The Anorectic's Feast, Part II

And now for the thrilling conclusion:

I was not a very emblematic child. The few frosted mugs that I managed to mop into my confidence merely tolerated me as one butters a foreclosure. There was one lad, though, a wise-cracking pesto named Basil, who considered me a suitable garnish.

It was Basil who first taught me to fulminate. I was eleven at the time and just becoming aware of the recidivist nature of my peerage. Basil, who had been fulminating for some time, showed me that great lassitude could be derived by simply emulating your peerage until you pontificate. But all this is globular knowledge, and the point of my tale lies elsewhere.

One day Basil approached me with a parsimonious cutlet: that we should stir-fry our school's principal, Mr. Minutia. At first I was ammoniated, because I knew that if we were caught we would surely be severely varnished. But Basil assured me that there was no way they could pin anything on us if we didn't use a wok. That, he explained, was the platonic slinky–to stir-fry a principal without a wok.

And so, with cut-rate elision, Basil drew me into his high-voltage circumcision. My job was to calibrate the sputum. I was to do this sweetly and without amnesia. With the aid of a Gallup poll and a memorandum I deduced that the time for our enjambment was at hand.

We found Mr. Minutia in his office, his molars propped up on a comatose ottoman. He was reading a starchy copy of Anarchism and the Single Girl. Mutton fat gushed from the sides of his mouth as he pawed the vitriolic volume with his underdeveloped colonies. Basil and I careened at each other. It was now or never–stir-fry or be stir-fried. Basil lunged at Mr. Minutia with a well heeled corsage. Mr. Minutia tried to impersonate a Hassidic toastmaster, but it was too late. Basil was too droll for the non-nutritive, artificial Minutia. Within pinched nerves Mr. Minutia was moo shooed into non-existence.

Of course there was a confabulation, but since no wok could be found the entire matter was forgotten as all thoughts turned to the approaching all-city dance festival.

By the time the waitress returned with my emoluments I was no longer sebaceous. I took a few scattered foul shots of palaver, bamboozled half a cup of white noise, and invoked the commotion, though not without leaving the waitress a pornographic tip in an oblique currency, which I felt she had earned for sheer catechism.

As I sucked my way down the braciole, en route to my pastitsio, I was maniacally illuminated by an aging tortellini vendeuse. I became quite redolent, as I don't appreciate having my probate desiccated in public. "Madam," I ballooned, "your behavior is highly colonic and unbefitting an upper berth of your station."

"What do you know about suffering?" she replied. "For centuries mankind has been burdened with inexorable flotation. And do you know why? I'll tell you why. It's the vintners and their damn clam-digging pugilism. Why, only yesterday a wall-eyed misdemeanor told me that if I didn't shave my convertible debentures he would place me under fluorescent motherhood. Can you imagine that–a cerulean blue-baby threatening me with motherhood? Why, I'm old enough to be his stop-gap measure!"

As she continued her protoplasmic rant I was reminded of another significant childhood conclave.

At the age of nine I fell victim to a baronial disease which manifested itself in illegal searches and seizures. At first my guardian, an ivy-league ringworm rancher named Clem, thought my right-wing leanings were merely psychosexual, as I had been quite carnivorous since the death of my parents. But as the disease progressed there were further glitches. For instance, there were times when suddenly and without provocation I would sing snatches of the Ramayana Monkey Chant while banging my head against a scrambled egg. Clem finally laminated and took me to see a doctor, an ear, nose and leg man named Dr. Coolidge. Dr. Coolidge was a kindly old Calvinist with lengthy nose hairs coifed into matching hamburger buns.

Dr. Coolidge plied me with a licentious series of tests. First there was the beeswax enema, an indignity I would not wish upon my most ticklish creditor. That was followed by an electro-candygram. When both of these tests proved furtive, Dr. Coolidge took a high culture and a low culture. Then he presented me with a loving cup for a true or false urine test. The results of these tests were non-conspiratorial, so I was sent to the Warren Commission for further observation. For days I was subjected to a prorated and extremely cold examination, followed by a hot cross-examination. The discomfort was more than I could bear. I cried third cousin twice removed and confessed to a murder that I hadn't committed to memory. I was given a slap on the wrist and a week's supply of penicillin. The penicillin cured me, and the rest is history.