My dream is to own two and a half dozen curly-haired
pigs. That’s not all: I’d also like a Jag, a five-bedroom
country house, and a bag of M&M’s. There, I’ve said it.
As I have none of the above, I live in misery. I think of
nothing but of doing myself in.

My problem is that she doesn’t believe in foreplay.
It’s tough. I’ve left teaching and taken up that sweet
science, boxing. Perhaps now, at last, I have a chance.
My new life is dedicated to Anne Glenconner, that last
and ultimate good sport, who believes in being polite.

My father thought of pastors as schorrers; I’m not sure
I would disagree. He said you can always be sure to find
the pastor’s Cadillac left running in the parking space
closest to the back door of the church. The Reverend Father
grabs a coke and two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Culture on the run. Its last defender was Wehrmacht officer
Wilm Hosenfeld who asked Wladislaw Szilman to play Chopin
instead of shooting him in the head or, had he been American,
making him suck his cock. There was not a lot of Chopin played
in the jungles of Vietnam; none, too, at Abu Ghraib.

Ever notice how all WWII movies which contain scenes of German
officers always feature close-ups of the Nazi officers’ sad faces?
There is that look of intelligent men knowing their fate, that moment
of realization of self-deception, failure, humiliation, and defeat.
This is a look that never appears in American movies about us.

And now the end comes. We opened the stores early but forgot
to charge the customers. We gave away the store; the clerks told
everyone to help themselves. Now there is a Vanderbilt on TV,
a song and dance man who dyes his hair white and tells everyone
he is a girl. He announced today that he is a mother. Congratulations.