CHAPTER I

Travis woke up between the bed of his estranged parents. It was a very symbolic gesture and highly untrue.

Travis was 37 and did something largely unimportant for a big company in some city. He lived at his house with his wife of three years, Back-head. Travis's son (from a previous marriage) worked hard at being better than people worse than him. Travis's ex-wife was a concert pianist who killed herself 52 years ago.

As Travis was leaving for Big Co. in Some-City, Back-head burned a box of pop-tarts in protest.

Jack turned on the radio, put down the car-top, slipped on some shades and started cruisin' down the highway. Jack loved L.A. It's really too bad that he lived in Milwaukee.

Travis was uninterrupted by a shy knock on his office door. It was his son (from a previous marriage).

"Hi there pop," said his son (from a previous marriage), "You're not doing anything important are you?"

"No they're in the other wing of the building." replied Travis.

"Watch-face." Son (from a previous marriage) glumly responded throwing a blue spatula at his former patriarch of three years. Travis noticed that his son (from a previous marriage) was considerably older than he, and 12 years younger too.

A historic event occurred.

Travis was applying for a job doing anything at the big company in Some-City. His three year old fiancee, Back-head, was hovering above as a big cloud.

Three men stared into Travis's face and discussed his possibilities. A 144 month old son (from a previous marriage) hired the three men for an unsuitable job.

Travis was upset and became two of the three men. Back-head slept on paisley bed sheets. 11, 12, 13 Miles per hour in the box of headress.

Travis was born on Sunday the 3rd to his parents. His father, Shawn, was a sensitive male in the army. Travis's mother had no children and fought the dance of the future (accountant).

Plaid death claimed the life of Travis's sister. Travis's dog was an evil scientist who conducted experiments with T.V. on his cat. It watched 40 hours of "Laverne and Shirley" in a row and then turned into an eggplant salad.

Travis found himself in a dark closet thinking of bicycles.

Travis wore argyle socks to his retirement from big company. The widower dropped his new gold watch on Black-head's grave of three years. Travis got home and watched some sports on T.V. He thought about calling up his son (from a previous marriage) but decided that he had all the time in the world. Travis fell asleep on the couch.

Travis woke up between the bed of his estranged parents and exclaimed that it happened to him yesterday.

Travis experienced near-death. He was magically transported back to World War I and then shot in the head. He recovered in Hemmingway's lap and then walked home.

Son (from a previous marriage) was practicing to be a soap box racer. He shaved his head and legs and only ate celery to keep his weight down. He painted the flag of Greenland on his car. Life is boring.

Son (from a previous marriage) made it into the third heat of the Some-City Junior Soap Box Derby (hat). Unfortunately he was disqualified by a large beaver attached to his leg. No one ever quite recovered from the incident. Travis's dog said "Hef."

I'm lost and bored and unsympathetic and Travis can go to hell for all I really care.

Travis bought a large box of Kleenex for Back-head's funeral. His son (from a previous marriage) couldn't make it to the service but he did send a lovely card.

Back-head, his wife, met Travis at a singles bar in downtown Boston where Travis was speaking at a Wilbury Convention. Reprimanding his son (from a previous marriage) for entering such a sleazy and inhumane place, Travis met his bride-to-be-of-three-years. Back-head, on the other hand, found a gold watch on her grave and so she married Travis.

The custodial battle of Little Big Hole found itself in Travis's head. The casualties were many but few only affecting the son (from a previous marriage).

Travis said "Good Dog!" and did an obscure 18th century dance. The elves grasped me tightly and round and round we swirled, God. Help.

Travis was scared. He was afraid that his father, Shawn, didn't love him. Shawn didn't love anyone, but he was a Democrat. Who put that in the script? This is sick!

Three men found a box. Inside was a grave gold watch-face. Three men were from Los Angeles and became two again.

A ghastly mistake was made in the paychecks at Big Co. in Some-City. Travis had an extra $1,765.82 that month. Nobody ever found out. A new stereo graced the Travis house. Boxes were thrown out of anger. Oh well.

Son (from a previous marriage) attacked the the disqualifying soap box judge. The police were called . . . but not in connection with this incident. Over 83 million Americans shot J.R., J.F.K., and T.V. in general in 1981.

Nothing could be done.

CHAPTER II

Forsooth, wherewith whoso doeth this. Thereso goeth, Travis, henceforth into the raging battle 'ere the the sun dawneth. His loins being girded up, he chargeth directly into the midst of "Ye Big Olde Companie". Forthwith he earneth nary his bread and keep to save nigh schilling to profer the fair damsel, Back-Head. She, who art fairer than all that goeth forth upon this the face of the earth, awaiteth daintily for the return of her voluptuous hero inside ere castle gates. Upon his entrance at the evil place of employment, three gruesome warlocks of ill-color greeted him.

"Thou art late!" benoted the foul creatures.

"Lo, I knowest", replied Travis, "but there wert a traffic jam whose proportions were monstrous to behold, that did delayest my journey."

"We believest thou not, Sir. And as consequence such, do hereby deprive the of an hour's wages."

"Yes sir, Thank you sir. It shant happen again. I shalt make sure of that hereby no day shall break without my alaurm clock being wound proper."

Travis, thenceforth took an oath to setteth thy alarum clock the night ere to whence he should arise. Sitting in his office high, Travis received odd message from his long-estranged Son (from a previous marriage). It said "How art thou, dearest Sire and Lord? Just dropest a line to seeth that thou wert O.K.?" Travis thought, "O! Dearest offspring, fruit of my loins, and heir to my kingdom, how haft I longed to hear thy melodic voice raise the strains of a ballad again. What hast I done to deserve thy unrequited wrath. Hath I wronged thee? I say no morest than the neighbor's father. For such is as it should be and there art thing o'er which I had no control. Nor wouldst I e'er wish any designs over the plots that the fates have prepared. For there art things of the future that if man were to see, they wouldst be surely shrunken back with fear."

Having thus monologued, Travis returned to the task at hand, yet no one truly kneweth what that might entail.

CHAPTER III

Travis, that lone wolf, was sitting like a man about to eat duck, thumbing through his files as though they were his Green badge of Freedom. Travis's retirement, like a blood red moon, was looming in the distance. He felt useless, like a soldier after his last battle, like a keg drained of its last mug, like the key to an empty can of Spam. Then a bird, as if sent from the angels, a-lighted on the windowsill outside of Travis's office, singing a song of love and peace and brotherhood and sharing and racial harmony and friendship and kindness and sweetness and tenderness and joy and love and lo-cal Italian dressing. Then in a burst of lightning like a thought balloon light bulb of inventive creative thought, Travis got an idea. "I know," said Travis.

