Unloosen

In February of 2002, I ran into Stuart Gimble while he was working the register at a local supermarket. Shock and awe ripped through me; how could a fantastic writer of Gimble's ilk be relegated to such a simple job? We scraped together what little money trickled into the Pork Pony coffers and hired Gimble to write a weekly article for our nascent journal. This was Gimble's first foray into the world of the now-defunct Pork Pony. (CL)

Attention you primitive fools: be nervous; I have come to make human beings of you. After my initial diatribe for this media wasteland known as Pork Pony, I was shocked to find out just how many of the dullards who read my work were put off by it. Many of you sent me duncical letters filled with misspellings, erroneous grammar, and worst of all, lack of capitalization. Mountain of idiocy: save yourselves now. Purchase a copy of The Gods of Grammar in the Punctuation Palace, the only children's book I've ever written. It shall act like an elevator, lifting your IQ out of the basement. Who knows, maybe you'll even be able to handle the complexities held within a third grade social studies book after you're done.

The Gods of Grammar in the Punctuation Palace follows the adventures of a dear lad named Art. Art goes to school with children who ignore academics in favor of things like baseball, dolls, and poo-poo jokes. Our ostracized hero spends his time in isolation, reading and studying grammar. Atop the clouds, the gods Subjectus and Predicatus watch poor Art and, feeling sympathy for the lonely boy, they magically transport him to their ethereal estate, Punctuation Palace. Art is instantly mesmerized as he ambles to and fro, learning all the true and good rules of grammar and punctuation. The adventure gets a tad hairy, however, when the evil Misspell-O appears and attempts to sully the laws of the land. Watch out for sting of Misspell-O's end-preposition whip, dear Art!

Alas dear reader, shun all poo-poo jokes. Come to Punctuation Palace where all is good and two spaces follow every period. Ah, but I dream, for during your next visit to the bookstore you'll go straight to the periodicals and start perusing the awful garbage printed on the pages of magazines like Esquire and Maxim. You sicken me.

Do you realize that on the road of life, Pork Pony is the smelly, slow, rust-riddled diesel-burning automobile that hogs the left lane? Why you spend your time reading this garbage is beyond me, but I'll give you credit reader, at least you're wasting your time on my words (which, by the way, are the equivalent of the 100 percent authentic ivory gear shift knob in the aforementioned filthy car) instead of the balance of the trash on this site.

This week, I received another letter, this one stating that I "could learn from" the staff of Pork Pony. At first I laughed, but then I realized that the reader who suggested this was right. I now cherish my every moment here, for every second I spend in the Pork Pony offices, I learn more about stupidity. I am convinced that when I finish my time here, I'll have earned a doctorate degree in the study of human idiocy. Here are some of my potential thesis topics:

Video Games and Fire: A Comparison

I am certain that by now you've seen or played some variety of video game. But have you ever thought, dear reader, of how closely our ancestors discovering fire resemble those playing these games? Think about the cooing. The grunts. The tossing of objects. The frustration. The look in the eyes of one who finally finds within himself the ability to defeat something so simple and subhuman. In actuality, I'd have to say that our ancient brothers and sisters have a leg up on these present day Playstation primates.

Rock and Roll: The IQ Decimator

Is repetition difficult? If so, my four-year-old great nephew must be an Einstein, because he can repeat nearly any phrase (not to mention the alphabet) for hours on end. How these dunces at Pork Pony can listen to Rock and Roll music is beyond me. Every song sounds the same. I've tried to introduce them to a little Caruso, but no use. The pea brains that occupy the space around me are too small to absorb the intricacies of a well-delivered aria. Let their brains rot, I care not.

I shall think of more thesis ideas to share with you reader, but for now, I must go. I am ill you see, but my illness cannot be attributed to a virus or bacteria. It's cause, however, can be described simply, with two words: Pork Pony.

Last Thursday, my employers here at Pork Pony told me something I hadn't realized until that day: Pork Pony's supposed to be funny. It is, as they call it, a warped humor magazine. Dear reader, I once left my favorite Mario Lanza record near the heater by accident and my error rendered that beautiful slab of sound warped. It would no longer play. Warped humor. Hmm...

After this revelation, I decided to look over the manuscripts of our web site's writers and add a little zing to them. I like to call my amendments "Stuance". Stuance transforms dull, colorless sentences that my primal cohorts pen into sparkling literary gems. Here are a few examples from Issue 11:

A.S. Albright writes the sentence:

"I would like to consider myself a reader."

