Authors: Mark Leyner
Cast Your Vote
Right This Second! You don’t have to go online or call in or anything. Just cast your vote in
your own mind!
And the Goddess
(she’s telepathically omniscient!) will tally it all up.
He’s paranoid and maladaptively hostile. (Paranoia and maladaptive hostility can be super-sexy, right?) He oscillates between chip-on-the-shoulder belligerence and Talmudic introversion. (Isn’t the extremely high amplitude of this vibration, in fact, what produces
’s radioactive charisma?) He operates under what skeptics (his dreary neighbors among them) might call the
belief that Goddesses, high on Gravy, are obsessively watching him, that they are forever peering out the windows of the Burj Khalifa in Dubai, across the Gulf, across the desert, and gazing at him and masturbating. (Compare the visual acuity of the Goddesses here with the blindness of the bards.) He states it in no uncertain terms: “The Goddesses watch me like pornography.”
the reason he’s such a total gym-rat—he always wants to look SUPER-SEXY in case
, high on Gravy, is watching him from the 160th floor of the rocket-shaped Burj Khalifa! His neck and head intermittently jerk toward the Burj whenever he feels he’s being ogled by masturbating Goddesses. (As would yours.) He’s an anti-Semite, although many experts interpret his anti-Semitism as a form of playacting intended primarily to torment his father. (FYI:
went to Hebrew school until he was thirteen!) He has a catarrhal rasp and a criminal record. (Super-sexy!) Whenever he goes to a restaurant, he
flirts with the waitress by asking for a tongue sandwich—same line, every single time. (That might be a little
.) But check out how he looks at night—a little looped, a little bleary-eyed from all the beer and whiskey, standing there in “the soft pink glow of the sodium-vapor street lights.” (It’s unanimous—
SUPER-SEXY!!) He likes to sit in the dark at home, wearing night-vision goggles, watching the Military Channel, drinking Scotch. By day, he warns men on his block that their wives are probably Mossad agents. He firmly believes that most women are Mossad agents. (If you’re a married man and you’re reading this,
wife is probably a Mossad agent!) But obscured by all his whispery trash talk, and embedded deep within his algorithmic solipsism which transfigures every single thing in the world into a reiteration of
his own mind,
is his extraordinarily tender devotion to
’s philandering is uxorious. His infidelities do not, certainly in
his own mind,
seem incompatible with what he considers his incorruptible rectitude as a husband. They are either seen as the most practical expediencies—before he leaves the house,
routinely announces to his wife and daughter, “I might have to kill someone or maybe fuck somebody today, but remember, it’s for you guys”—or as consistent with the cultivation and honing of his virility, the very virility that
so solemnly bestows upon his wife as his tribute to her. Would
(or any self-respecting woman, for that matter) want to be married to a man whose appetite for life was so meager and whose libido was so governable that one woman would suffice? What manner of husband would
be? (Surely not a super-sexy one!) And what would his love signify, if not a groveling insult?
Sixty-one percent of women say that a scrupulously faithful husband is a TOTAL TURN-OFF!
Of course, some experts say that
—Implacable Warlord of His Stoop—would kill a human being as casually as a normal person would pop a pimple. But then you see him brushing his wife’s hair or coloring her roots, nuzzling her neck, even popping one of her pimples, softly singing “The Shadow of Your Smile” to her.…And, of course, we know how—in so many secret, unacknowledged, uxorious moments—he dotes on her, how if he’s getting Fig Newtons for them and there are only two left and one’s normal and the other one’s all mangled and misshapen, he’ll take the mangled, misshapen one for himself, or if there are only two Frozefruits left, one normal, one with freezer burn, he’ll invariably take the one with the freezer burn for himself, or—great example—when he and
were completely obsessed with these crab cake sandwiches with lettuce, tomato, and lemon aioli on ciabatta bread and
would go to the little deli and then realize he only had enough money in his wallet for one crab cake sandwich, he’d get the sandwich for
and he’d just eat a Slim Jim or make himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich when he got back home. And no one knows he’s doing
of this, there’s no showy, self-aggrandizing display of being a good husband, no “He went to Jared!” moment. It’s just part of the texture of uxorious doting that
is weaving every single moment of every single day. (There is the obvious irony here of characterizing these gestures as “secret” and “unacknowledged” or saying “no one knows he’s doing this” since bards—blind, vagrant, and drug-addled—have been chanting these very words for thousands of years, tapping their chachkas against jerrycans of orange soda to maintain that insistent trance-inducing beat.) The portrayal of the
—cavorting on their front lawn in the early
—is exaggerated to the point of being almost defamatory and flaunts the hyperrealism and saturated colors of a Claritin commercial. In real life, the
are, yes, exceedingly loving with each other, but they are also unusually protective of each other’s privacy. (It would be considered a monstrous offense even to ask
if his wife was in good health!) They are utterly inscrutable figures who, paradoxically, understand each other perfectly well. One morning,
came downstairs and found
sitting at the kitchen table, writing. And she said to him, “You look like you’re writing letters to all the officers in your army.” There’s such profound sympathy and insight and tender irony to that statement, because
is so alone, so utterly alone in the world of men, so much an army of one. (When
sits at the kitchen table in the early morning, he’s not writing letters or composing narcocorridos, he’s typically making lists—lists of which celebrities he thinks should be guillotined, which should go to the gulag, which should be rehabilitated, etc.) In his heart of hearts,
knows that he’s going to die soon at the hands of the ATF and/or Mossad—his “suicide-by-cop”—but he believes that a golden age will come—what he calls “the time when all fettered monsters will break loose”—when he and his wife and his daughter will be reunited for eternity. The bonds uniting this family have been exceptionally strong from the very beginning.
