Indeed, two pieces of important news.
First, part three of How I Hate to See that Evening Sun Go Down has been cancelled. Who needs it? Sleepless nights are all the same, but for what the brain gets up to while it is supposed to be sleeping, and I see no reason to put any of us through another account of what my brain gets up to.
But the second bit of important news is much bigger than that.
I was recently allowed a rare, very rare, brief foray outside Cancerland. Here’s the proof.
The smiling photo of me you see above was taken by the oral surgeon I got my day-pass to go see. I was being troubled by something very nasty going on in my mouth, and when I finally complained of it to the Cancerland fizzishuns, one of them took a gander and said it had nothing to do with them, I needed to visit a dentist. The authorities drew up the papers, made the necessary arrangements, and put me on the paddywagon-like shuttle-bus that takes Cancerlanders through one or two of the country’s selected checkpoints. I had armed white-coated escorts, of course. The powers-that-be are always concerned that a Cancerlander, allowed out, may make a run for it, in the old East Berlin manner.
The trip was unremarkable, and then there I was at the oral surgeon’s office.
I have, he told me, a badly infected wisdom tooth, which has got to be removed. Couldn’t be done right then and there, though. I had to have an antibiotic for some days first, to bring down the swelling. The pulling would happen after that. Of course, the oral surgeon said, if he found any soft tissue behind the tooth after it was out, he would send the tissue off to be biopsied.
Well, duh. What isn’t biopsied anymore? I personally biopsy my laundry before I send it out, with my store-bought Uncle Ned’s Biopsy Kit. And I won’t eat a bite of any meal until I have it in writing that all its components have been biopsied. Hell, the bodega across the street has on its awning: Cold Soda, Cigarettes, Sandwiches, Biopsies.
Sure, because The Cancer may be anywhere. It floats and lurks and lays in waiting and is as ubiquitous as cat dander.
And was I shook up by the (I hope) very distant possibility that I might be attacked on two fronts?
You’re kidding, right? Me? With my aplomb, my sang-froid, my equilibrium?
In the paddywagon on the way back, I had an idea.
YOWZA, YOWZA, YOWZA
Gather round closer, please. The writer of these dispatches believes he has an extraordinary business opportunity to offer any friends of Esoph’s Fables who may have a little extra money to invest. This is an absolutely sure-fire proposition, for the manufacture and sale of a simple, extremely inexpensive appliance that every single one of the millions of Cancerlanders will want the instant it is made available.
It can be made for pennies, in all likelihood, and, even if sold for, say, one dollar, will therefore net those behind it a very decent profit, which, multiplied by the millions who will need and want it, will come to a nice piece of change. In other words, the business does a very great deal of good, at practically no cost at all to those who buy the appliance being offered, all while returning substantial sums to those who invest in it.
Okay, okay, you are saying. Enough hype. What exactly is this miracle product? Trust it is not some sort of snake-oil, some nostrum put on the market to take advantage of people desperately in need of any sort of help they can get?
It most certainly is not.
Consider. What a Cancerlander currently can never do is get away, not even for a few moments. And, o, they would like to. Just for a little tiny time to be able to forget where they are, and what is happening, that would be a very great boon.
But at the moment, there is no way at all for them to put their heads in the sand, ostrich-style, even for a second.
Put their heads in the sand.
That is what is needed.
And that is what Sac O’Blivion will allow them to do.
Sac O’Blivion is a small, ultralight apparatus of ripstop nylon, filled not with sand, which would be heavy to carry around, and unsanitary, and inconvenient, but with packing peanuts, weightless, clean, hypoallergenic, and easily replaceable should any be lost. The whole business, ripstop nylon helmet-like container included, would weigh ounces. Yes, helmet-like. The thing would be constructed with a suitable opening in its bottom, fitted with a drawstring closure so that the packing peanuts are kept inside when the Sac wasn’t being used, which closure could then be opened and the helmet clapped on the head and snugged up, all in a trice.
Wait, you are saying. There is a serious flaw here. The idea is based on the ostrich’s stupid assumption that it cannot be seen because, with its head in the sand, it cannot see.
But the Sac O’Blivion, though inspired by the ostrich, is not actually based on that principle at all. No. It is based instead on the market-tested and proven fact — fact, mind you — that no one will talk to a human being whose head is entirely obscured inside a lumpy box-shaped nylon construction. That person will be left alone, guaranteed, for a minimum of half an hour, and probably for a lot longer than that. Imagine the relief of having overwhelming reality held at bay for even thirty minutes. What a boon, what a blessing, what a good turn the marketers of Sac O’Blivion would be doing millions of abductees to Cancerland, at almost no cost to them, but still while turning a nice buck.
Investments are available at every level, from Sure, I’ll Take a Slice to Wow. I Want My Name on the Door.
This is not an offering. Offering is by prospectus only. Prospectus available by mail from:
Goolagong, Goolagong & Molnar
Francis Farmer Towers
New Southwest Cancerland EC10D5
Please write Sac O’Blivion on the outside of your envelope.