Back-Head, like the housewife that she was, was doing her chores. First she ironed Travis's dress code white shirts. Doing that always made her feel like a jar of Oil of Olay. And then, similar to the way The Enterprise removes Klingons, Back-Head removed the dust from a pair of end tables. Feeling as proud as Eisenhower did in 1949, Back-Head sat down, like a man about to eat duck, and watched her soaps. The Ivory liquid soap, like a little boy who just dropped his pistachio-daquari-marshmallow ice cream on the sidewalk, was vying for all the attention. Like a row of detergent boxes, the boxes of dishwashing detergent stood in a row. As usual, the Caress bar, a pure chunk of heaven carved from solid stone, stood back, aloof from the others. After a couple hours of watching like a chicken hawk on a slug farm, Back-Head went over and picked up the phone.

Son (from a previous marriage) was racing down the hill. He could feel the wind in his hair, the sun in his eyes, his heart in his throat, the rumble of the seat, the roar of the crowd, the smell of greasepaint, the thrill of the chase, the moment of anticipation, the every movement of the vehicle, the slightest curve in the road, and yes even the smell of victory. And then, like a bolt out of the clear blue sea, his soapbox derby racer flipped over. His hopes were dashed like so much salt over a plate of scrambled eggs. But he wasn't going to take this lying down. He got up and spoke to the judge.

CHAPTER PI

Fucking Travis! What the hell did that little fucker think he was doing? Shit. He was driving his fucking blue sports car down the damn highway. Out of the fucking sky comes these damn fucking cops. So, the little faggots pull him over. And Travis fucking says "Jesus Christ! What the hell is your fucking problem?" then these little police shitheads tell him that his Goddamn brake lights don't fucking work. So Travis lied his damn ass off saying that he was on his way to this fucking repair shop that very damn minute to get those stupid fucking lights fixed. Jesus Christ! Well, those Goddamn shitty cops wrote him a fucking ticket anyway, just to meet their stinking quota. Shit! What the hell happened to fucking American Justice? Damn constitution don't mean shit to these dick wads. Travis says that the ticket is just a load of crap and that he ain't going to pay the little fuckers a damn dime. So the police officers says, "Shut the fuck up. You're going to pay the us every piss ant cent we tell you to." But this is the fucking great damn part. A week later, Travis does pay the shit-suckers for their little damn ticket . . . but he pays it all in damn fucking pennies. Shit! Ain't that great? Damn!

CHAPTER IV

Travis stopped by Walgreens on the way to the funeral. He knew that it was supposed to start at six, but they wouldn't start without him. Travis was in there to purchase Kleenex. He had not really cried yet, but he knew that funerals were emotional experiences.

Travis's newly shined black shoes echoed awkwardly against the white store-room tile. Well, not all of the tiles were white. Some of them were this ugly greenish off-white color where they had replaced the original tiles that were cracked. They were scattered all over the white tile solidarity erratically, but usually in groups of two or three in a row. Lonely green tiles huddling together against near isolation in a sea of nominal nothingness.

Travis spied the rack of tissues. He had no idea that there was such a selection in Kleenex.

The first box of tissue was decorated in a floral pattern in lovely spring pastel colors. There was a white perforated oval spilling over the carton's edge and prominently displaying the company's label. It was the most expensive box there, but it claimed to have two-ply patterned tissue inside.

The second box was very practical, utilitarian, and generic. The opening was a hole in the top of the box replaced by clear cellophane with a slit in the middle. Other than the words FACIAL TISSUE and the U.S.R.D.A. Nutritional Information, the box was completely white.

The third box was the cheapest but also the smallest. It was a blue box encrusted with cartoon-esque drawings of stars, planets, rocket ships, and astronauts. It had a slightly concave rectangle to punch out for an opening. The child-like logo was crammed on there. There was also a "Fun Games & Puzzles" on the bottom to fill out.

Travis selected one of the three products, walked to the cashier and purchased it. Travis retreated to his car and started the engine.

Travis's car was a small blue sporty car. It looked really nice . . . when it was new, but that was a long time ago. The left side of the car was slightly dinged up by an incident in a parking lot three years ago.

Before entering the church, Travis re-read the card that his son (from a previous marriage) had sent him. It read "With sympathy during this time of mourning and grief" and underneath was a little hand written note saying - "I'm really sorry, Dad. Love your son (from a previous marriage)."

Travis finally straightened his tie and resolutely walked inside. Travis's tie was a yellow silk tie that he received as a birthday gift the previous year. It was set off nicely by his black . . . well, dark gray shirt. Travis hadn't worn that shirt since Big Co. in Some-City made white shirts an official part of the dress code.

CHAPTER V

Found gold buffaloes stapling Delaware tax forms on her big toe. A big letter was written on the whole hat of lumberjacks. Problems is a good word. The symbols of a sign attack me. Ski through fuel rods is all. Envelope the pink sweater of God. People find glass where the Pied Piper collapsed from lack of riboflavin. Izod juice fried from voluntary crack junk. So when all that was done. One day shoes and big blue jeans dream of schizophrenic landscapes. Buzz-hair finds the gelded giraffe.

Octopi occupy. Dave Crockett is a box set of purple jackets. When did the coyote own the dictionary? Not participating is a red marker Pepsi. Paradigms of concertina in boxes of capitol. I know but still. Breadfullness!

Where did this come from? Who is my body? Critic acid man came from the darkening clouds to protect the ideals of moldy Mexican pottery. Sandwiches are in your life. Big bills are in charge of what was trout.

A heart attack in greasy boot chips will be. Dancing an Irish jig in Wellington. Watch what transpires in the scene of spunk. It moveth and drools. Infantile life exists where it found cockroaches.

Home is a small snail of a pencil. Endless bouts of putty eating and. Seems sort of like non-linear floss. I just don't believe in Chia Pet. Will flowers and bossonovas are corrupting what would be my most intelligent moment. I should keep my soul in a blue pee-chee folder.