Stuart Gimble adds a dash of Stuance:

"I, upon mulling over the many facets of my person, opine that if the choosing of a label for myself were fully up to me, the word 'Reader' would be tattooed boldly across my chest."

Do you notice the difference? Quite striking, is it not? Let us try another:

Eli Lindy writes:

"I forced a chuckle - an old trick of mine."

Stuance makes this boyish sentence a man:

"Through mine own lips I let out the falsest of chuckles, the mightiest of ironic guffaws. 'Twas a skill I'd honed through the years, using it repeatedly, aging it like a fine wine or cheese."

Has the art of Stuance sunken in? Let's try one more to make sure:

Mike Wargo writes:

"They will simply be a chance for us to have a little fun."

The Stuance striketh:

"These extraneous categories, seemingly naught but dalliance, shall become an opportunity for us to frolic in a sea of words, discussions, thoughts, and philosophies."

Stuance is the only way for Pork Pony. Forget this notion of warped humor. The literary high road is the only road worth driving on.

I'm sure you'll all be sad to hear that your favorite writer (that is, of course, me) is a bit under-the-weather this week. That's right, your poor Stu has caught a wee bug, but fret not dear reader; it is not the typhoid nor is it the consumption. 'Tis but a touch of the flu.

What have I been doing while sick, you ask? Oh, I've been working on my latest novel, A Cat For All Places. My freshest story follows a young feline as he prances about the great cities of the world, encountering adventure, peril, and, of course, love. How does our fair cat travel about our planet? Why with his master! The owner in this tale is a stage performer, a graceful male dancer named Sven. Sven encounters difficulties as well, for the well-read Swede's show is based on the fable of the Phoenix, which forces our cat's master to wear a suit of feathers. The common men mock him calling him foul names and throwing things at him, but our little kitten, whom I've named Francis, comes to his defense.

When I mentioned this story to the staff of Pork Pony, most of them ignored it, writing it off as useless pretense. Mike Wargo, however, actually listened as I explained it to him. I was stunned for he started to give me intelligent feedback. Then, out of the blue, the twit burst into laughter and called me a "big, flaming poof." Needless to say, this only extended my illness and hampered my Stuance lessons (which, I believe, had been helping this vile web site's staff). Bah, I care not as long as they give me cash and freedom.

This week, fair reader, I shall attack an issue close to my heart. But in place of my normal rant, I will present to you a monologue similar in style to that which Camus employed in The Fall.

"I say, you there! Yes you, sir. Your dogged tennis shoes, frayed denim trousers, and mussed hair signal to me that you're but a step above homeless. Are you in need of financial assistance? A bite of food? Speak up, lad, I can't hear you. You write for Pork Pony? You're on your way to work? They don't fire you for wearing this to the office?

"Oh, child! How naive you are. Come, son, follow me and I shall impart you with a knowledge that will transform you from the boyish amateur scribe you are into a well-dressed, well-organized professional MAN of letters.

"Ah, the stench of processed meat. Don't slip on the vegetable oil Julio has spilt upon this red tile floor. Where are we? Oh, poor boy, we're in MacDonalds, the bastion of America's sickest eating habits, the trough from which all of these stinky farm animals our country calls citizens eat. Does it not disgust you? I certainly shall require a touch of the post-visit Pepto. Cover your nose and look around you, son. Although we are in one of the basest dens of swine around, there is something to be said for the restaurant's employees. They may be a bit dull - mentally, that is - but they possess a professional and clean appearance that elevates them above the common slobs who are their patrons.

"Fresh air. I can breath again. You want to know where I'm taking you next? It's just over here, across the street, next to that man with the shopping cart. Oh, he does smell acrid. Ack! Don't get too close! It's that money-grubbing, filthy creature Dave Barry. He was once a well-respected writer (a hack columnist, in my opinion),loved by many. But the way he dressed had much to be desired. Sloppy, unkempt, half-shaven. No one can take him seriously. You see him now, here, destitute. Here's a dollar, Barry. Goodwill has some decent suits and it's half-price day.

"Come inside, don't trip on those novels Barry's peddling. This, dear boy, is where a professional finds his attire - a quality men's clothing store. Look around at the suits. Blue and Black. A pinstripe here and there. Classy. Respected by one and all. I suggest you bring the staff of Pork Pony here. The lot of you could browse the store, be measured, and choose a common uniform. Think about it. Uniform. Unity. No more scraggly T-shirts and torn jeans. All will arrive at work sparkling like the morning dew on grass. Patrons and visitors will gasp in awe at the transformation. Who knows, maybe you'll even get some intelligent people to read your work.

