26
GILBERT SORRENTINO
completely broken. So he subtly whined. A stitch in the middle
saves nine for the fiddle, he sang as he wept 'neath the moon.
Fooled himself into a stupor of bliss as his unfinished masterpiece
hovered in front of his kisser, this lazy baboon, this drudge of an
ape. Did I say that he loved seedless grapes and dark fudge without
nuts?
He ogled both ladies and sluts as he gathered his rawest of
sludge; which he dabbled in, babbled of, shaped into sculptures
arsenically gay in the image of them those and they whom
protested they done he no harm. He was firm in his crazy
vocation, i.e., insulting the family of woman and man. So the
rumors and gossip they rumbled and steamed, they spilled, they
oozed, and they ran. (He gave not a shet nor a fack nor a domn.)
Hoot! What a mon! His ex-wife (ha!ha!) had driven him mad and
(haw!haw!) he her. She later appeared in his books in the flimsiest
masques, a basely depraved stupid whore. 'Twas another dis–
gustingly unfair assault by this scribbling hack of a word-grubbing
scribe, this disgrace to the tribe.
What did he, this faker of gladdening twists, collector of grist
and of swill, do, that he set himself up as a god in the sky, belabor–
ing man with endless jokes, burleycue japes, mirthless pokes, and
chauvinist rapes? Did misogyny reign in his head?
Rumor whispered that an old friend had found it grossly
unfunny that this pal of the pen had sketched his golden blossom
frau as a jar of natural honey. Who did he fock think he wuz?
Again, what did he do to turn noble thought 'gainst him black,
tint great souls bluer than blue?
A lit'ry essay that fired the rancor of many sweet cats was
"Leo the K: Is He Now Gone Away?" -- a scurrilous, vicious,
and violent slam at a man who'd o'ergiven his face to his beard.
(This piece from the putrid pen of our hack hugely hinted that
Kaufman, the Village Bard, had, oI}e dark and dismal day, thrown
into the trash himself away.) Another vignette, dripping venom,
was called "Richard Detective: Each Inch a Dick" -- in which
the calloused scribbling blob suggested that one of our mauditest
of poets had his brains in his (God forgive me!) lob. Too many to
mention are other assaults on the innardest country of art. Yet it