Karma affects the way of life in biceps. Where do you think your thumb is going? My armadillo got caught in a ho-ho trap. Skating chairs regress to the podium. With them eyes of steel, I lost my sense of irony. The wizard of troubadour found the lost lives of Lisa. Tall square things are especially configurated to constrain the edge. Cash.

You dog door from out side the country. May centuries infest your hair in what appears to be. Paragraphs grasp the holding tale of your majesty. Just trying to sabotage her shoes. Six year old suicide by lemon. Party rotten carnation is a free minute green suit. Can I scratch your armpit? Loaning a bag of rebels to the Bach of Gibraltar.

Behoove the ratification of a welder's clique. Formerly educated by a boss of three. Syntax of co-dependent overcompensation. Very little of fruit punch not a tie. Wilson's smile is not very sincere. Don't see the people. Florida is an area of shrewd clocks. Leather lump of yogurt. Robert Urich is a Jedi Knight.

And so Argentina.

CHAPTER V & 1/2

Try and find the word "Travis" as many times as possible (they can be forward or backwards or even diagonal) in the following word search puzzle:

  R R T V A T S I T R A T I A S T I T S R A I R
  A T I R T R T V I I R T I T R I T R I T V T A
  I V A S A S A I A T R I V I  S I T R S A I A T
  T R I V I S I T R A T I A S T I A I S I S A I
  A T R I V I S I T R A T I R T V I I R T I T R
  I T R I T V A I S I T R A T I A S T A I T V A
  S I T R A  T I A S T R R T V I I R T I T R I T
  R T R A I V S I R T V A S I T V R I A S A R R
  T I S A T R I S I T R A T I R T V I I R T I T
  I T R I T V A I S I T R A I A T R I V I S I T
  R S A T A I A T R I V I S I T R S A I T R S S
 

The current record stands at 168 times by John Yeggethi of Cambridle, Wisconsin (age 4)

CHAPTER VI

Travis was nervous, as anyone would be applying for a job at a big company in some city. He was sitting on a hard orange chair. The preliminary employment committee was reviewing his application in the room across the hall.

"What am I doing here?" thought Travis to himself (who else can you think to), "I'm not good enough to work at a big company like this. Well, maybe I could lick stamps for them or do something else just as unimportant. But I couldn't sit in their big offices and smoke their big cigars and . . . What the hell do they do here anyway? God, I hope I don't get that job now. I wouldn't know what I was doing. No. I can't say that, Back-head needs the money. Oh God one of them is coming out now."

Then one of the three men stepped out of the room.

"Travis?"

"Yes?"

"You have been accepted, so far. Next you have an interview with our personnel director. Take this form and go to the third door on the left."

Travis grabbed the paper and hurried down the hall hoping that his interviewer didn't ask him why he wanted to work here. He reached the door that was marked PERSONNEL and timidly knocked.

"Come in." replied the voice behind the door.

Travis nearly had a coronary when he saw that his employer to be was his own son (from a previous marriage).

"Hey, pop! What are you doing here?"

"Looking for a job. I didn't know that you worked here."

"That's one of the advantages of being simultaneously older and younger than you."

"Son (from a previous marriage), you're going to have to tell me how you do that someday."

"I will . . . well, down to business, eh? Let's see. Hmm, your resume looks pretty impressive. Gee, you like perfect Big Company material to me. Can you think of any reason why I shouldn't hire you right now?"

"Just one . . . I'm not quite sure what it is that you guys do here."

"Oh? . . . neither am I."

CHAPTER A

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CHAPTER VII

Travis traveled tentatively towards the town. Then Travis trapped two teenagers trying to torch the tree house. The twosome tried to tell tales till the truth tumbled to their tongues.

Ted Turner tried to talk to Travis to translate the two teenagers' transpirings. Travis, too timid to tell, thought that the Television told trivialities. They tried trampling through Travis's trash to take text telling things. To tell the truth, Travis then telephoned the tattle team. They tore the t.v. to tiny things.

Then tourist traps tricked Travis to traveling. Travis traveled to Thailand. There the Thais took Travis's things. The tour turned terrible then. Trouble trailed Travis to Tasmania. Testing times tracked Travis to Turkey. Tunisia turned thoroughly terrifying. Travis's time traveling turned to total travesty. "That's that!", thought Travis, "I guess I'll just go home."

CHAPTER -IV

-If at first you don't succeed, well then I wouldn't be a bit surprised. You're such a pathetic loser! Go ahead, try again. We love watching you fail.

-Stick crayons up your nose.

-Always do what your parents tell you to, that way you can blame them when your life totally screws up.

-Hard work accomplishes nothing.

-Compliment your enemies . . . it drives them nuts.

-Only brain surgeons can truly change their minds.

-Ask the owner before swallowing a live pet goldfish.

-When in doubt, the answer is four.

-Yesterday was the first day of the rest of your life. And you wasted it didn't you?

-Andy Warthog says: "Brush with a Friend."

-If you don't stand for something, you'll wind up quoting country song titles and thinking you're deeply philosophical, and yet cleverly witty.

-It is quite often inappropriate to tell Knock-Knock jokes at a funeral.

-The best meat is in the rump.

-Like it or not, everyone has an opinion about Madonna.

-If you can't memorize other people's clichés, write your own . . . and then turn it into a best selling "book."

-I don't care how good it smells, if the expiration date is Mar. 85, throw it away.

-Three men went fishing.

-A bird in the hand is very painful, and may require a doctor to remove.

-Eternity is temporary.

-The real question is: How many fingers are you holding up?

-The best things in life are Donald Trump's.

-If your writings are too short, babble.

-Do unto others as you would like to do unto the IRS and you will probably end up in prison.

-Garfield is NOT funny.

-Just one happy thought a day can really piss some people off.

-The masses yearn to be urinated upon.

-The only thing worse than overused clichéd happy thoughts are overused clichéd cynical parodies of clichéd uplifting sentiments.

-Stupidity is rampant . . . make it work for you or you will work for me.

-Trust me.

-When everything else fails, swear at it a little more.

-It's never your turn to do the dishes.

-Remember, there are billions upon billions of people on this planet who know more about hors d'oeuvres than they do about you.

-If you walk far enough, you will get tired.

-You are never truly alone, so please shower.

-Right now, hundreds of people in Las Vegas are being paid to imitate a dead man.

-You are reading this sentence.

-No matter what happens there will always be someone wasting their time training for the Olympics.

-If you kill me, I will never forgive you.

