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The Unwinding


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Arts and Culture

1987

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Posted on Jul 7, 2011
Mr. Fish

By Mr. Fish

(Page 4)

“Wait a minute, I don’t have a chessboard. How about Parcheesi?”

“Mom! Dwayne’s gay! He’s going to march in a parade! Without an instrument!”

“Four of us can play. I’ll go knock on Mrs. Murphy’s door across the street. She and her son can play.”

“MOM!”

“You’ll like him. He wears a wig with a chinstrap and he never stops hiccupping.”

Just then, the alarm on my mother’s wristwatch begins chirping. It is an alarm set years earlier by the watch’s previous owner, my grandmother, as a reminder for her to inject insulin into The Magnificent Stacey, an 80-year-old parrot with cloudy eyes and BO who was being kept alive for the mere sport of it. “Oh,” says my mother over the chirping, “that’s the door. Excuse me.” She sets the phone down onto the counter and stands, pressing the creases from her clothes and smoothing her hair.

Mohmmm!” shouts my brother into the Formica.

My mother walks across the dining room as if she were walking across the deck of a ship trying to keep itself upright in the North Sea, her watch still chirping. “Coming, coming,” she says, stopping in front of a narrow cabinet in the kitchen and opening it, releasing an ironing board attached to the inside wall which falls and smashes her on the head, collapsing her like a pyramid of cantaloupes onto the kitchen floor.

“Hello?” says Mr. Banana.

Just then, startled awake from my daydream by a sudden miniature explosion of motion at my feet, I looked down to see a tiny white piglet wearing a black brassiere burst through a trucker’s mud flap that had been crudely nailed over an 11-inch square cut into the bottom portion of the door. It was Eddy, the house mascot, although I doubted that it was his brassiere that he was wearing because it needed to be crisscrossed several times over his slim shoulders to avoid dragging on the floor. Our eyes met and, just as quickly as he’d appeared, he scrambled back out through the hole, his feet spinning like a cartoon character’s, his hoofs like itty-bitty high-heeled shoes with all the traction of plastic knitting needles. Kneeling down and lifting the mud flap, I caught a glimpse of Eddy’s apple-sized rump rocketing down the stairs, his unbridled mania for nothing in particular sending something like real excitement through my whole skeleton. Doing my best to size up the opening in comparison with what I imagined my shoulders capable of compressing to, I tore off the rubber flap and tossed it into a corner of the room and sighed, getting down on all fours. 

Would this, I wondered, be a long and painful birth that I would eventually forget about as the richness of my new life as a college dropout flourished so remarkably that it would lift me high above my previous traumas? Or would I discover, much to my own sorrow many years down the road, that instead I’d struggled this cold November night to force myself, uninvited, through the furious sphincter of a fate that should’ve never been mine? Was I preparing to live the rest of my life inside the bowels of a world hellbent on trying to shit me back out, feet first, into the past where me and my ridiculous misreading of everything and everybody belonged, or was I doomed to suffer the much more gruesome fate of just being a normal kid trying to squeeze his gargantuan normalness through a tiny door?

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By John Poole, July 10, 2011 at 2:17 pm Link to this comment
(Unregistered commenter)

I wonder if Mr. Fish still holds to the story of a God making woman second? It’s a lot more zany with Eve being formed first and then bitching about how bored and horny she was with a panicked and hectored Almighty having to quickly cup and shape a second clump of clay.

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Anarcissie's avatar

By Anarcissie, July 10, 2011 at 8:10 am Link to this comment

If you are holding on to a serious load for a long time under difficult circumstances, you’re going to need concentration.

You’ve probably heard the joke about the fellow who was given a powerful laxative instead of cough medicine by the dumb pharmacist’s assistant.

‘That’s not cough medicine, you idiot, that’s a laxative!’

‘See that feller out at the bus stop?  That’s him.  He aint coughin, is he?’

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By DaveZx3, July 9, 2011 at 10:59 pm Link to this comment

OK.  That will suffice for a very, very loosely attached relationship, which I still don’t really get, because I never felt that pissing required “exact concentration”. 

All I ever required was a suitable place to generally aim it at.  Once I found that, old books in suitcases were the furthest thing from my mind, instead, scouting the writings on the wall for interesting telephone numbers became of some interest.

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Anarcissie's avatar

By Anarcissie, July 9, 2011 at 8:14 pm Link to this comment

I don’t want to get too graphic here, but I will say that in my experience, long carrying a substantial load of excreta of any sort that urgently desires release can combine feelings of pain, panic, fatigue, weight and heat, and like old books, may require considerable and exact concentration.