"Go! Fly away, lad and speak the words of Stuart Gimble to your colleagues. Here's one of my cravats. Show them this and they'll buy into the idea for certain."

As winter fades away, a distant memory, its last flakes of snow glisten for they have been melted by the golden sun and are now drops dew beaded on blades of grass. Tadpoles who have recently garnered legs rush to land and join together in a chorus of peeps. Longer days strangle the night and elation absorbs one lad's mind.

This dandy we shall follow, for he is of great import to the remainder of this story. He is a man of letters, a refined chap, the kind who tips the shoeshine boy a dime on each morn. Hermetic and dedicated in his work, adventurous and curious in his play, our lad drinks the Spring! The smell of the flowers and their pollen is like God's breath to him. Trees painted amber with the glow of the sunset are pillars illuminated by the light of heaven. Our boy is life!

The dandy fears not frolicking. Skipping from one destination to the next, he'd paint the streets pastel if he could. The soft pale colors would warm the city streets and all would praise the lad and gambol behind him. Arias echo in alleyways as our boy passes through them, his smooth tenor a perfect compliment to this spring morning. A quaint house lies ahead. "Alas, my fair Clarisse," the dandy exclaims as he dances toward the doorstep of his favorite lass.

Does our lad care that the fair Clarisse is a bit taller than he? Nay. Is it of his concern that she is a bit brawny? Nay, he loves her the same. She peeks out the door as the boy approaches. Her shoulders (which are, admittedly, a bit broad for a feminine frame) are bare and her body is wrapped in a pale pink dress. The dandy's heart leaps as he espies her. "She is the prettiest of flowers," he thinks, "and the thorns on this rose only make it prettier."

"Have you come for our walk?" the lass inquires.

"Why yes, are you ready to bask in the joy that is April?" our lad adjusts his cravat.

"My body is ready to appreciate the beauty of the Earth's vernal state. Shall we?"

With a smart nod, the dandy moves toward his love, who kneels down next to him. The boy climbs atop her sturdy shoulders and, with muscular strides, the lass carries him away, the pair singing the sweetest springtime harmonies.

Dear reader, if you're anything like me, you love to prowl the library. I can spend hours upon hours amongst the stacks of musty books. Dewey Decimal and Library of Congress systems, I've mastered both of them. The library is my playground and the shelves, sections, and card catalogs are my sliding-boards, swing-sets, and jungle gym. It disheartens me, I must say to look upon the current state of the library system. Card catalogs are becoming digital, run on computers. The books are torn and the dreaded lot of you would rather drink your latte at the "pay library" known as Barnes and Noble than give the community a bit of money to restore one of our greatest public resources. And worst of all, librarians are getting smaller and mousier.

When I was a boy, librarians were a rugged bunch of women. Strong shoulders from hoisting books, strong minds from reading the same, these ladies were the apple of every Chaucer-reading lad's eye. When these husky Helgas would strut down the aisles of my local library in Massachusetts, I had to do everything in my power to keep myself from following their sacred, muscular rumps. On the few occasions during which I lost control and either stared or accidentally touched, these librarian lasses would administer the naughtiest slap to my own behind. I say, I liked the pain!

Now we only have weak, atrophied mice women. Glasses weighing their faces down, machines and immigrant workers filing the books, they've become naught but heady waifs. They sullenly move about, answering questions and the getting out of the way. They browse the Internet and strain their eyes while searching their databases. In essence, these women are about as appealing as a room full of Pork Pony writers.

My place of employment is filled with a bunch of louts and my playground, the library, has become a place for the homely and frail to sulk.

Bah.

A day to pay or be paid. A day to break even or even to be broke. A day on which the post office is open until one, but only one person works there.

Tax Day.

A day of silly scribbles and deductions and lies. A day of numbers, forms, papers, and lines. A day of Federal poppycock and outrageous bribes.

Tax Day.

Ernest did his taxes in January, although he knew he owed. He believed in the state and its way of business and thought himself a champion amongst citizens. But, alas, tax day did pass and an auditor called. He wanted to check poor Ernie's books so they scheduled the date.

Tax Day.

Kyle put it off 'til April 15. He had money a-flowin' down low. Location to be exact: near the table, but underneath. He had seventeen workers, all Mexican, he called slaves.

Tax Day.

A young lass called Brenda did waitress with pomp. Her father pampered and prepared her papers for the IRS while she smoked half a pack of Kools with the gals from the shop.

Tax Day.