-Don't ever try to cut a pizza into 7 equal pieces, unless, of course, there are only 6 people who want a slice.

-Don't get mad, get really mad.

-Your watch is always slow, and all traffic is bad.

-It only makes sense if you don't think about it.

-If it doesn't kill you, you're not doing it right.

CHAPTER VIII

Travis's world tour was the polar opposite of his vacation to the beach with Back-head. However both had the same goal in mind . . . to escape from the pressure.

Travis loved escapist movies and television, while he generally scorned foreign films and the news. Travis often had to daydream in his office just to make it through the workday. Travis frequently pretended that he was a major rock star. He loved the idea of having fans screaming his name, critics shredding his music to pieces, and more money than you can shake a stick at.

What Travis wanted most of all was the money. Enough that he wouldn't have to work. Of course, he still would work most days . . . he didn't have a heck of a lot else to do. But, if he didn't feel in the mood or there was something extra good on Donahue or Back-head was feeling really horny, he just wouldn't show up at the office that day. He wouldn't even have to call in sick. That's all Travis really wanted.

Another recurring fantasy of Travis's is that of becoming a mafia godfather. He could just shoot anyone he didn't like, and there would still be the large piles of money. He could mock the law and control the "powers that be" like a cheap Mexican marionette.

Travis drove home listening to the radio. The weatherman said that a huge freak hurricane hit Eastern Texas and that hundreds of people had died, but the weatherman still sounded happy. He heard a commercial on the radio for a new episode of Donahue. It sounded so good that Travis decided to ask Back-head to tape it tomorrow.

Travis, feeling impulsive, stopped by Winchell's to pick up a box of bear claws for his wife of three years.

CHAPTER IX

Each of my chapters seem to be getting shorter. (My mother was the walrus, not a fish, Mr. Faulkner).

CHAPTER X

Travis was having a dream. Travis was sitting in a classroom. His son (from a previous marriage) was trying to teach the Japanese art of self-management. Back-head, his wife of three years, and his father, Shawn, were having sex in the corner. A big yellow snake lunged at Travis's throat. He started running.

He felt like he had been running for days. Travis found himself in a field of flowers. They were all tangled and wet and very hard to walk through. Travis kept tripping and falling. Finally Travis just stopped and sat down. The ground then started to give way under Travis like sand from an hourglass. Travis fell into a monastery. He was surrounded by monks chanting something about fish-smelling gherkins and blue spatulas. Suddenly Travis was back at his office in Big Co. in Some-City, only it seemed larger and murkier. Travis started to fell really cold. He looked down and saw that he had no shirt on under his coat and tie.

A large pig wearing sunglasses and smoking a cigarette walked in and offered him a ride on a pencil. It was a smooth orange 16 foot pencil that had not been sharpened. Travis agreed and then hopped aboard. The two of them flew out of a window that wasn't there before.

High above Some-City, Travis noticed that the whole town was actually shaped like a toaster oven. The pencil suddenly started moving really fast. Travis tried to hang on but he kept on slipping farther back.

Without warning Travis was back in the monastery. A man with green hair and a purple suit was looking for him. No matter where Travis hid the man appeared right in front of him. Travis started climbing up a ladder, but the man was still right behind him. Travis was climbing as far and as fast as he could but the man was always back there, never gaining but never falling behind.

Travis was tired. He wanted to stop, but he was afraid of what would happen to him if the man ever caught up. Then Travis noticed that the ladder was slowly getting narrower. Yet Travis had no choice but to keep on going.

Finally the ladder disappeared all together and Travis fell. Actually he merely floated to the ground. After landing Travis noticed some lingerie in the gutter. The lingerie was actually a leaf and so Travis put it on a tree. The tree magically grew into a woman. Juan Valdez came out of her stomach and said, "Only from Columbia."

Travis's feet had become enveloped by clinging vines. His hair also started growing rapidly until he was covered head to toe with hair and vegetable matter. Only his eyes were left uncovered. He was trapped and so he was forced to watch Carl Sagan discuss how Suburbia is really an unrecognized Utopia.

Thirteen Indians jumped out and lit the entwining plants and hair on fire. Travis was in Hell. Back-head walked up to him and the two exchanged long impassionate kisses for a couple of minutes and then a policeman sliced Travis's wife of three years into tiny pieces. Demons then came and devoured her flesh.

Travis suddenly reappeared high above the highway on the big orange pencil. Travis felt really dizzy and nauseous. He started to puke over the side and found that he couldn't stop. He was slowly covering the roads, the hills, the farms, and the people with a thin film of vomit. He wanted to stop but all that happened when he closed his mouth is that it came out of his nose. Shawn appeared behind Travis on the pencil and pushed him off.

CHAPTER XI

The truth is: Marilyn Monroe killed John F. Kennedy. She was actually trying to shoot Jackie because she was jealous but her aim was off and the president ended up dead.

Of course Elvis knew that Marilyn was going to miss. That's why he gave her the equipment she needed. Presley needed the President dead so that he could continue to raise his army of Nazi bigfoots (bigfeet?) un-harassed. Oliver Stone saw future cinematic possibilities in the whole idea and so he became a partial financial backer of the King's racist activities.

At least that's what John F. Kennedy wanted us to think. He knew that the U.S would fall apart if they ever found out that their president committed suicide. Kennedy had been feeling really depressed lately because his cabinet and the press had been teasing him because of his religion (Catholicism) and his middle name (Fitzgerald!).

But who masterminded that whole taunting campaign? Bobby Kennedy? No! Colonel Sanders. After the "Bay of Pigs" failed President Kennedy scrapped all plans for the "Bay of Fried Chicken." That blunder cost KFC thousands of dollars and so Colonel Sanders vowed revenge.

Salvador Dali, of course, was involved because he was Sander's gay lover. In fact, the two of them adopted Lee Harvey Oswald, under assumed names, on Nov. 22, 1962. Exactly one year before the whole conspiracy came to a climax.

Thomas Jefferson foresaw all of this, that's why he set up the Constitution the way he did. Being the farmer that he was he realized that American agriculture couldn't make a 21st century resurgence without a well-established fast food chicken industry.

Well, it's all speculation but it could be true.

CHAPTER XII

Travis woke up from his dream between the bed of his estranged parents. At least Travis liked to think that if he drew a line from his mother's bed to his own and continued it out, it would eventually hit his father, Shawn.

