In February of 2002, I ran into Stuart Gimble while he was working the register at a local supermarket. Shock and awe ripped through me; how could a fantastic writer of Gimble's ilk be relegated to such a simple job? We scraped together what little money trickled into the Pork Pony coffers and hired Gimble to write a weekly article for our nascent journal. This was Gimble's first foray into the world of the now-defunct Pork Pony. (CL)
Tut tut, mentally-malnourished readers of this cursed e-rag, prepare for the edification you deserve. I truly apologize for the filth my colleagues weekly force-feed you. They are but the dullest sheep in the barn of humankind. So dim, in fact, that they have hired me and given me free reign to create in any way I please. 'Tis true!
Stuart graduates from Harvard. Where are the poor lad's friends?
Before that starved brain of yours feasts upon my opinions and knowledge, I will acquaint you with myself, the only true "writer" Pork Pony has. I've been writing since my childhood days in Worcester, MA, where I was born in 1947. While the other children frolicked and dallied about, I read. My mother sternly administered copious doses of Shakespeare, Mellville, and Milton to me. If my eyes strayed from the text or if I paused too long betwixt turns of the page, she'd take out her favorite switch and administer a birching that hell's fury could not match. Child abuse you say? Bah, 'twas but a touch of discipline. Her firmness lead me to greatness quickly, and, by age 16, I had graduated Harvard and won my first literary prize - the Junior National Book Award for my first novel, the 864-page tome Where Are This Poor Lad's Friends?
My career shot off from there, but I will not bore you with the details of my celebrated exploits. I will only say that my career's magnificence is so domineering that it's been covered in many a book by many a writer, including that wordy little strumpet Norman Mailer. Your local bookstore, if it's worth its weight in African ivory, should carry several of these dedications.
Fame and celebration, however, are like flowers; their beauty destined to wither and die. My wondrous literary pursuits were brought to a halt when false allegations were leveled against me. Alas, my true fans! Believe me when I write these words: I've never hired any well-read, blond, statuesque, whip-craving, trans-gendered dominatrices. But clear the air as I may, the rumors will continue to hover about me like flies around the excrement normally printed on this web site. Any hopes for new book deals with Simon and Schuster or Random House are certainly faint. Hence, my present job as an attendant in this literary sewer known as Pork Pony.
With that little bio out of the way, I'd like to introduce you to a few of my ideas. Prepare to be enriched, my friends. That is what I am here for, is it not? Without further ado...
In his office at Pork Pony headquarters in Los Angeles, CA, Stuart mocks the "foolish prose" written by fellow staffers Chris Leavens and Weaver.
TREATISE ON PORK PONY
Endless drivel put together by an endless line of ignoramuses. This wretched e-rundlet's been stained by the poppycock which soaks inside its walls; it is in dire need of a vigorous douching. I suggest we start with the title. Why not call it something a bit more sophisticated and stately? How about The Sentient Stallion or Magnanimous Mare? These titles both retain the power of alliteration and strengthen the horse metaphor. Not to mention that each of the aforementioned titles sound slightly respectable (unlike the putrid Pork Pony). Next, get rid of that nincompoop Intelli-head. Just being in the same room as that God forsaken machine lowers one's IQ by twenty-five points. Intelli-head, I've got some advice for you: wash once in a while, you smell worse than a statue of Marlon Brando made from maggots, rotting rump-roast, and cat feces. Lastly, hire some more half decent writers. Soliciting some high school graduates would be a good start.
Arturo Toscannini called him the greatest singer of the 20th century. Who can argue? Certainly not you, for I know any reader of the usual rubbish that's here wouldn't care for or understand quality or culture. Let me educate you. Following in the footsteps of his idol, the wondrous Enrico Caruso, Lanza began stunning audiences world round with his operatic tenor vox in 1948. He continued do so until his mysterious "heart attack" in 1959 (which most true fans are certain was actually a mob hit). His songs run the gamut of humanity, whether it be the beauteous Be My Love or the bawdy Drink, Drink, Drink, Lanza stuns every time. If his voice was a woman, I would marry her, or, at the very least, have a torrid, adventurous tryst with her.
One of Stuart's fans hands him a rare Mario Lanza 78.
Seeing people waste their time watching this glorified freak show sickens me. The only even slightly redeeming event that takes place during this malarkey is ice-dancing, which was marred by some mentally-imbalanced frog hussy. Leave it to the French to sully culture once again. By the way, where were Torvell and Dean this year?
I must say that I am thoroughly disgusted at this point. I shall retire from writing until next week and will now fill the remainder of my word quota by naming the Mario Lanza albums which remain in print:
Christmas With Mario Lanza
At His Best
Christmas Hymns and Carols
So In Love
The Student Prince
Be My Love
The Mario Lanza Collection