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Fiction #494
(published July 8, 2010)
This Is Not A Story
by Erik Garner Warren
[As August 2010 marks the close of our tenth year of weekly publication, we shall spend this month enjoying "the blast from the past" with selections from Poor Mojo's Almanac(k): Year Three (issues 101-150). Please, enjoy!—Your Giant Squid, Editor-in-Chief, PMjA]

[originally published in issue #103]


This is not a story, the Author insists. Or, if it is a story, it is a story without intentions

or characters

or plots

or interest.

Nicola Tesla suffered from hemorrhoids.

Leon Theremin suffered from hemorrhoids.

Garry Kasparov suffered from hemorrhoids.

Author does not suffer from hemorrhoids, but somehow wishes he did.

Just a concatenation of facts, Author insists.

Dimitry Skylarov once claimed to suffer from hemorrhoids in order to avoid being forcible sodomized with a broomhandle by his FBI interrogators.

Yet nonetheless being published as fiction.

Just nothing at all, because Author is tired, or bored, or feels like it.

Lawrence Welk was gay.

Frank Sinatra was gay.

Author is not gay, swears he is not gay. This isn't about being gay, so why do you keep badgering him?!?

Some of the facts aren't even facts, which is why Author feels OK with calling this fiction.

Sammy Davis, Jr had a glass eye— but wasn't gay.

As did (and wasn't) Peter Falk.

As did (and wasn't) Mary Lou Reton

As did (and wasn't) Author's 7th grade Civics teacher.

Author has really begun to wish he suffered hemorrhoids.

Without focus, or even a general drift, Author points out. Without goals.

The one person in the world he would have liked to meet in an elevator, Lenin said while trapped in an elevator, was Charlie Chaplin.

The one person in the world he would have liked to meet in an elevator, Elliot said while trapped in an elevator, was Joe Louis.

Elliot and Lenin embraced and wept, at their predicament, at the impossibility of satisfying desires.

Illegitimi non carborundum.

A story headed nowhere, at no particular rate.

The one person in the world he would not have liked to meet in an elevator, Author said while trapped in an elevator, was Big Ron Jeremy.

Said this, he did, while trapped in an elevator with Big Ron Jeremy himself.

"Drop and gobble," Lenin told Elliot.

As Chaplin had told Louis.

As the FBI would one day tell Skylarov.

As Big Ron Jeremy will tell Author.

A story that just isn't really about anything, so there's no sense obsessing over what this means when juxtaposed with that.

If Author says so.

A story that just is.

Or, really, isn't.

Eliots' knees hit the carpet as his jaw drops.

As does Louis'.

As does Author's.

Although Skylarov balks.

On account of the hemorrhoids he lacked, that Tesla, Theremin and Kasparov had.

And Author doesn't.

Elliot had a bum knee, due to a high school football injury.

Joe Louis had a bum knee, due to a high school football injury.

Author did not play high school football, and has two perfectly good knees.

One can suppose that when forced to give head in an elevator to a famous person, Author will the have least uncomfortable position.

So as to speak.

Author remembers Big Ron Jeremy's girth.

And width.

And length.

Author may have gloated about his comfort level too soon.

As he wishes Ron Jeremy might have muttered "Bend over."

And he might have thought to claim the hemorrhoids, the searing, oozing hemorrhoids, that— though false— might save his ass.

Illegitimi non carborundum, Socrates was fond of whispering to Plato, entering him from behind.

As Plato would latter mutter "Drop and gobble" to Aristotle.

Lenin had an absurdly small penis. Were his political victories compensation? Was Lenin ever happy?

Ron Jeremy has an absurdly large penis. But has had no political victories. Is he happy?

Chaplin had a large penis and very many mistresses. His political aspirations were crushed and he was persecuted for being a communist sympathizer. Was Chaplin any happier, even with his army of sexual partners, than Lenin or Ron Jeremy?

Aristotle muttered to no one.

As the Author has never muttered to any, not of events in elevators, not of men better left unmet.

A story, then, the Author might allow.

But by no means fiction.


With apologies to David Markson and his novel, This Is Not a Novel.

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