Travis got up and dressed quickly because he was afraid of being late for school. High school was especially boring for Travis that day and so he decided to that after school he would go down to the day care center and kill someone. Actually it wasn't exactly Travis's idea. That day he heard about two psychology students in the 1920's who had kidnapped, tortured and killed a little kid, just to see what it felt like.

So at about 3:17 (after stopping by K-Mart to buy a knife) Travis parked in front of the A-Z Daycare Center. Everyone was inside for naptime and cookies. Travis figured that he probably couldn't ring the doorbell and ask for some one to assassinate, so he just sat on the merry-go-round and waited. The swings hung hollowly from the jungle gym.

Eventually the building spilled toddlers and tots onto the intervening playground. A little girl in blond pigtails, oversized glasses and a pink dress came over to where Travis was sitting. His immediate impulse to stab the child right then was overcome by her winsome smile. Travis hesitated and then he thought of something.

"Hey there." Travis greeted the youngster.

"Hello mister." cheerfully returned the girl.

"Is there anyone here you would like me to kill?"

"Not really."

Travis shrugged his shoulders and, without even saying goodbye, walked over to where a little boy sat by himself in a striped T-Shirt and corduroy pants next to a wall.

"Hi." started Travis sitting down next to him.

"Hmmph." retorted the lonely lad, violently turning his back on Travis.

"Do you want me to kill someone for you?" Travis asked politely.

"Yeah, him!" replied the finally interested child pointing a finger at another older child who was playing on the monkey bars across the schoolyard from him. He was slightly chunky with red hair, and his face was drenched with freckles. He wore a T-Shirt bearing the insignia of the latest fad and a pair of well-worn tennis shoes.

Travis did not understand why his companion wanted this other person dead, but he figured if he was going to kill somebody that kid was as good as anyone.

Travis smiled at the youth sitting next to him. Then he got up, pulled out the knife, walked over to his oblivious victim, gave him his baseball cap, stuck the knife into a nearby, unoffending oak tree, drove home and fed his dog.

Travis was lucky. What can I say?

CHAPTER "BOB"

SOME CITY, PA.- One man is putting in more than just his two cents worth about the government. In fact, he's throwing in about one thousand, three hundred and forty cents more.

Yesterday, Travis, 37, a vice managerial supervisor of the products division of Big Co. was ordered to pay $13.42 for having his brake lights broken. And pay Travis did . . . all in pennies. "My co-worker, Jack, had just read this book about a guy who paid for all of his tickets in pennies, just to tease the government. So, when Jack heard that I had been pulled over he suggested that as a way of getting back at the institution . . . just to see what would happen." Travis told us here at the Post-Inquistitor. This friend, Jack Mayock, 41, had just finished reading Scot P. Livingston's latest novel, Overnight Pacific, when he heard about Travis's minor traffic violation. "I thought that this would be a great way to 'fight the power' without really getting in trouble. Of course, I never thought that in a million years Travis would seriously do it." said Mayock.

And just how does "the Power" feel about all of this? "It's nonsense really," reports county commissioner Wayne Johnson, "Most people pay in large bills and so every now and then we have to go down to the back and get some change. Travis was actually saving us some work." Hon. Pat H. O'Logickle, the judge who sentenced Travis, was a little less forgiving however. "One should not mock our judicial and financial systems." he told us.

As far as Travis goes, he didn't think that people would be that interested in how he paid his tickets. Right now he's planning on having his brake lights fixed real soon . . . and paying for it by check.

CHAPTER XIII

Travis smiled unsympathetically on the grateful landscape. Travis's car drove on triumphantly over the flavorful highway. On either side were beautifully stranded passengers of sporadically lackadaisical automobiles. The sky roasted on, blue and heavy, in front of them.

Road kill decorated the transportation system which was pumping like a dying man's capillaries. The radios gushed out notes in boxes and bites with intermittent weathermen decrying the approaching atmospheric apocalypse. Car horns cried out for attention from the drowning American public.

Travis's ring glinted in the sun like a buzz saw cutting through the windows of the subconscious. The air conditioner blew like a pack of rats sometimes do on cold August Fridays. The MPH gage read off numbers like an auctioneer having dinner with his wife. Travis coaxingly tapped his thumb against the brilliant steering wheel.

The traffic jam sweltered and festered like a plum in New York. Critically green exit signs offended the acrid travelers as they pursued their flat daytime lives.

The spidery hairs astride Travis's head swayed emphatically in the syrupy breeze. Travis's shoelaces hung surreptitiously abreast the newly shoes as if to escape the inevitable tranquility of the knot. Stray lines from "The Wizard of Oz" degraded Travis consciousness like renegade shooting stars bursting across the infallibility of a constellation.

Clouds grappled with history in shapes such as Australia or Greenland. Travis's cigarette unwittingly counter-pointed the struggle between Woodrow Wilson and Henry Cabot Lodge.

Travis's nose protruded a kind of exuberance to his fellow pilgrims to their lifeless occupations. Careers that dug up the dead and forced them to consume tacky tasteless goods. Hatred, like a swarm of locust dolls, settled over the perturbed motorists of semi-immobile status symbols. Oddly humming ventilation reached the back of Travis's authentic lungs.

Methodically the traffic braked and lurched like a yo-yo with three centimeters of string. Travis was having a great day.

CHAPTER XV

Did you ever realize how stupid "Reach Out And Touch Someone" is as a slogan for a telephone company? It would be more accurate if they said "Get So Far Away From Everybody That You Can't Even See Them, Never Mind Touching Them, And Still Be Able To Talk To Them (Or At Least Their Answering Machines)".

Doesn't it seem like that in the movies the final crucial thirty seconds last longer than the rest of the season? Speaking of film, is it just my imagination or are there more movies about men getting pregnant than women getting pregnant? Sick, isn't it?

I would bet that there wouldn't be half as many health foods on the market right now if nutritious didn't rhyme with delicious. I mean some rhymes are so cliched. Love wouldn't have anything to do with the moon, stars, clouds, or sky if they weren't all "up above." Even the word "twosome" was invented so that something could rhyme with "gruesome." Which reminds me . . . why hasn't anyone ever tried to rhyme rutabaga with Studebaker?

What is the purpose of socks? I mean, well . . . oh never mind.

Who invented plaid? Who said "let's take big stripes and little stripes and put them at right angles to each other."? Did he actually think that they would look good together? And why does Scotland like plaid so much? What does that particular pattern have to do with an area of the U.K. that has been infested with too many sheep, bagpipes and men in skirts?

