Mark Leyner - My Cousin, My Gastroenterologist

when the lights come up again, the seminude gladiators are driving to newark airport after learning that kim il sung has been shot they are wearing jeans designed by le corbusier they are displaying severe psychomotor agitation, nihilistic delusions, and ego-syntonic obsessions i give them the minnesota multiphasic personality inventory

what fruit can soothe the mind,

but mellaril?

what soup, but stelazine—

the intravenous broth that's just like grandma used to make

the semi-NGs are exercising their first amendment rights they are singing the song of the extremely subtle energy-wind-mind the singers are dead, they sing, the singers are dead dead dead wasn't it mallarmй who said, "when a superhuman being shampoos its hair, it thinks of death?" in the sky, a thin crescent of cloud punctuates the empty azure like a single comma two of the semi-NGs have prophylactics in the back pockets of their tight jeans, one has a packet of duck sauce there goes the fuji blimp, says one there's a redhead from scarsdale in a saab, says the second and what are you reading? i ask the semi-NG with duck sauce in his pocket of sinuses and nephews it's superb did you know that alexander the great's nephew had degenerative sinusitis? did you know that chuck yeager was scheduled to fly the U-2 spy plane that the russians shot down but he had to take his nephew to get his sinuses drained so francis gary powers got the assignment instead?

a scented nuclear warhead manufactured by mcdonnell douglas in collaboration with estйe lauder passes overhead, leaving in its wake a light, floral fragrance with a touch of citrus and spice, and winds of 750 miles per hour children tie strings to their anvils and fly them in the supersonic turbulence and the yellow sheets of enuretic adolescents are torn from their clotheslines and sail through the air like magic carpets and these magic carpets bring me home, to the glory that was greece, and the grandeur that was rome

a bongo-playing cuban bandleader fell on the field of battle today innovator, he had been the first to shoot with three cameras in front of a live audience, succumbing to lung cancer in all the years since their divorce he never maligned lucy caused by his unrepentant passion for strong cuban cigars he was the only bongo-playing cuban bandleader in the history of broadcasting to succumb in front of a live audience caused by his unrepentant passion after their divorce, lucy released a statement through her press secretary, saying: "i'll never marry another bongo-playing cuban bandleader… none could compare to him — he was the first to succumb to his unrepentant passion for my strong press secretary" sic transit gloria mundi foucauіt died of aids before he could finish the fourth volume of his history of sexuality after he divorced lucy, he sold her his interest in their production company and with the exception of cameo appearances he retired from the history of broadcasting pindar wrote: "… to all comes / the wave of death and falls unforeseen / even on him who foresees it / but honor grows for the dead / whose tender repute a god fosters" so perhaps someday a schoolboy will stand before a class in the history of sexuality and recite these unforgettable words: "a bongo-playing cuban bandleader fell on the field of battle today / he was the first to shoot a live audience he never maligned"

The office had been abuzz for the past couple of weeks over the news about Bob's new bride. And now excitement reached a more sustained pitch with the opportunity to finally meet Gloria (as we learned she was named) at an upcoming party being given to celebrate our completion of a large project we'd been working on for an Israeli film company. What we knew of the "Bob and Gloria Story" was extremely romantic and entrancing. They had fallen in love at first sight, there'd been a whirlwind courtship, and in the middle of dinner at an intimate little bistro, they'd decided to fly off to Vegas and get married at the Chapel of the Belles. The day before the party, talk around the office revolved around nothing else but speculation about Gloria and our shared happiness for Bob who all of us agreed was the nicest and most intelligent boss any of us had ever worked for. Well, that night I arrived at the party and immediately began scanning the living room for Bob and his new wife who'd presumably be by his side. I mingled a bit, snared some hors пoeuvres, had a drink or two. The apartment, a lovely but very small one-bedroom affair, had become a bit stifling and I went into the bedroom to deposit my sport coat. There was Bob beaming from ear to ear and he embraced me warmly — I'd never seen him looking so happy and serene. "So where is she?" I asked. "I'm dying to meet the woman who put such a smile on your face." Bob led me over to the bathroom. "She's in here changing her sweater — she got a little hot out there — come take a look," he whispered, opening the bathroom door a crack and putting his finger to his lips to advise stealth. I quietly edged over to the door and took a peek. I almost died. There was a woman with the sunken, wrinkled face of an eighty- or ninety-year-old. She had her shirt off and she was standing in front of the mirror about to slip on a blouse. And this withered hag, this apparent octogenarian, had the body of a male Olympic swimmer. The long lean sinewy arms, the powerful V-shaped upper torso, without a single ounce of extra fat anywhere, a body that only comes after thousands of hours of laps and speed training. I was flabbergasted — but before I could even react to what I'd seen, Bob jabbed me in the ribs with his elbow. "And you should taste her oatmeal!" he said, winking slyly. Eventually we all met Gloria that night at the party and I could tell from the expressions on my colleagues' faces that they too were utterly confused at what they'd encountered. But our deep deep respect and affection for Bob prevented us from exchanging anything that could be construed as malicious gossip or even mild consternation over this strange bride. And in fact, when we returned to the office that Monday, and for that entire week, no one said a word about it except to offer some trite expression of happiness for Bob. We all felt so strongly about what it meant to work for someone like Bob that we were at a loss as to how to react to this situation. Bob was the most innovative and effective production manager the company had ever seen. He was an utterly fair man, a magnanimous man, a compassionate man, a man who never hesitated to go to bat for you with the muckety-mucks at the top. That weekend, I got a call early Sunday morning — one of the guys from the office, crying. "Gloria… Bob's wife… She's been killed." "Killed! How?… My God, they were just married… How's Bob?" I asked, pulling my pants on. "He's taking it pretty hard." Over the next few hours, I managed to piece together what had actually happened. Apparently each night Gloria had been sneaking out of the house and roaming the countryside, raiding local farmers' chicken coops and killing and eating the chickens. And finally Saturday night, a farmer had heard a commotion in his henhouse, grabbed his shotgun, and killed Gloria in flagrante delicto. The funeral was Monday. The entire office staff was there in black suits and dresses, ashen-faced, grim, some weeping. Bob was standing by the open coffin. I walked over to pay my respects and offer whatever words of support that I could muster. I looked down into the coffin. Bob had instructed the mortician not to alter her appearance. There was the face of the shriveled old crone now pocked with heavy-gauge shot, wisps of feathers and shards of bone adhering to the coagulated chicken blood that ringed her mouth. She was wearing only a pair of striped men's briefs — the very very tight kind worn by athletes in swimming and diving competition. Her body, except for the gunshot wounds, could have been that of a male model in an ad for a health spa. Bob looked at me. His eyes were red from crying. Putting his arm around me, he looked back into the coffin. "I've never known a woman who loved life as much as she did," he said. Well, over the next few months we all watched Bob go through the long painful process of grieving and gradually putting his life back in order. That spring he bought a beautiful 40-foot pleasure boat and he named it the Joie de Vivre in honor of his late wife. And on Memorial Day weekend he invited a bunch of us out to the boat for a leisurely little cruise along the coast, fishing, relaxing, eating, and drinking. And as you might expect, there was a terrible terrible accident..