to keep them entertained -- 3-D, I-Max Director's cut. While I make my preparations.
SEA ELEPHANT
Dear B
Last Saturday, you asked me how you looked in your new bikini thong and I’ve spent a long, lonely time thinking about my answer. Because you deserve the truth.
The fact is, B, you’ve grown as big as a sea elephant. At the beach, as you tottered like Jabba the Hut with another load of double Coney dogs and gallon gulps, I almost cried out in anguish when you blotted out the sunshine of innocent children with their buckets and scoops. You eat like something on the Discovery channel, a hyena perhaps: I don’t want to look, but can’t seem to look away. It devastates one’s fragile hope of a benign Supreme Being. Now that little Petey is seventeen, I’m not sure you need to “eat for two,” as you so coyly titter. Maybe I’m wrong. Lord knows, I’m no child-care expert.
I wonder: have you considered stomach stapling? Nowadays, it’s as easy as getting a mole removed: in and out, local anesthesia, drive yourself home, and no visible signs except the eighteen-inch belly scar. Then, eat a caper, a garbanzo or raisinette, sigh, push back your chair, slap your belly, because you are stuffed! Whoo boy, totally full, uncomfortable even. “Ma, you’ve done it again!”
Sure, for a few months, you’ll have giant flaps of skin hanging off you and resemble a six-foot Shar-Pei in harem pants. But then – bingo! – the smutty, curvy slattern of twenty years ago would be back! And then, if you’re interested, we could reprise our interlude on the day of your and Joe’s wedding – I felt like Sonny Corleone taking you against that wall, wedding dress thrown over your head. Remember, B? Good memories -- those are our real treasures, right?
Sincerely,
Henry E. Panky, USPS, Route 902
BACK TO WORK
Dear Z
I guess I’m going to have to go back to work. When I ask my friends what they thought of my “manuscript,” they say, “Oh yes, I got it,” blinking rapidly, with tight, bright, poly-grip smiles.
So, anyway: work. I’d like to say that I’m raring to go.
I’m raring to go!
Each morning, I perform a regimen of self-enhancing, confidence-building exercises. I drink a triple cappuccino and then shout, “Yes, I can!” while marching around the garage. Pumping my fists in the air, banging on the hood of the car. Every now and then, I open the garage door and lunge out with a menacing look on my face and an old-fashioned squeeze horn – Honk! Honk! – like Harpo’s. You’d be surprised at how frightened passers-by can get, even big guys. Then I pop back in my hole before they can properly react and punish me.
Let’s make plans later in the week.
Yes I can!