Poor Stu, a man of extraordinary taste, is relegated to writing tax day-themed waste. He gets paid in hot dogs, Kool-Aid, nickels and dimes while the Pork Pony staff eats steak, couscous, and sips fine wine.

Tax Day.

Dear reader, welcome back. Have you noticed that I've cut back on my Pork Pony related slander? Does this please you? Do you wonder, "Is Stu fitting in? Making friends?" End all postulations for the answer is but two simple letters which form one simple word: no.

Here's a bit of catching up:

Pork Pony is: filth, drivel, poppycock, useless, used, inane, stinky, horrid, awful, wretched, dirty, sullied beyond relief. I loathe it and despise it.

That's all for now. I'm off to watch a PBS program about the revival of Verdi.

Oh sweet revelation! The rapture has occurred, the breakthrough I thought would never arrive. The Pork Pony staff has commissioned a theme song and they've chosen my words as lyrics!

The changes this has brought are immeasurable. Respect for my words, respect for my space, respect for my values. The clan seems to be dressing sharper and David Kendall's been drinking less. He's nearly cleaned up completely. 'Tis true! This may be a redeemable lot after all. I've probably been too harsh on them in the past. These young chaps work hard around the office, writing, editing, and web designing. Maybe they are a little ragtag, but who isn't?

I still haven't heard this ode to my words, but how could anything but joy spring forth from them? I'm sure it will be a melody of immaculate bliss and I'll certainly frolic about and sing it. I await it with breath most baited.

Life is a strange. When you think you're down and out and everything's wrong, something magical happens that turns it all around. My spirits have been lifted and I'm humbled. Thanks Pork Pony.

Shall I even attempt to tame my vitriol? I've been duped again by the wretches who surround me and I say, I'm none the better for it.

Last week, as you may recall, I was in one of my better recent moods. Pork Pony announced to me that they had recorded a theme song based on some of my writing. This excited me for I figured that the foolish naïfs I'd been working for had finally acquired some taste.

Bunkum.

The horrid lot of them put David Kendall up to "singing" this song. First off, the bastard's voice sounds like Mickey Rooney after an opium binge. I do not lie, listen for yourself. Secondly, he was obviously drunk. A few days ago I found a bizarre plastic whiskey jug outside Mr. Kendall's office. It was empty, of course. When I presented it to the man himself, he explained that it was a special "grip it and sip it" bottle. Slightly telling? Yes. Lastly, the dunderhead openly slanders me in this song. To this, I do not know how to reply.

After flying high on the hopes that I'd finally broken through to this herd of below average, sheep-minded simpletons, the delivery of this song nearly brought death's rusty scythe to my throat. Hearing such awful things said about oneself can be rather damaging. I was crushed and appalled by the slander and depression fell upon me like a mid-monsoon mudslide. Alas, dear reader, there is always light at the end of the tunnel for Stuart Gimble.

Today my beacon beam, my guiding glow is the fire of war. Not war in the physical sense; war on the psychological plane. I will not rest until I have personally sucked the creative soul from every Pork Pony writer. Sleep will not be my companion until these fools see the world my way. They will be mere shadows of Stuart Gimble, dust in the shape of this great writer.

Victory will be mine.

Ha-Ha! Round one goes to Gimble!

Ah yes, dear reader, victory is sweet and victory is Stuart's. What, you ask, have I won? I've driven one of the wretched Pork Pony writers out of the office and out of town. David Kendall has fallen. Who's next?

That's right, I've pushed out the one who slandered me, the one who sullied the name of Stuart Gimble in such a heinous and cowardly fashion. Did you think you would last, Mr. Kendall? Did you think you were any match for my cunning and Stuance?

I know you're curious, reader. I know your anticipation is high in the stratosphere. You're thinking, "What did Stu do to that sap Kendall?" I'll tell you. First, I poured every last ounce of alcohol down the drain. I stacked the empty bottles in front of his office door and attached a sign that said, "Thirsty?" Next, I obtained copies of all his manuscripts and transformed each of his stories with the powers of Stuance. I dare say he cried when he saw the massive improvements. I then posted some of my favorite Stuancical changes on the company bulletin board for all to see. All saw. All stood in awe. All knew the shame I drenched Mr. Kendall with. But the final, deciding blow was yet to come.

It was song that brought my disgrace (albeit temporary) and I decided that I would reciprocate. I wrote and recorded a little number and delivered it to David Kendall Jr.'s office. The next day he was gone.

You want to hear the song, do you? You'll have to wait, for the kind folks who recorded that awful garbage theme song are mixing and mastering my meister werk as you read this.

