Learning how to tie the full Windsor knot is an important
milestone in every young man’s life. But what if you were born without a tie?
Needy children scream wildly as you take each footstep, as
you chew every sprouted wheat bun.
Cascading down a sun-dappled banister comes Blaine Crank,
also known in the neighborhood as “that kid who levitates every time he
re-reads his Mom’s copy of Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet.”
“Donald Barthelme is stupid, and you’re a cheap Donald
Barthelme.”
He hits me with a tub of bleach and I can’t help but agree
before I black out and wake up twenty minutes later, as Blaine feebly attempts to press his limp weenus against my thigh.
“This Donald Barthelme prefers pussy,” I say, and sail out
of there like an academic’s dream experiment – determined, lithe, devoid
of theory.
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