Mark Leyner - The Sugar Frosted Nutsack

The Ballad of the Last of the Severed Bard-Heads

Oh fuck, Ike Kartonest mort!

Pa rum pum pum pum, rum pa pum pum.

Got shot point-blank with a Glock 34!

It’s all about the dum dum de da dum dum!

Ike Kartonis dead.

Schlemiel schlimazel! Hong Kong ping-pong!

The 9 mm round entered his eye and exited out the back of his head.

Ding a ding a dang a dong dong ding dong!

Ding a ding a dang a ding dang dong!

Highest Rated Comments

I had a threesome to this song.

Svetlana Stalin 1 month ago

Wow…Even though it uses nonlexical vocables, it’s REALLY moving…I’m actually crying. Takes me back in time to better days. Thanks for posting this.

Mark McGuire 10 months ago

Lick my legs, I’m on fire.

PJ Harvey 19 years ago

Where are my shoes? I’ve got to see the Captain.Harvey Cheyne Jr. (played by Freddie Bartholomew)

in Captains Courageous 75 years ago

Kill the white man, and take his women.Dr. Fu Manchu (played by Boris Karloff)

in The Mask of Fu Manchu 80 years ago

Friday: 10:00 AM Eastern

“ Ike’s Funeral: Live Coverage”

A small group of mourners attends Ike’s funeral: Hadassah Lieberman, Barry Bonds, SAG president Ken Howard, Andrew Cuomo…

Several eulogists wistfully remind the thin trickle of mourners (basically Lieberman, Bonds, SAG president Ken Howard, and Cuomo) that Ike“never congealed into the comprehensible” and “liked the bodies of women who didn’t like their bodies” and was “perpetually flinging himself toward his fate.”

And they reminisce about how Ikeused to sit at the kitchen table in the early morning, not writing letters or composing narcocorridos, but making lists — lists of which celebrities he thought should be guillotined, which should go to the gulag, which should be rehabilitated, etc. This was also called Ike“going into the forest to gather wild garlic,” Ike“soaking in his own marinade” or Ike“drinking his own bath water.” Excerpts from the Eulogies

“ Ikeis on a bus headed uncannily for the abyss — such is his largesse, his desire to share his death wish with others, i.e., his brothers, who dig his maudlin quest for martyrdom and queue up to join him literally loin-to-loin in stardom, his weary one-way ride to his last stop, his long-awaited suicide-by-cop, much ballyhooed in Bollywood and headed straight for the vicinity of infinity.”

“ Ike’s eyes roll back in his head as he’s ravaged — the conquistador as comestible, like Magellan devoured by cannibals and savages.”

“Those moaning, self-flagellated phantasms, having all their apocalyptic orgasms, those marathon sessions of seizures, those deathless, mirthless masturbators, so provocatively posed in their marble pantyhose.”

“This was just the aristocratic, autoerotic attitude of those whose hot buttocks were the pure products of the imagination of the God who’d invented the platitude.”

“ Ike—marionette, umbilicated to his Goddesses, murmuring in a language garnished with umlauts.”

“His birth as an object of divine desire, and his death — the Goddesses sated — supine and on fire, hated by his neighbors.”

“This shit’s retarded. It’s The Ballad of the Last of the Severed Bard-Heads . ‘It’s not toasted, it’s Pop-Tarted,’ Ikeboasted to all his drug-addled, big-dick bards (the Ultra-Penis Committee) from the Upper Peninsula and Jersey City. Denken und Dichtung, that high-pitched drone. ‘It is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known,’ he says, quoting Dickens, quieting down Colter Dale, quaffing Dewars, getting tight, looking radiant in night-vision goggles and a ‘tight T-shirt’—‘TTS’ on the Missouri license plate, which has a light-blue gradient and says ‘Show-Me State.’ He hates celebrities and all their wealth, and he flexes his biceps and he flagellates himself. He secretly ate flanken, like an Inquisitor and a Marrano both wrapped into one, which is why it says that ‘suicide-by-cop sounds fun.’”

“The quintessential heroic visionary, quiet and quick to violence, brainstorming with mice and swans in Paranoid Park, near a man-made hill. ‘Remember,’ he says, without moving his lips, even keeping his Adam’s apple still, ‘when all the old, decrepit waiters at XOXO’s Dantean Hooters were summarily shot to death by Mossad sharpshooters?’ And some weird little guy whom one of the mice glimpses out of the corner of his eye — some fat little spy on a bicycle path, snapping photos — hunches over to laugh like Quasimodogetting a Gatorade bath on the sideline. And Ike, like stone, like a scrimshaw statue honed out of white whale bone, cataleptic but analytic, and incredulous at his own indigenous Jersey City perspicacity, thinks to himself, Once I get all my guillotines deployed and rendezvous with my producer, Fast-Cooking Ali, let’s see who calls me paranoid and the inducer of a folie à famille.”

“ Ikedreams of surprising La Felinain a Korean sauna, or the subproletarian wife of some bard, or coming upon any matronly lady marbled with lard, sweating in a place that’s sweltering, any place where there’s no tradition of air-conditioning or adequate ventilation, where there’s a draconian prohibition on deodorant and showering, like a women’s penal colony on a former coffee plantation, where the rich aroma of large, self-pleasuring women is overpowering and intoxicates Mossad sharpshooters in guard towers, and where even a hydrocephalic moron can get a hypertrophic hard-on lasting more than four hours.”

“The jubilant blaze of masochistic martyrdom and orgasm, like some fabulous hissing centripetal fireball of molten marble, forms a high-pitched, accelerating vortex of seizures and spasms that pulls this clique of masturbating Goddesses from the Large Hadron Collider into Ike’s sugar frosted nutsack, like a highly concentrated, coruscating cascade of hypothetical particles, these Goddesses who are masturbating to naked photos of Ike, even though they say they’re just reading the articles, into Ike’s sugar frosted nutsack, where, like an interlooping troupe of parasitic worms or writhing embroidered runes, they agree to synchronize the oscillations of their original orgasms, so as to produce ever more seizures and more spasms.”

This final section the mourners chant backward, in memory of Ikehaving “continuously pulled himself out of his own ass, inside-out”:

Smsaps erom dna seruzies erom reve ecudorp ot sa os, smsagro lanigiro rieht fo snoitallicso eht ezinorhcnys ot eerga yeht, senur derediorbme gnihtirw ro smrow citisarap fo epuort gnipoolretni na ekil, erehw, kcastun detsorf ragus S’ eki otni…

In an interview after the funeral, Hmm Uh, the Goddess born of hawked-up phlegm and risen from the lowest-of-the-low to become the single most influential Goddess in the pantheon (“that moaning menagerie”), is asked whether Ike Kartonand Meir Poznak(seemingly so different— Ikeaustere, taciturn, inscrutable; Meirflamboyant, loquacious, explicit) could, in a sense, be considered one and the same person (since they abet each other’s fates with such uncanny reciprocity). The divine celebutante answers, “Hmm…uh…kinda, I guess.”