Mr. Kendall is currently in the midst of a cross-country trek. He's moving from Los Angeles to Pennsylvania, the home state and birth place of a majority of the Pork Pony staff. You'll still hear from the bastard, but not before his words are touched by a little thing called Stuance.

Who wants it next?

Oh how I press upon my bosom these times! Spirits are soaring around the Pork Pony offices. Why, you ask? Dear reader, you do ask silly questions sometimes.

It is because my song, The March of Gimble has been passed around the office and all agree: it's tops. Its magnificent chorus, "GIMBLE!" is being shouted in the hallways. Everyone is rather chuffed and cheery and I thank myself for this optimistic atmosphere.

I am a bit wary, however. It seems to me that the mixers and engineers have had the master tapes in their grubby paws a bit too long. But what could they do with my perfect words and melody? A song such as this purposely marred would certainly send all sonic vandals to Hades to live amongst endless Falco, M & N, and Lump Biscuit hits. What truly respectable audiologist would want such a fate?

Folks, if you haven't caught a ride on the wave of Gimble, do so now because it's cresting and may soon be too high to catch.

Where are you now David Kendall?

Pardon me fair Pork Pony patrons while I take a bite of this delicious crumpet. Ah. A doughy cloud of satisfying bliss it is!

You say Thomas' English Muffin? I say, "Nay!" English muffins are naught but a two-cent trollop at the regal ball that is the breakfast table. Thomas, the heretic! That foul man and his family should be publicly humiliated in the stocks for their sullying of my favorite traditional breakfast treat. Commercials gloating about the nooks and crannies. I ask thee, Thomas, hast thou touched tongue to crumpet?

But of course you have! You attempted to steal its very essence, that which breaths life into the crumpet. But hast thou succeeded? NAY!

You only have the crumpet's husk. Its soul still lives in every crumpet lover. You, of course, are no crumpet lover. You're just a poor old crumpet coveter.

Back off, man! Do not covet my favorite food of grain. Go back to your factories and filthy toaster ovens and eat of your own evil wheat.

Oh yes dear reader, as I partake of my crumpet, I hum my own tune: The March of Gimble. It shall soon be made available to your ears. The recording engineers continually complain of the problems they've been having putting the song together. I'm starting to further suspect them of shenanigans.

Alas, I'll master it myself if I must. The legacy of Gimble shall carry on!

Oh how I've grown weary of hollow promises. These people at this wretched organization promised to deliver to you, my adoring fans, my very own March of Gimble. Do your ears hear it? Nay. Do the record executives and radio stations quench their thirst for quality with it? Nay.

The concept of business is lost among these people. God bless them if they ever do one thing on time or with order.

Curse the lot of them.

In protest, I shall write no more prose this week. Instead, I shall end with the following dalliance:

Words.
Joy.
Television.
Wretched death.
Lanza.
Bliss.
Beatles.
Poppycock.
Gimble.
Magnanimous.
Pork Pony readers.
Misguided fools, the lot.

I shall only write briefly to inform you, dear reader, that I'm on a mission. The March of Gimble has been hijacked by sonic perverts and the results are hideous. David Kendall, I'm sure you had a hand in this. I'll have your heads, the lot of you.

EDITOR'S NOTE:

David Kendall feels a need to respond to Stuart's numerous attacks on his character. We feel a need to publish Kendall's response. Here Goes:

Stuart, Stuart, Stuart.

I leave and the second I'm out of the door you are bad mouthing me. First of all, telecommuting, bitch. Just because I'm not in the office doesn't mean I ain't workin' for the Double P. Ho.

Second, remember when you came to my office asking if I had any brandy? Remember I said, "brandy is for stupid old ladies and I would never have any on my person?" Then you asked did I "have some sherry." I laughed in your face and after I contained my tears of laughter I said I didn't have any but I could give you some whiskey. You said that was fine. Then I said, "I'm not giving you any until you grab you crotch, thrust back and forth, and say 'I like to work my knob.'" You didn't seem to find the humor in it, but since it was Knob Creek whiskey and it ain't cheap, I thought you had to do something for it. Well, you did what I asked anyway. Guess what. I videotaped the whole thing. God bless, those X10 cameras. They really do work.

Third, remember when you came to Pork Pony you bitched and moaned to have your own bathroom. 'Why can't I have my own bathroom.' 'The last place I worked I had my own bathroom.' 'Any respectable office for a person like me should have a bathroom.' Blah, blah, blah. Well, you were at Ralph's making meat trays before working here. It just so happened the shitter was right next to you while you worked. Now, the only reason you need a bathroom is because YOU ARE OLD. Your prostate is all weak and shit and you can't hold a piss in for more than thirty seconds. Plus, you crap more than a goose. Well, I left you a surprise. Upper deck, anyone? Yeah, I bet it's gotten mighty smelly in there over the past three weeks.

