Mark Leyner - The Sugar Frosted Nutsack

XOXOkidnaps Ike’s and his father’s souls and takes them to his hyperborean hermitage, where he plies them with drugged sherbet and gives their souls innumerable little hickies, like little chigger bites. Ikeis presented with the coveted Sugar Frosted Nutsack, which is usually represented as either a military medal similar to the Croix de Guerre or the Iron Cross, or an entertainment industry award, like the Golden Globe or the People’s Choice Award statuette.

La Felinatells Ikethat Fast-Cooking Aliis gay (a “couturier”). Only a gay man could have designed Woman’s Ass. She denies ever having been sexually attracted to him. “He’s too sophisticated. His mind is too agile and nuanced, his sensibility is too refined and delicate. He’s too petite. Too ethereal. Too patrician.”

Far from finding such scenes stupefyingly disjointed (and, as anyone with even the faintest familiarity with The Sugar Frosted Nutsack 2: Crème de la Sack knows, these are exactly the sort of stupefyingly disjointed scenes that XOXOdelights in recklessly strewing throughout the epic), audiences at public recitations demand that vagrant, drug-addled bards (those dwindlingly few vagrant, drug-addled bards who have survived all the Chinean-inspired anti-bard violence) chant these very noncanonical bloopers in their entirety, demanding, in fact, that the surviving bards belt them out like the cast of some Broadway musical to the exclusion of the rest of the epic (i.e., the canonical bloopers), prompting one expert to describe this “neo-epic” (that is, this version of the epic purged of everything but noncanonical bloopers) as a “labyrinth of corridors invariably culminating in a flooded men’s room.”

Vancespins the wheel of his BMX bike, and in the blurred strobe of its spokes, as Vancespins faster and faster and faster, you can just barely discern the inchoate contours (i.e., “early drafts”) of everything that’s about to happen.

The mesmerizing metronomic beat of the spokes ticking against the empty Sunkist can.…They are SO high. This Gravy is super-potent. It’s military-grade Gravy. Their eyes are glazed over and orange dribble runs down their chins.

Along with the humming hyperreality of being so high in the glare of a midsummer’s day, there’s an unmistakable overtone of impending violence and revelation.

They’re SO high.

They’re SO FUCKING high.

Wednesday: 8:00 PM Eastern

“A Mule with a Red Bonnet”

Three more cars go by. License plates: AGV-66N, OAM-17W, RMP-45Y.

AGV: A grainy video

OAM: of a man

RMP: resembling Meir Poznak

A grainy video…of a man…resembling Meir Poznak…

A grainy video of a man resembling Meir Poznak, ex-bard and leader of the hard-line anti- XOXOparamilitary organization T.S.F.N. — General Command, based in Jersey City, has surfaced on the Internet in recent days and shows him announcing his retirement in favor of a mule in a red bonnet.

The man, bearded and wearing fatigues, is shown seated in a wooded area, next to a mule in a red bonnet, identified as his successor.

In December, Poznakwas nearly assassinated by a nanny from Côte d’Ivoire pushing a stroller rigged with explosives.

A few of the dwindlingly few vagrant, drug-addled bards who have survived all the Chinean-inspired anti-bard violence are partying at a crowded club in West Hollywood (Les Deux). Throbbing dance music.

“Quiet!” one hisses to the others, covering his cellphone. “It’s Meir Poznak!”

Poznakrecites the following lines:

Everything that’s screwed in

Or glued together

Is coming apart

At the same time.

The next day, The Capo di Tutti Fruttiis found dead in the underground parking lot of his apartment complex. His hands had been bound and his head bludgeoned with a bat. His entrails had been eaten. Police suspect that a God ate his entrails because fingerprints on packets of tartar sauce found near the body were not human, and because fresh mounds of loot drops (or “God guano”) had been discovered in the woods nearby.

Wednesday: 9:00 PM Eastern

“The Ascendancy of Hmm Uh”

Hmm Uh, who inauspiciously began her career as a gob of phlegm on the street (“some guy on the street hawks up a big gob of phlegm and spits it on the sidewalk, and Ikestops, and he kneels down, and he says to the gob of phlegm, ‘Fräulein, my band, The Kartons, is giving a Final Concert later this week, and I’d be very much honored if you would attend’”) and then inexplicably reappeared in the guise of a “speech disfluency” or “verbal placeholder,” has suddenly (within, say, the past two minutes) become perhaps the single most influential Goddess in the history of the Sugar Frosted Nutsack pantheon (that “moaning menagerie”). “Impertinent with the scope of her new power, she burns with the inferiority complex of a former hawked-up gob of phlegm and speech disfluency.” She’s now the paramount Goddess. Elected to the post of General Secretary of the Central Committee of the Communist Party of the Goddesses, Hmm Uhrequests several days’ leave to engage in a celebratory series of drunken bisexual orgies, conducted first in one of the world’s largest open-pit asbestos mines in a town in south-central Quebec called Thetford Mines, and then in a succession of squalid gas station lavatories along Interstate 19 in Arizona. The Goddess La Felina, “champion of the sans-culottes and scum of the earth,” is said to be partying with Hmm Uh. Other debauched participants in the drunken bisexual orgies are said to include: creepy, unsavory looking porcelain Hummel figurines brought to life, leprechauns with disproportionately large, erect phalluses jutting out from their green breeches…and…umm… Transformers robots with huge, unruly tufts of fern-like pubic hair sprouting from their crotches like weird fucking Chia Pets — although, according to an updated report in USA Today, this is not true.

Hmm Uhlooks half-Russian, half-Korean. She has a perpetually salacious grin on her big, round face. Big-haired, buxom, retroussé-nosed, she is simple and unlettered (and depraved).

It’s amazing how prescient the Chineans were, how uncannily they anticipated the ascendancy of a Goddess like Hmm Uh. Yes, Hmm Uhis zaftig, hairy, and uninformed, but she is refreshingly young (early twenties) and much, much more cheerful than the gloomy and world-weary “chubby, sweaty, hairy, unkempt, and uneducated middle-aged women” who’d habituated the epic up until now.

Now Hmm Uh—patron Goddess of Inarticulation and Illegibility, of High-Pitched Gibberish, Nonlexical Vocables, and Hysterical Spastic Aphonia — is the star of her own reality show. She’s the only woman on an offshore drilling rig, thirty miles out in the Kara Sea, an icebound Arctic coastal backwater north of central Russia. Total darkness engulfs the region in the winter. Hilarity and puerile boorishness ensue as Hmm Uhentertains fifty super-horny, frequently drunk, and stir-crazy Russian oil workers. “The waters of the Arctic are particularly perilous for drilling because of the extreme cold, long periods of darkness, dense fogs, and hurricane-strength winds. Pervasive ice cover for eight to nine months out of the year can block relief ships in case of a blowout.…Until recently, Russia regarded the Kara Sea as primarily an icy dump. For years, the Soviet navy released nuclear waste into the sea, including several spent submarine reactors that were dropped overboard at undisclosed locations,” according to a report in the New York Times by Andrew E. Kramerand Clifford Krauss.