I swear that the only reason that "thank goodness" is an acceptable phrase is so those who fear taking the lord's name in vain can still use the initials T.G.I.F. Think about it. I doesn't make any sense.

I think that a good test of intelligence is whether or not you think that mailboxes painted like little red farmhouses are cute.

Why do I keep breaking of from the story into these long spiels that have nothing whatsoever to do with Travis and his life? (This is not a rhetorical hypothetical question. I actually want you think about this. And another thing, these "long spiels" do have something to do with Travis, but you have to figure out what.)

Who said that life is fair? Hazel Hall did in her poem "Footsteps."

I want to be a victim. I want to have an excuse for everything that I do wrong. I want to be retarded or abused or black or female or alcoholic or blind or orphaned or at least left-handed. I want everyone to doubly applaud everything that I do without hurting myself. I want my story in Reader's Digest to inspire people to be braver, try harder, and act nicer even if I am not even half as valiant, courageous, or kind as they are already.

I want it all.

When I was in sixth grade I wanted to be a ballerina. I figured that I could make it real big in the ballet world just because I would be the only guy there. I would get all the male leads simply by default. I wouldn't even have to dance that well.

You know what's really scary? Not that there are people like Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahmer (I can reconcile that) but the fact that they are, right now, probably having about as much fun as you or I am.

I don't see the point of those Atheists who set up booths at the people fair trying to convert people to their non-religion. If there is no God, does it really matter if we pretend there is one? Since there are no eternal consequences to our actions, why not just let us be happy (if that is all there is really to life). Me, I don't know anything but Y.S.

I read The Great Gatsby the other day and so I started thinking to myself, "No matter how much one gets, once he gets it he wants either something more or something better. No one has ever been completely satisfied." And so I decided that I wouldn't want anything at all for one day. For 24 hours I would be totally happy with what I have. I have never tried anything so difficult or stupid before (or since) in my entire life.

You know you're in trouble when they stop asking you 'What do you want to be when you grow up?' and they start asking you 'What are you going to be when you grow up?'

CHAPTER XVI

A neatly furnished living room of a quaint little Some-City home. It is nearing evening. Up Right is a comfortable armchair. Center Stage is a coffee table that is covered in coffee cups, coffee table books, coffee pots, coffee grounds, and coffee cake. Down Left is a wilted and dying fern. TRAVIS enters from the front door, stage right.

TRAVIS: Honey, I'm home.

(BACK-HEAD enters from the kitchen, stage left.)

BACK-HEAD: So I see. (crosses over to TRAVIS and kisses him politely on the cheek) How was work today, dear?

TRAVIS: Unimportant and boring.

(crosses Down Left and vainly tries to revive the plant by picking off some of the deader leaves)

BACK-HEAD: That's good.

TRAVIS: (turning to his wife of three years) What's for dinner?

BACK-HEAD: Banana Pork Meatloaf smothered in warm Pistachio Pudding with Spam Twinkies alá Mode for desert.

TRAVIS: You are sick, woman!

BACK-HEAD: Thank you. (walks over to where TRAVIS is still fiddling with the fern) It's dead, dear.

TRAVIS: (aside to the audience) I hate to be the one to tell her but so is she.

The two embrace quietly for a few seconds when the silence is suddenly interrupted by a doorbell. TRAVIS walks stage right and opens the door and in bursts a rather irritated woman of about 50 wearing a shimmering pink ball gown, translucent wings and a pair of bathroom slippers. Her hair is done up in curlers and she is smoking a cigarette. Her name is MERTYLE.

TRAVIS: (rather surprised) Who are you?

MERTYLE: I'm the tooth fairy you jackass! (sits down in the armchair, Up Right and stretches her feet out) Got any beer? (BACK-HEAD hurriedly rushes to the kitchen, Stage Left and shortly returns with a Budwieser. MERTYLE take the beer and then grinds out her cigarette into the arm of the chair) Hey! Doll-face, ain't you supposed to be dead?

BACK-HEAD: (quite startled) What gives you that idea?

MERTYLE: I read about Travis here, going to your funeral back there in chapter four. Really quite a lovely chapter I think.

(spits on the carpet)

TRAVIS: (nervously trying to steer away from the subject) So, uh . . . how's it going, Tooth Fairy?

MERTYLE: You know . . . same old same old.

(belches loudly)

Fade-out all lights. Curtain

CHAPTER XVII

Travis was a tall man. He was gangly and always seemed to be a head taller than whoever was next to him. He had a thin wiry frame that people would look at and then remark that he would be perfect for basketball even though they knew deep down that he wouldn't be.

Travis had dark, almost black hair that was thinning a bit around the forehead. Back-head claimed that Travis was the only one who could tell that he was slightly balding but that's not entirely true (after all, I noticed, didn't I?).

Travis's eyes were small, ferret-like, and set farther back in the head than usual. This made him look like he constantly had bags under his eyes. That was kind of nice however because most people let Travis get away with longer coffee breaks, just because he always looked tired.

Travis's nose had the shape of a parrot's beak and it was considerably bigger than anything else on his face. Travis's moustache never seemed quite right. No matter how hard Travis tried it still looked fake. Not the Cracker Jack's costume type of phony, but it just appeared that it had been drawn on somehow with an eyebrow pencil. It just had no body to it.

It didn't seem like Travis had a chin either. Sometimes it looked like his face just sort of slid into his neck.

Travis's ears had a tendency to stick out a bit from his head. Not in some exaggerated comical Dumbo style, but enough to seem like the earflaps on some plaid Minnesota winter hat.

Travis's most distinguishing characteristic was, however, his fingers. They were so long, skinny, and bony that they almost looked alien. This aspect of his appearance didn't help or hinder Travis in anyway particularly. But if you saw him once at a party and someone asked you about him later, all you would be likely to remember would be his long fingers trying hard to keep from crunching a cocktail glass.