Fourth, that time you fell asleep at your desk (you remember, not the 89th time, but the 90th time). I took a picture of my nuts next to your head while you slept. Nuff said.

So the next time you go bad mouthing me, remember I have a video of you doing stupid shit for whiskey, a picture of your head lovingly next to my scrotum, and a huge chocolaty loaf in your toilet tank. Bitch.

And I'm out.

Kendall.

I've been found out. Yes, fair reader, one of my dirtiest secrets has been exposed: I did indeed consort with the four filthy English hippies who called themselves The Beatles.

Why would I confess to a deed so horrid? 'Tis simple. Stuart Gimble is a man of principle. He does not steal audio masters and mutilate them. He does not pen potty-mouthed letters saturated with slanders and sarcasms most heinous. Nay, Gimble strives for the moral firmament floating in the skies above.

Yes, these Beatles were fans of mine in my heyday. John Paul would call me at every odd hour, asking for literary advice. I'd simply tell the lout, "cut your hair and stop associating with that Robert Zimmerman character. He's no poet; he's just a Midwestern simpleton with a penchant for peasant songs." But would John Paul listen? I think you know the answer, so let us draw the curtain on that episode and continue.

They did so love my work, those Beatles, that they'd stalk me in the library, assaulting me, begging for my autograph. John Paul was particularly persistent. After hours of listening to the buffoon's flattery, I buckled and took pen to photograph. The photo, as you can see here, ended up on the cover of the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album.

Originally the album was to be titled, These Lads Play for Sgt. Gimble and No One Else, but I threatened to file suit if they used my name to market such sonic swill. Alas, the world was cursed by the album's awful music and lousy last-minute title.

By the way, dear reader, I did secure the fabled March of Gimble master tapes and I'm in the process of personally mixing the song. Prepare for the splendor!

Aha! Is Gimble not always the epitome of success? Today I give to thee the spoils of my victory, The March of Gimble, unsullied and grand.

As you may know, another of the Pork Pony staff members vacated the offices this week. Yes, Mike Wargo, the brewer of the acrid ale that is Club 11 is gone. With him goes the office's need for a cabinet full of Fibercon. That's right, Wargo, you are literary constipation!

In other news, Pork Pony has decided to send me on a trip. They're asking me to tour the world on their dollar! They want a Gimble's eye view of the Earth and its people. Alas, who does not?

The itinerary has not been set, but I imagine I'll be sent to locations exotic. I cannot wait to be pampered and bathed by Samoan princesses on the island's of the blue Pacific. Germany's husky lasses call out to me, for they wish to feed me wurst most tasty as they hold me to their bosoms.

I relish this opportunity as much as you shall anticipate every report.

Dear reader, the world is Gimble's.

A rabid fan obtains Stu's autograph in Irvine, CA.

Once again, Gimble's spirit is led astray. It did soar about the highest heights when the news came upon it that soul and body were to embark on a world tour most pleasant; but alas, truth, fate, and the Pork Pony do laugh in the face of the dashing Gimble.

As I mentioned before, I thought of this world tour as an exotic endeavor, one which would show me each of the world's wonders in their very own splendor. Alas, the news has been read to me and it is bad. I am to receive my destination each Monday and it shall be secret until that day. This past Monday, my assignment was handed to me and as I bustled off to meet my new temporary home, I learned that the place I was off to was not far nor was it distant. It was Irvine, California, an hour and a half drive out of Los Angeles.

I cursed my counterparts and superiors, uttering incantations most foul against their spirits. Riding on my rage, I arrived in Irvine, where I was to stay for a week. Aside from its artificially green lawns, overly wide highways and streets, and pasty white inhabitants, it is naught but a wasteland. I dare say Irvine, California is the most culturally devoid city in the entire Union.

One fellow, I shan't use his name, approached me asking for directions to the library. This chap could spot a man of letters, I do say. However, when I informed the man that I'd never been to Irvine, he handed me some beef jerky and told me that he'd lived there his entire life. He said that it was the greatest place on Earth. I asked, "So how is it, dear sir, that you don't know where the library is?" And he simply said, "Well I got all my entertainment from the TV set. We've got over 500 channels of digital cable." He then strode over to his Lincoln Navigator and sped off. Need I say more? Nay.

