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A Bullshit Episode
                     by R. Dionysius Whiteurs

Somehow, this guy looked gullible. Gold-grabber, go-getter (go-get HER), god-fuckin gullible. If a guy looks lean and mean in sexy jeans to me, I tend to think he’s gullible because I need to think he’s gullible.

I told him, “I’m the best goddam writer in the Midhudson Valley. I can out-beat the Beats, out-slam the protest hams in their rallies, out-pen the novelists, the play-writes, the critics and other bruisers, the historians, stand-up comics and other losers, the film-script artists, …and don’t think that’s all. I can make the best of them sound like phony baloney in mashed macaroni, I can make audiences greet my rivals with unlimited cat-calls in cat caterwaul.”

He said, “You sound like some kind of blow-hard.” I looked a bit confused and wistful, and said, “You know…come to think of it…That could just be what I am, a blow-hard.”

I continued, “But in years long back, I out-argued my teachers and out-preached the preachers, I out-shouted big-league baseball bleachers and out-leeched the Wall Street leeches…” He stopped me short, “You’re just a fuck-tard blowhard.”

I smirked, licked my chops, and said: “I think you’ve got it, man! That’s exactly what I am. But still, the audience I’d thrill till the wild response was shrill…” He interrupted, “Blowhard, Blowhard, Blowhard!” I pursed my lips at his crotch, scratched my own crotch, and said: Hey! You hit the nail on the head—my head, your head, or any guy’s head—Balls! That’s exactly what I am.”

“Just like I said,” he smiled, “just a blowhard.” “Hey! You’re right! But I can blow it hard or soft, or in-between-whatever you got—and do it rough or gently, know what I mean? You’re hot! Whatever you like—I’ll spooge and spume your spike…”

Next thing I knew, I woke up in Kingston Hospital, blind, dumb, and deaf, with cleft hide bleeding, just a few rooms down from my old friend Donald Lev, on the left side, eating.