CHAPTER IXIIIIXVIXLCIXVM

Travis was driving down the highway looking for some place where he could get a hamburger and some really greasy fries when he remembered that for the second time this month he had forgotten his appointment with his doctor who had after watching his father die from an in-grown toenail enrolled in a Mexican med school and became a world renowned spine specialist whose patients after years of backaches and pains were celebrities originally from Los Angeles the city that someone who was usually a kind and generous person described as a home for the type of people who after hearing a certain song on the radio wanted to get ulcers and drive around in black sedans which emit enough carbon monoxide that scientists who are usually never wrong although there was that one scientist who after predicting the end of the world drove into a part of New Jersey where people throw parties at which young girls who are usually nurses or something get drunk throw up and sing songs written by people in the 30's who probably had better things to do like sell apples for a nickel but were probably feeling the heat from the depression and needed to relax by doing what Martin Landau a very astute actor once described somewhat inaccurately as "the art of making art" which is to say writing songs to be sung by young drunk New Jersey nurses at parties attended by a scientist who after predicting the end of the world made a twenty year loan to find a high-calorie substitute for the garden salad which after years of research came to the conclusion that this chapter needed more commas and that any person who could diagram this entire sentence deserved a Nobel Prize.

CHAPTER IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII

Whether poking slight fun or providing biting criticism, all good satire should, first and foremost, show an expansive knowledge of the subject being satirized. The main problem with Scot P. Livingston's new novel, Overnight Pacific is that it is blatantly apparent that he has no clue who he's parodying. Each chapter was clearly meant to resemble a different author's writing style, while the whole book was still meant to capture one single story. While one must admire the concept behind such a novel, Mr. Livingston is not the one would should be writing it. In some of the chapters, it appears that he hadn't even finished reading the Cliff's Notes before attacking the likes of Shakespeare and Joyce, while other chapters are so badly written, I'm not even sure who the person is that is being "humiliated." Only when taking on contemporary figures (Mr. Popiel, Life's Little Instruction Book) does Overnight Pacific feel like it knows what its talking about. I will admit that a few of the sections were quite clever. In fact the whole almost reads like "Everything My English Teachers Told Me Not To Do." Mr. Livingston's prime delight is to annoy his reading audience whenever he gets the opportunity. Overall, however, I felt uncomfortable watching the author's awkward attempt to impress me with his nonexistent versatility.

The plot (which has been conveniently chopped up and then rearranged in a completely non-linear order) centers around a middle-aged man named Travis. He works in a hyper-non-descript job at a clichéd faceless corporation named, rather insipidly, Big Co., in a very typical, very American, very uncreative and ultimately uninteresting town called SomeCity. His wife of three years, Back-Head, has for some unknown reason died. Travis then tries to cope by remembering past episodes with his wife (I guess?) and in the process he tries to reconcile with his son (from a previous marriage) and cope with his childhood trauma of having his parents get divorced. Then, instead of coming to some sort of conclusion or climax, the book just ends, almost as if the author had just run out of paper. Once again Mr. Livingston is delighting in annoying us. Travis, Back-Head, and Son (from a previous marriage), the only characters who show up with any regularity are almost eerily devoid of any personality, as if making them real characters who destroy the whole conceit of the book. In fact the only person in all of Overnight Pacific who seems vested with any emotion at all, is the author Scot P. Livingston. He is practically screaming "Look at me! Am I not just amazingly talented?" After reading Overnight Pacific, my response, sadly, is no.

CHAPTER XVIII

Travis took off his shoes. He was going to do something he hadn't done since his college days. He was going to drive barefoot. Travis had to go out to returned some videos that Back-head had rented.

Travis backed out of the driveway. Wow! And then he drove down the street. Travis looked in his rearview mirror and saw a beige '82 Cadillac El Dorado behind him. He thought it was odd because there usually weren't any cars on this particular road.

Travis turned left onto Maple Drive. The El Dorado was still following. Travis was really curious now and when the Caddy made a third turn with him, Travis started getting a little nervous. He slowed down to allow the car behind him to pass, but the car stayed right behind.

Travis then thought that maybe this guy was going to the video store too. Travis decided to test his theory by turning aside from his preordained course and then see if the Cadillac would keep on going. Travis turned right on to a small side street named Rennesalear and looked behind him. The El Dorado was still trailing him.

Travis started getting really paranoid. He thought that maybe he was being chased by assassins or maybe the undercover police. Travis drove to the main road as quickly as he could. The Cadillac was still behind him. Travis pulled through the intersection of Independence and Main and then looked back to see the beige Caddy pulling off to the left.

Travis felt alone, abandoned, and betrayed.

CHAPTER XVI

This book was clearly written and intended as such (that being: a book). And while the artistic side of me would hate to see this novel turned into a cheap commercial Hollywood film, another part of me is saying "It would be cool to see Overnight Pacific turned into a movie." And, of course, my bank account is screaming, "You need the money!" and so for those of you who wish to make a film out of this novel, I have established the following guidelines:

1.) Don't ask me to write the screenplay. I have no idea how anyone could ever possibly adapt this book. In fact, I dare you to try it!

2.) Tom Cruise cannot play Travis.

3.) No pop-rock "soundtrack." I want actual orchestral/classical background music. (Alf Clausen, Angelo Badalementi, and Danny Elfman are three good ideas.)

4.) Tom Cruise cannot play anyone in this movie.

5.) Do not let Ron Howard anywhere near the set.

6.) Tom Cruise cannot act.

7.) Dustin Hoffman can only play the lead if he is not doing it for the money. Hence the difference between his performance in "Death of a Salesman" and in "Ishtar."

8.) Lyle Lovett should have at least a small role. Perhaps he could play the son (from a previous marriage)?

9.) I want a cameo.

10.) Spend some time getting a good cinematographer. It'll greatly increase our overall Oscar chances.

11.) If you let Yeardley Smith play Back-Head I will give you a 50% discount on the rights to my book.

12.) No actress-models.

13.) You must cut out my sex scene.

CHAPTER XV

Travis stood in the hard, cold, driving, wet, freezing, rain. The sky loomed dark, cloudy, ominous, and foreboding on the horizon. Travis's wet, brown, soaked, worn-in, damp, friendly hat clung to his head like a helpless, dead parasite. Travis walked, slunk, ambled, trotted, shuffled down the sidewalk. He felt cold, tired, wet, depressed, and miserable. The weather was doing nothing to help improve his mood. Eagerly and hopefully, Travis tried doggedly and frantically to hail a cab. But the smelly, ethnic, surly, and burly taxi drivers spurned him like so much undercooked pork. Travis found a cold, shiny, silvery, wet telephone booth and decided to call his nice, kind, sweet, warm, dry, loving wife. Travis removed a shiny, cold, silvery, and wet twenty-five cent quarter from his amazing, brown pocket, deposited it into the machine, and dialed his familiar, regular, unmemorable, and dependable phone number. Travis's wife, who was pulling a roast out of the oven answered the phone with a surprised, warm, kind, gentle "Hello."

