All Good Things...


Sometimes I have this fantasy where I'm a down-at-the-heels amateur chef driven to operating a clandestine organ-harvesting facility from my secret kitchen in the basement. After preping the bodies, I use my descriptive skills to compose snappy filler for Ladies Home Journal:

ex: Shawn Gill's viscera were exquisitely preserved in an elegant concoction of basil-infused olive oil and sun dried tomatoes. His eyeballs were removed with a melonballer (Lechters, $6.99 + tax) and were presented in a stately gelatin cube, seasoned with aspic. Digits and toes were snipped off with a sturdy pair of German poultry shears (Wusthof Trident, $29.95 + $3.00 U.S. S&H), slow-roasted for 45 minutes at 300 degrees, and served with a tangy red sauce... my interpretation of the buffalo wing. A spicy ethnic flourish was provided by my signature dish, Cojones con Queso. ! Que la fiesta por la boca ! A Chuppa and Co. Chef's knife made quick work of the carcass, both splitting bone and handling those tricky cuts with delightful precision. But for those of you who really want to speed up the process, I would recommend a basic, no-frills Chinese cleaver... quite simply one of the most versatile kitchen utensils available. Finally, Gerber offers a cheeky little paring knife ($17.99) which makes removing those tough membranes a snap...

When I'm not drafting imaginary copy, I like to throw down. You see, unlike the rest of the Brou staff, I have bank. This allows me to host fox hunts and ingest designer chemicals while Brett once again fails to scrape up enough money to buy him a cup of coffee and, by extension, the privilege of loitering at the Trolley Stop for geologic stretches of time. The very nature of my privileged existence has allowed me to swap elitist anecdotes and (occasionally) bodily fluids with the flaky white crust of high society. Why, just the other week I went on a ketamine binge with Bob Saget. Don't let that boyish charm fool you. The host of America's Funniest Home Videos is an insatiable chemotrophe... a ravenous fiend whose chemical dependency is rivaled only by his deviant sexual fascinations. But he's also a good friend, so when he called me I immediately sensed he was upset about something. I grabbed my kit and rushed right over:

Scene: Bob Saget's Opulent Rumpus Room

Bob Saget: (Begins shaving weasel) "Boy, I sure can't wait 'till those Olsen twins turn twelve!"

Me: "Nice jacket."

Bob: (Visibly pleased) "Thanks. I have all my clothing hand-crafted by exploited children from the sweatshops of developing Asian nations. I actually search for flakes of dried blood on the seams... it's a sort of personal 'quality control.' It assures me that my garments are indeed smeared with the blood from raw nubs of nimble little unthimbled fingers." (Extends sleeve for inspection)

Me: (Inspecting) "Whoa. That's a hellava stitch." But behind Bob's smiling facade, I can tell that something is bothering him.

Bob: "Look... See the official seal?" On the inside of his breast pocket is a small design depicting a thumbless infant shackled to a loom.

Me: (Nodding appreciatively) "That's the real thing all right. So, what's on your mind?"

Bob: (sighs and returns distressed weasel to terrarium containing a scale replica of J.R.R. Tolkien's Middle Earth) "Well, Jay, remember those cages I installed in the converted septic tank out back?"

Me: "The ones out by the smokehouse?"

Bob: "Yeah... the ones I keep my androgynous pre-teen Thai love slaves in?

Me: "Sure do, Bob."

Bob: "Well, one of them escaped. Its my own damn fault. I greased Ngo Thoc up last night, but forgot to scrub him down afterwards. The little bugger managed to squeeze between the bars."

Me: "Whose the real 'little bugger' here, Bob?"

Bob: "Very funny. Do you know what'll happen if word of this gets out?"

Me: (Considering ramifications) "Well, you probably won't be asked to host Little Miss USA this year."

Bob: "Exactly. So what should I do?"

Me: "Here's what you should do, Bob..." (I write down the beeper number of reputable bounty hunter) "Give this man a call!"

Bob: "Gee, thanks Jay... you always know just what to do."

Me: "C'mere and give me a hug, Big Guy."

Bob: (Lopes over and hugs me in an affable, non-faggoty way)




So what am I going to do after the disbanding of the Brou? I shall become instantly wealthy by introducing the spork to Southeast Asia, where I will live out my mid-twenties as a rougeish expatriate in a tax-free archipelegic paradise. After buying strategically located islands, my thugish Phillipino henchmen will construct crude airstrips. I will use them to fence heroin for the CIA. I will then transfer my kickbacks to the Cayman Islands and proceed to buy up the West Coast, where I will hew my fortified entertainment compound from the living rock of Big Sur. Secure within the craggy peaks of my own personal Valhalla, I shall forge in the smithy of my soul, the uncreated conscious of my race. Unless Tanner beats me to it.

And as the years pass my mind will dull, swaddled in the fuzzy blanket woven by a decade of libidinous experimentation. Then one moonless night, as I'm perched on the edge of some windswept cliff... the ever present hush of the Pacific gnawing timelessly at the black rocks below... I'll begin to realize the futility of my fish-eyed paperbound existence. Suddenly; a crack of noise: bababadalgharaghta-kamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarr- hounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk! Loud fills the sky as Thor thunders: in anger awful the hammer-hurler; comes now the storm that shall hist my heart. And lo, for the first time, I can truely see: Finally, I understand that all the answers are inside me: that I am the divine mystery which I seek to understand.

I become enlightened, and renounce all my earthly possessions. I wander the countryside, muttering koans and accepting humble gifts of rice and vegetables. After a while I come to an enormous Bodhi-tree. Seated beneath it, I begin to dream. I dream that I am as light as the ether; a floating spirit visiting things to come... the shade and shadows of people and places in my life wrassling their way into my slumber. I dream on. This is cloudier, cause it is yearsyears away. I see the Brou Staff being visited by their fans. And we aren't screwed up, and neither are they. And I'm not just fleeing reality like I'm liable to 'cause me and the Brou... we can make good, too. It seems real, if not at Tulane, then at a land not too far away, where all satirists are strong and wise and capable, and all fans are happy and beloved. I don't know... maybe it was... Utah?