first met (at the A&P where, at that time,
was employed as a butcher in the meat department), they had a conversation one spring day in the park about each other’s past relationships and about love and about what one could realistically hope for in a marriage, etc.
if he thought he understood women well.
got very quiet and thought about this for a while, as he tossed handful after handful of croutons to the swans and mice that had gathered at their feet. Finally, he told
that he was going to make a list. “Not a list of which celebrities you think should be guillotined,” she said, coyly averting her eyes and smiling flirtatiously at him. “No,” he said, “a list of ten things that I know for sure about women.” About a week later—to show
a more delicately registered sensibility than he, a gym-rat and butcher, suspected
gave him credit for—
presented the list (entitled “10 Things That I Know for Sure About Women” but including an 11th) to
as they sat on the very same bench in Lincoln Park:
found this so beautiful and so moving that she wept as she read it. In the coming weeks, though, she’d discover that
had plagiarized it, from beginning to end, word for word, from something that had appeared in the November 2008 issue of
O, The Oprah Magazine.
But by then she’d already fallen deeply in love with him, and not at all
in spite of
what he’d done, but, in large part,
of it—here was a man willing to steal for her, a man with a big enough nutsack that he was willing to brazenly steal another man’s
(his most precious intellectual property)…for
Ninety-seven percent of people think that it was SUPER-SEXY of
to totally plagiarize that from
O, The Oprah Magazine
has suffered from irregular clonic jerks of the head and neck ever since he was hit by a
truck on Spring Break when he was eighteen years old. High on ketamine, wearing silver lederhosen and a hat made out of an Oreo box at the time, he initially claimed he’d been hit by a Hasidic ambulance in an effort to foment an apocalyptic Helter Skelter–type war between club kids and Hasids. Many experts, including
of the Institute of Linguistics and Classical Philology in Budapest (who’s slick with sweat and has a spectacular big-ass ass), maintain that those passages in
The Sugar Frosted Nutsack
making confusing and patently erroneous claims about a Hasidic ambulance are “noncanonical interpolations” and should be deemed “spurious” and deleted.
contends that these passages were deliberately inserted by experts who, themselves, were trying to foment an apocalyptic Helter Skelter–type war between club kids and Hasids. Of course, not only is
’s erroneous contention that he was hit by a Hasidic ambulance considered today a totally canonical and authentic part of
The Sugar Frosted Nutsack,
’s assertion that it’s a noncanonical interpolation is considered a canonical and integral part of the saga which audiences expect the chachka-jangling, sightless bards to feature prominently in their recitations. It’s also entirely possible that
this could just be another example of
The Sugar Frosted Nutsack
and trying to confuse people and just fuck everything up. But let’s be absolutely clear:
, when he was eighteen years old, on Spring Break, and high on Special K, staggered into the street and was struck by a
truck. And ever since the accident, the
song loops endlessly in his head. This is
an auditory hallucination. The song is actually in there—i.e., if you put a stethoscope to
’s forehead, you can hear the
’s rage and his lust are strong. He’s nursed by the Gods. His honor comes from
. He’s dear to them, these Gods who rule the world.
The Sugar Frosted Nutsack,
is portrayed as the most soft-spoken, self-deprecating man you could possibly imagine—someone, in fact, almost ostentatious in his soft-spoken self-deprecation—and even on those rare occasions when he might come across as vain or a little smug—he is, after all, a super-sexy neo-pagan hero and a transformative human being—he’ll reveal something so disarmingly personal about himself (like his tinea versicolor or his genital psoriasis or his dermatitis herpetiformis, which sometimes requires him to soak for long hours in the bathtub with a vinegar-drenched bandana wrapped around his head) that any hint of hubris is immediately dispelled.