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By DaveZx3, July 9, 2011 at 11:09 am Link to this comment

Last post, first line:  “metaphors have TO work” 

Sorry

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By DaveZx3, July 9, 2011 at 7:42 am Link to this comment

No, not restrained style, but metaphors have work, don’t they?  It doesn’t work for me.  There is no reasonably established similarity which is required for the metaphor or analogy to work. 

I think the only similarity you would want to establish for having to piss after a long train ride would be the “urgency”.  But there is no urgency to putting down something heavy.  You can put it down pretty much at will. 

It would be:  “I had to piss like a diver who has been underwater too long without oxygen”  There is the urgency angle. 

There was no other similarity that I could see, not heavy, not old, not books, not suitcase.  What am I missing? 

This overuse of metaphors is tiring and boring.  Everything has to be “like” something.  Fish’s writing displays this.

You can just say, “I had to piss real bad after that long train ride”  and leave the heavy books and suitcase out of it.  But that’s just me.  And from the comments, I see there may be some others as well.

But mostly, I think the writing is just out of place on Truthdig, so the style sticks out more than it would if it were contained in a paperback novel. 

But that is why Fish writes this stuff, so he can laugh at our crazy comments, as though we think he is trying to do something serious.  In that light, the writing is genius, and he is laughing all the way to the bank with his coffee cup and tea shirt money.

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By Anarcissie, July 9, 2011 at 6:43 am Link to this comment

I thought the old-books metaphor went along pretty well with the general tone of the story.  We’re not reading something in restrained style here.

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By DaveZx3, July 9, 2011 at 2:26 am Link to this comment

“I needed to take a piss, like needing to set down a heavy suitcase full of old books.”
———————————

That is not good writing.  Needing to set down heavy books is absolutely nothing like having to take a piss, when you are not presently located inside of a restroom.  Completely different. 

Change the comma after piss to a period and ditch everything after it.  You don’t have to stretch to come up with a cute analogy for every two words you put to paper. 

Why do we all turn into critics every time Fish writes something?  Strange, isn’t it?

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By gerard, July 8, 2011 at 10:19 pm Link to this comment

This guy dreams many lives, all at the same time.

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By DarthMiffy, July 8, 2011 at 9:36 pm Link to this comment

I do quite a LOT of writing, JimBob. You?

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Anarcissie's avatar

By Anarcissie, July 8, 2011 at 7:27 pm Link to this comment

Clods.  That was brilliant writing.

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By josephe.marshjr, July 8, 2011 at 2:28 pm Link to this comment

I think the very kindest critique that could be made of this… “piece”... is to congratulate Mr. Fish on being an absolutely outstanding editorial cartoonist.
I repeat: AN EDITORIAL CARTOONIST.

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By Spooky-43, July 8, 2011 at 9:21 am Link to this comment

I think Fish plagiarized this from a dime store novel I read when I was 15.  I remember it well.

“So, with my crotch screaming like a teakettle and the sudden realization that pissing might allow me greater focus on exactly what I might like to say to this girl, this Eve, something to make her want to see me with my pants off and my glasses on—assuming that after pissing I would somehow be able to muster up the courage to cold-sell my nuts and personality to her, in that order”

Does it get any ...... than that?  You fill in the blank.

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JimBob's avatar

By JimBob, July 8, 2011 at 8:45 am Link to this comment

I liked it.  Hey, Billy ‘n’ Darth—let’s hear you do
some writing!

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By Helen, July 8, 2011 at 6:33 am Link to this comment
(Unregistered commenter)

Granted Mr. Fish has some talent, but this was a bit
like a “Portnoy’s Complaint” spin-off.  I’m not sure
“Truthdig” is the right venue for his creative efforts. 
While I’m reading him I’m thinking that he’s quite
creative, original, glaringly magnified, but then the
distaste begins with an icky feeling that I find
curiously dominates the experience.

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Billy Pilgrim's avatar

By Billy Pilgrim, July 8, 2011 at 5:17 am Link to this comment

Reads like a freshman creative writing essay.

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By Thug Wizard, July 8, 2011 at 12:59 am Link to this comment
(Unregistered commenter)

This is Beautiful.

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By DarthMiffy, July 8, 2011 at 12:27 am Link to this comment

What the heck is Mr. Fish talking about for four long pages???
Adolescence?

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