Lesson: Life is beautiful, but it is also chaotic, terrifying, stranger than strange, and incredibly cruel, disdainful and haughty, unthinking and reckless, and rarely merciful, and you have to fight for it if you want it
“Yeah, Boner,” Kyiv Poster publisher Moe Zaire continues. “And I keep getting these complaints about the paper – the headlines that aren’t headlines; the very look of it, people say, degenerating – more and more… and more and more and more… Here, for example – here’s a letter from one Bob Robin. He says –”
“Org-urg, that’s Rob Bobbin… that’s –”
“No, fucking Boner, don’t you think the man knows how to sign his own name. It clearly says, Bob Robin.”
“Hurr, no, it’s, ah, Rob Bobbin.”
“No, Boner, it’s Bob Robin.”
“Rob Bobbin.”
“Bob Robin.”
“Rob Bobbin, urg…”
“Boner, I know about a Rob Bobbin. If I’m not completely mistaken, it seems to be the case, though not everyone can verify it with absolute certainty, that if he’s anything, he’s a practicing proctologist, practicing, er, proctology… in Mississippi, and –”
“Yeah, du, and that’s who it is…”
No, Boner, THIS is Bob Robin…”
“Rob Bobbin…”
“Boner – it’s FUCKING BOB ROBIN! BOB ROBIN, BONER, DO YOU FUCKING GET ME! BOB FUCKING ROBIN!!!”
Boner shuts up again, effectively shouted into silence by Moe Zaire.
“And,” the same-said Zaire continues, “Mr. ROBIN!!! says… ‘The Kyiv Poster has started looking like comics…’”
“Urg…”
“In another letter, the same Mr. Robin says… ‘The Kyiv Poster has started looking like a poster…’”
“Arg…”
“And in his third and latest letter, he says… ‘The Kyiv Poster now definitely looks like a comics poster…’”
“Duuuhh…”
“Yeah, and so, Boner, we finally come to the main reason why you’re here.”
“Duuuhh…”
“Yes, that’s right. Your sex harassment in the newsroom. Power, Boner, breeds many things – vanity, arrogance… but in your case, while it’s clearly bred these things, most of all it’s bred – sex harassment – the disease to which your unbounded vanity and arrogance are but mere symptoms!!!”
“Duuuhh…”
“So, the way I see it, Boner, is you have three choices…”
“Duh…”
“The first choice is, you’re fucking fired. The second is, you take a major salary cut and go for mandatory counseling to psychologists, psychiatrists, and a variety of other doctors of my choosing, which I’ve already taken the liberty of, er, choosing… and seeing them regularly and frequently, returning to me, for the record and official Kyiv Poster files, progress reports of your sessions and various test results, whichever ones the experts and professionals choose to run, for whatever the remainder is of your cushy little stay here as chief editor of the Kyiv Poster.”
“Duh, duh, duh, duh, DUUUUUUUHHH!!!”
“Yeah, that’s right, Boner. And the third option is… You get to keep your job at your current rate of overpayment, but in lieu of a salary cut, being fired, or going to a psychiatrist, what you do is, week after week, write entire public confessions of your sickness to be published directly in the Kyiv Poster, two pages long, with photos, if you want, instead of those long-winded, vacuous, and completely derivative commentaries you so love to indulge in, whereby you’ve turned the paper into your own personal platform to promote the false image you’ve tried to build of yourself as some kind of free-speech warrior-savior of Ukraine. I mean, Boner, by now I’ve heard all the stories, and you know, I’m not only astounded, dismayed, and shocked, but I’m also seriously unimpressed. I mean, it’s an erection, Boner. You’re not naturally like that. Believe me, I know. When a man’s got one, and I mean really got one, and he decides to show off a little and let it hang out his underwear under his pants for effect, everyone can tell it’s like that naturally, and everyone’s fucking impressed – men, women, animals… you name it. No, believe me, Boner, no one’d ever believe you that that’s the way you are, naturally. You work yourself up to an erection under your desk and then you get up and walk around, pretending like that erection is the way you are naturally, that is, as if you’re really only flaccid, pre-erection, as if to say – ‘oh, look, there’s nothing I can do about it, because, o-ho-ho, that’s really just the way I am, naturally, and if it just happens to touch you, you know, by coincidence incidentally, as I move about the newsroom, well, you know, ho-ho, there’s really nothing I can do about it, because, well, a-ho, that’s just the way I am… naturally…’ Yeah, right. What are you, Boner, some kind of fucking child?”