Every restaurant in Irvine is part of a national chain. The food all tastes the same. Tacos from the "Authentic Mexican" restaurant El Torito taste identical to the Chinese food from P.F. Chang's. It's as if they blend all of their choicest foodstuffs in a giant mixing bowl and shape the amalgam into meal-looking food sculptures.

I loathe Irvine. Hopefully my next endeavor will be better.

Until next debacle,

Sun City's heat cooks Stuart while he signs a copy of his book for a fan.

I've been sent to hell on Earth. That's right, dear reader, Pork Pony has planted me in Phoenix, AZ, home to the highest concentration of Outback Steakhouses in the world.

Phoenix embodies everything that's wretched about Los Angeles. It's like living inside a convection oven (spare the aroma of a finely cooked meal). Like the City of Angels, Sun City has loads of sun and blue skies. Sounds good in theory, does it not? 'Tis but a myth.

First of all, the sun in Arizona isn't like the sun in New England or even Los Angeles. It's a horrid, fiery bastard intent on beating your head with its rays. How can a well dressed man like yours truly survive in this kind of heat? He cannot. He can only be fried in tweed or braised in wool.

Which brings me to my second point. The sun and "beautiful" weather attract the dimmest amongst humanity. It seems every dullard who can bleach their hair and lift a weight believes the sun's rays will somehow enhance them, make them brighter. The effect is quite the opposite. The packs of idiots stick together in Phoenix, making each other dumber and dumber. I'm certain that my IQ is ten points lower as a result of my stay.

Lastly, this dreaded place is chain restaurant heaven. You'd think the natives would have something to offer. Nay. There are no brawny lasses serving local delicacies; just waifs with artificially large bosoms tossing around cheap wine and processed food at places like Olive Garden and Red Lobster.

I'm beginning to hate this trip. Please Pork Pony, I beg you, get me out of the USA.

Stu signs an autograph while standing in the morass in Bithlo, FL.

The sunset ran away from us as we raced from west to east. Darkness clouded the Greyhound bus's windshield and swallowed our hearts. We were driving to Florida. More specifically, central Florida.

I know I've been complaining a lot and believe me, I have my reasons. For all intensive purposes, this trip has been a hell on Earth. But I think I'm onto Pork Pony's zany motives and I think I like it.

Bithlo is a scrawny, scruffy little town due west of the tourist populated Orlando. More different types of animals are eaten by its natives than anywhere else in the country. Alligator is considered quite the delicacy. The natives are a bit wily. They all enjoy randy spankings and lashings. I must say, I got in line myself!

Contrary to my sanitized stays in Phoenix and Irvine, I decided to get dirty in Bithlo. Why, you ask? Simply put, I found the depth and intricacy of the white trash there to be alluring. Men wrestle over chew tobacco leavings. Women wrestle over chew tobacco leavings. Women wrestle. And they're husky, the lot.

Watching these brawny women grapple made me forget that they had no teeth. They'd tussle for a bit, cook up a pot of divine 'gator stew and then get back to their playful fisticuffs. If it weren't for the intense humidity and the lack of any written material, I'd say this was heaven.

Send me to your next chosen firmament, Pork Pony.

Stu entertains the aboriginal Indianans in Gary, IN.

Oh humidity, how I miss thee! It feels so grand to be swaddled in your moist bosom. How could I have been away from you so long, Indiana?

I'll tell you how. Your factorial stench has more than an aromatic presence; its existence is a physical force which can push away the dullest olfactorian.

I've never liked Indiana nor do I care for its corn and flatness. I dare say Indiana makes Twiggy seem voluptuous. But I did enjoy this state's people and humidity. Roger, an old pal of mine, met up with me amongst Gary, Indiana's smoky industrial parks and we frolicked in the water laden air for the better part of a week.

Roger and I ran through rows of corn, hiding from each other. The old lad has quite a spark! We then espied a lonely meadow in need of some friends. Crafty old Roger smithed a kite out of some fallen leaves and twigs. We tied it to the ball of twine I keep in my pocket at let it soar. Our spirits were flying with it as we stood in that grassy field staring at Roger's beautiful creation jumping and diving in the gray, sooty sky. I skipped about, freely spewing happy verse. Roger commented upon my prowess, shouting, "Stuart Gimble! You are this nation's only true Laureate!" Thank you, dear Roger, my heart's only true friend.

Alas, our party was quashed! The poor old meadow upon which we danced was none other than a filthy lot belonging to General Motors. They wished us off their property. We complied, but not before Roger gave them the raspberries, if you know what I mean. That wily old dog, what will we do with him?

