Saturday, November 16, 2002

A homespun pantomime of Ignatius Reilly, brazenly shaped from Toole's brilliant comedic novel A Confederacy Of Dunces:

[insert name here], Mongoloid, Esq.:

Fortuna's wheel continues to spin and my valve reacts by violently closing, and at inopportune times. The Minkoff minx still continues her effrontery with vulgar and oversexed missives to me (as if I care). She remains ever the proletariat in a pack of bovine radicals, bent on degrading the public morality while massaging their own insipid egos. The theology and geometry of the rack would be too kind for a doxy like Myrna.

Mother remains ill-humored and often delinquent with her bowling duo; the yellow-lunged, low-brow Santa and her retarded nephew, patrolman Mancuso. The latter lost the finely bound copy of Boethius I graciously imparted to him while staking out the perverts and pederasts of the bus station. My valve revolts at the very thought of the place, housing the evil wheeled monster Scenicruisers that do permanently affected my usually steeled psyche. That trip to Baton Rouge is often lamented in this Big Chief tablet and the wisdom imparted a part of the lore of Your Boy the Working Class Narrator.

Clyde, my mad and possibly dangerous employer, continues to berate me daily. If not for the free weenies I'd pine for the days at Levy Pants when I incited the Negroes to brain that awful dolt Mr. Gonzalez, only to have them retreat at the last minute into their bourgeois values and jazz music. You can lead the horse to water, as the folk story goes, but you can't make him drink. Regardless, Clyde's disregard for my general safety (as I was accosted and almost raped by a Mau Mau recently) shows his disregard for the embodiment of refinery, culture and iconoclasm housed in my ample temple of flesh. He should be hung by his underdeveloped testicles and bled until he assumes room temperature.

I.J. Reilly

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