“No, duh, no-no-no NOOOOO!!! I’m not doing it, duh, I’m not dooo –”
But Moe Zaire is wearing a skull-and-crossbones pirate hat, an eye patch and is gripping a fake hook under his left sleeve for a hand, which he waves around:
“Yo-ho-ho, Boner, and blow the man down! Fifteen men on a dead man’s chest – aaaarrrgh!!! I’m a pirate! Aye, matie and ships ahoy! All hands on deck and swab the mizzenmasts!”
With a short broadsword in the good hand, Zaire deftly pushes a photo album – and who has photo albums these days? – toward Boner and flicks it open to pictures of his twin daughters, forcing Boner to look at them.
“Aye, Boner, you wouldn’t know what being a father is, arrrgh, but I’ve got to keep these two, the birth of whom proved my virility, busy with play and entertainment. Running a multinational business that, by some estimates, puts my net worth at close to a billion dollars, is one thing, Boner, but being a father to those two is another job altogether – totally different, and, in many respects, I would say, much harder… aye… pirate, aaargh, pirate… They be my two treasures. Aren’t they great?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, they’re great.”
“Shiver me timbers, landlubber – you wouldn’t know anything about it – aaaarrgh…”
“Well, uh, how do you know? I mean, duh, maybe I’ve got a kid somewhere, in… in…”
“Yo-ho-ho, Boner – yeah, right! Don’t pull that shit on me, bucko! You’ve got nothing! Aaarrrgh…”
“Well, you know, you make such a big deal with those twins, and how virile you are, because there’s two of them. You’re lucky – you got two at the same time – for the price of one. But your wife only gave birth once. If you’re such a man, you should be man enough to, duh, to, duh, acknow –”
“Aaaarrrgh!!! She gave birth twice, Boner!”
“Once – resulting in two…”
“Twice, Boner, twice. First, she gave birth to one twin, and then she gave birth to the other twin. That’s two births, Boner, and two twins – aaaarrrgh…!!!”
On this point, for some reason or principle Boner cannot identify, but more importantly, no longer cares about, Boner is willing to argue, but close examination of the unfolding scene makes it clear that this is far outside the realm of remaining options, as Zaire is now totally immersed in his role as pirate, putting in the practice of being a fun-filled father for his daughters, waving hook hand and short sword around, repeatedly coming ominously close to Boner’s neck and head with both.
Now a huge multicolored parrot swoops down and lands on Zaire’s shoulder, unnerving Boner, who is immediately intimidated by the beast.
“Ak-aaak,” says the big beautiful bird, with clear love to Zaire under his hat.
“Pretty Polly,” Zaire returns. “Is Polly a good boy?”
“Aaak, good boy, Polly. Pretty.”
“And does Polly want a cracker?”
“Aaak, blowjob. Pretty Polly, pretty Polly, good boy, blowjob – aaak…”
“Seriously,” Zaire comments indulgingly to no one in particular, “I don’t know where he gets that…”
“Aaaak, blowjob,” the bird repeats again and again, “Polly wants a blowjob, blowjob – aaaaak…”
Now a very large cat jumps atop Zaire’s desk – a thing that so completely disorients and frightens Boner, he falls over out of his chair. The Face, who has been hovering secretly above Boner the entire time, is laughing raucously, while Boner feels himself going into a faint. As he slowly loses consciousness, from the floor, propped on an elbow, he looks up at the cat.
It is the most beautiful cat he’d ever seen. It is not a black cat, but the color of its fur is a profoundly deep and rich dark blue. The eyes, that now look down at Boner, are a roiling, hypnotic, intoxicating, molten and ultimately blinding mix of red, yellow, and green.
The excited parrot, who loves this cat almost as much as he loves Zaire, bounces up and down on his master’s shoulder, going, “k-k-k-k-k…”
“Polly – say hello to Captain Blue,” Zaire says to the bird.
“Aaaak, Blue Tom, hello, hello…” says the bird, “Blue Tom, Blue Tom – aaaaakkk…”
As Boner’s eyes close, the last thing he sees on Zaire’s desk is a nameplate, which says Zoe Mohair. With his last breath, Boner tries to question the man in the pirate hat behind the desk about this, but, as can be expected, nothing really comes of this except a confused and slurred multisyllabic jumble. Nevertheless, the man appears to understand. As Boner goes out, the man answers:
“Well, Bret, what concerns Moe Zaire concerns me too… mostly…”
Filed by Mr. Mike “Mad Dog” Mulligan, December 22, 2015