More to come next week.

Are not the Welsh supposedly an educated lot? Oh, so many great talents have come to us from the isles, but for some reason I've been sent to the United Kingdom's very own purgatory, Hythe.

I did so relish being flung across the Atlantic, leaving the vast sea and America behind. If I were more of a cynic, I would have anticipated being stuck in such a dull village. I saw one lad standing outside and I shouted to him, "Dear lad, have some Keats spring from your mouth. I do yearn to hear his words come out in true English." The boy simply stared at my and then showed me a peace sign with his fingers. Only thing is, the little hippie did it backwards! Ack, such simple people.

I decided to sample the local cuisine. I warn you, dear reader, if ever stuck in Hythe, avoid the food at all costs. It is naught but sculpted lard.

At least my body's in Europe. Something good's bound to happen.

This, Stuart Gimble's final Pork Pony salvo, sees the fiery wordsmith at the height of his vitriolic game, lambasting his foes and singing the praises of high culture.

Blast!

This wretched magazine for which I write has returned. As have I, alas, as have I. So fear not, loyal literarians, Gimble will swoop down and rescue from this acrid mire of self-satisfaction and base humor.

You may remember that I was in the midst of a world tour when this receptacle for words I deposit my letters in disappeared for a bit. The tour I speak of was abruptly cut short. 'Tis true. Apparently the rulers of the Pork Pony had run out of money. I speculate that they spent it all on slot machines and cheap ale, but what truth's eyes have seen only my intuition can suspect.

Yes, I was spirited back to the states. Los Angeles, my wretched home did call my name and I answered. Sweltering dry heat, I loathe thee! I found my way to the library soon after my arrival. I reaped the fruits of the spined and paged field: Keats, Dante, Scott, I supped on them all. My belly was full with words and I determined that rest was needed. Ah, the satisfaction provided when devouring literature tires me so! I meandered through the aisles, past many a quiet and eager reader. And then I saw her.

Yes, before my eyes, there was she. A stack of books in tow, her arms' muscles shown (and strong muscles they were!). Her brown hair floated about her neck, wisps of it fluttering about. Her bottom was substantial and its robust shape spelled strength. This girl had Stuance!

I admired her from afar for a moment, but my heart soon took hold of my hand and lead me to her. I was awestruck. This creature could be my salvation, my true love. I arrived at her feet and just in time, I say, for a book fell from the stack she held. I deftly snatched before the sullied floor had a chance to bruise the precious tome. It was Fielding's Tom Jones. One of my favorites!

"Ah, thank you kind sir," she said in a breathy whisper.

"No, madam, thank you for doing your part to keep such a wonderful institution intact. My name's Stuart, Stuart Gimble."

"THE Stuart Gimble?"

"The same," I bowed before the beauty.

"Chester the Superior is one of my all time favorite books."

I was shocked. This sparkling example of humanity liked my books! "Young Lady, what's your name?"

"Helen, sir."

"Oh Helen, you can call me Stu. How would you like to join me for some Yeats and tea?"

"I'd love to S-Stu." She blushed and turned away, giggling.

This, I dare say, is a turning point for Stuart Gimble. It is my first date in an epoch and I do so admire Helen's husky flair. When I speak to you next I may be so enveloped by love's grasp that I may find it difficult to write.

Ha! Nothing could ever stop Stuart Gimble from writing, not even true love!

Would Unloosen Awareness Month be complete without a few words from esteemed writer extrordinaire and malcontent Stuart Gimble? He doesn't think so and to prove it, Mr. Gimble's emerged from retirement to entertain and enlighten us on this, Awareness Month's Stuart Gimble Day.

'Twas a dewy Sunday morning, nary 'fore dawn broke, that a rapping at my door I did hear. The racket stirred me and lifted me from my favorite reading chair, Good Brown Donald IV. Something compelling lived in that knocking sound, an urgency and anxiety that begged, "Answer me, dear Gimble, for behind your door rests matters of extreme import." My mind, still foggy from a sumptuous slumber, wondered if it was in fact the fair maiden, the flower of the library world, my lover Helen. Nay, it could not be for she lay resting in my chamber. Yes, Gimble does keep his mistress about the house, and a pleasant house guest she is.

I approached the door wondering all the while who this knocking belonged to, what specter or soul was its very source, and what burned the fire of this rousing sound within the man's belly? My hand held handle, unlatched the portal, and with courage and gusto I threw it open to face the world outside and the man who called on me.