| Sad? Yes, very sad. But it can be done, we�ve seen much worse� indeed WITH VERY HAPPY FEET the Foozler dropkicks cultural assumptions, pokes cranky deities, and plays footsies with yer seester. He weeps at Bullwinkle, yaks on the minister�s shoes, and brushes unsuccessfully at chewing tobacco stains on his shirts. Is he coming in clear, Constance? Is he cripsy upon your neurons? Let�s see: literary Foozlers would include Melville�s Bartleby the Scrivener and Issac Singer�s Gimpel the Fool. In the ancient Holy Fool tradition the Foozler ever occupies the low ground, in the maniacal conceit that the further into hell he penetrates, the higher his eventual rise. He thinks the devil lives at the bottom of the ocean, that he must not be transcended nor obliterated, but instead gotten beneath and penetrated through the belly. In conscious sacrifice, the Foozler descends gallant, embarking upon an odyssey of besotted gutter crawling, debauchery, and psychosurrealism that would make the old Marquis blanch. Calcutta, city of paradox, is Mecca to the Foozler, its streets a hive of Imbecilic Saints, most of whom need delousing. Byproduct of the Foozler, the Foozle may be illustrated but not defined. The Foozle is a trait running deep in the species genes, squirrelled there amid what the astrophysicists now call �dark energy.� Allow me to illustrate, Constance, with an example from the Sovereign Game of Golf. Let�s say you�re on the first tee with your grandfather, at his home club, Nadatiempo, with twenty of his cronies on the clubhouse veranda watching. You are his feral-eyed musician grandson of forty-three, ponytail flopping out the hole of your ballcap. You haven�t played in seventeen years but are stoned. PawPaw told them you starred at Arizona State. You didn�t. You�ve got eight credits there in Fractal Ergonomics. You played in high school, fifth man on a team of five. You were stoned then too. When you open the bag the only balls you find are pink. You riffle the bag, desperately projecting boredom. You�re mouth is a saltlick, your hands are sopping, and you are entering -- mostly against your will -- a Class III psychotic break, the kind illustrated in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders by a little man in the foetal position, clutching his hands to his head. On the swing�s follow-through the club sails down the right side of the fairway, hooking gently. The clubhead breaks off, and the shaft impales a course marshal attempting to flee in his buggy. The marshal jerks the shaft from his temple and peers at you through it. You see God. Break time is over. You don�t know if minutes or an instant passed, but you are pleased to discover the club still in your hand. You tee it up nice and high, hoping nobody noticed. Your velvet swing swipes the tee from under the ball, which settles into the hole the tee made. No one says a word, and you play it as it lies, just like Tiger, moving behind the ball to re-scan the fairway, beginning your pre-shot routine anew. On the veranda, PawPaw�s buddies appear to mumble something about little faggots bein� ever-where these days. You rise above the rabble and pick your target down the fairway, when a mothership crests the clubhouse, sporting a neon sign that blinks the words FOOZLER � COME HOME ... FOOZLER � COME HOME�. I certify this account as representative of our esteemed organization. We trust this satisfies your inquiry. Thank you again, Constance, for your interest in the Foundation. I'd like my medication now. Sincerely, El Supremo Hector Bato Bull Goose Foozler, Tenth Dan Bureau Chief, Southwest District Eagle Pass, Texas |
| SPINBUSTERS |
| Cultural Issues Minus the Spin |
| Taking Back the WhupStick |
| Deep Thoughts A' Thinkin': The Foozle |
| Part two of two |
| WhupStick Victim O' the Week |
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