"Hey there, Back-Head. " replied the cold, wet, tired, and hungry Travis.

"What's the matter, dear?" asked, questioned, inquired, probed, interrogated, wondered, demanded Back-Head, "I thought you'd be home by now."

"My car won't start." answered Travis sullenly, sadly, heavily, breathily, unfortunately.

"Oh you poor, poor dear. Are you stuck out there in that miserable storm?" she asked as she nervously, worriedly, calmly, seductively, serruptiously, annoyingly, understandably, vaguely, thoroughly, angrily, voluptuously, and heroically twisted the phone cord between her fingers.

"Yeah, it's pretty wet out here." the chalky man on the other end of the line responded, "Do you think you could come down here and give me a jump?"

"Ooh," squealed Back-Head, "I love it when you talk dirty!"

"C'mon Back-Head." Travis whined sinetteuously, "This rain is ruining my favorite hat."

"Oh, alright Trav." replied Travis's illustrious, beautiful and completely fictitious wife and companion for the past three years.

So, she went down and jumpstarted his car. And the two drove off happily ever after.

CHAPTER XIII

Travis was tired. He had had a hard day at the Big Co. and was looking forward to a nice evening of relaxing in front of the tube. What awaited him however got his blood pumping so fast that he couldn't think about T.V. for a week.

When Travis opened the door he found his wife, Back-Head, waiting for him wearing nothing but a smile. Travis barely made it inside his house and shut the door by the time his wife had his slacks and boxers around his ankles. Back-Head, a bored housewife with nothing better to do than check out books from library and then study the art of fellatio, licked, sucked, and kissed her husband's love-scepter as if it were a melting popcicle. Travis never felt more love for his wife than he did during those two long, agonizing hours.

Travis then led his wife to the kitchen table. Placing his thumbs on her nipples, Travis massaged Back-Head until she started moaning wildly. Grabbing his knee and jamming it into her crotch, she began to shake and shiver like a California Earthquake.

Then the two of them laid back on the tile floor and rested for a while, yet neither one was completely satisfied.

Then Travis had a great idea. He spread peanut butter on his wife's inner thighs and then poured his son (from a previous marriage)'s ant farm all over her ample breasts. While Back-Head was writhing and giggling with pure pleasure, Travis got out his Polaroid Instamatic and recorded the whole event.

Hours later, Travis called the couple across the street over for "extended activities." They came over quickly, bringing with them several cucumbers, a pair of toasters, a leather whip, and a sheep. For the next three days the neighbors heard screams and yelps emitting from their house. The foursome paid them no mind, leaving them to ponder what exactly they meant by "Where no tossed green salad has gone before!"

I don't even want to think about it.

CHAPTER XII

The first time I met with my patient T* was at my summer clinic in Some City. At this time T, 37, was suffering from a pre-depression paranoia coupled with an on-going fear of oversized novelty pencils. I recommended that he seek immediate emergency attention from my new hospital/spa in Vienna. T told me that it would be impossible for him to leave the country due to an allergic reaction to passport photos, but he did promise me that he'd send us a copy of all his major phobias as soon as he could afford the postage. I told him to take 2 cc of Thoramazine and call me in the morning.

Six weeks later, I ran into T again at a small beach resort in northern Iowa. He was there vacationing with his wife. I suggested that he rent "Psycho" and watch it 17 times to help cure him of his Oedipus Complex. He told me that his VCR was an object of Satan, and that if he didn't sacrifice a pig to it every month it wouldn't work properly. I gave him another 5 cc of Thoramazine and promised him that I would write.

The next morning, at 3 a.m., I was awakened by a phone call. T was threatening to jump off the ledge of his laundry hamper if Jack Kennedy didn't come out of hiding and reveal Elvis's secret plot to kill him. I prescribed T another 10 cc of Thoramazine.

That afternoon I put T into a deep hypnotic trance. He revealed many things to me including: A.) He was never breast-fed by father. B.) His parents' divorce traumatized him. C.) He wanted some more Thoramazine. D.) This reoccurring dream he has where his son (from a previous marriage) is trying to teach him "Jiko Kanry" while his wife and his father are having sex in the corner. E.) Pi to the 1,463,257,894th decimal point. When I brought T out of this psychosis, all he could do for the next three days was hop on one foot and cluck like a chicken. I gave him another 20 cc of Thoramazine and he tried to peck my eyes out.

Three years later, T, now 37 years of age, wrote me a postcard telling me that several of his neuroses had left his psyche and were now playing with the cat toys in his closet. His ego, however, was now the head of a major corporation and would no longer return any of T's phone calls. T was also threatening to sue me for malpractice if I did not produce for him a plate of silverfish by the 23rd of the month. This I sent him along with another 50 cc. of Thoramazine.

The last time I saw T was the summer my sixth wife left me. T was speaking at a Wilbury convention. He was feeling much more self-confident and secure now (despite the fact that he couldn't leave his hotel room without bringing his stuffed elephant with him). T told me that he thought Robert Urich was a Jedi Knight, but if anyone should ask for him, he was off in Wisconsin watching the buffalo mate. When a fellow conventioneer asked T about his mother he fell into a fit that only lasted 23 minutes. He was definitely making progress. I tried to give T 100 cc of Thoramazine for old time's sake, but he refused, pointing a gun at my head and yelling, "I've got a new dealer now, man." I passed out. That was the last time I ever saw T. I want my blanket!

My Personal Diagnosis: In the strictest Freudian terms, T suffered from a severe case of Reefer's Complex, stemming from the fact that he spent 29 months in his mother's womb. However, I think that is oversimplifying T's vast myriad of personality disorders. My personal theory is that early head trauma caused Arnez Syndrome. Which would explain why T would frequently be quoted as saying "Hey Lucy, I'm home!" This, unfortunately, cannot be medically proven since I am just a quack and must fly south for the winter.

CHAPTER XIX

Blue spatulas are implements of death. Travis has a blue spatula. It was a Christmas gift from his son (from a previous blue spatula).

Travis got up and started his blue spatula. He stared in amazement as the blue spatula rose over the horizon. He arrived at his office and blue spatulaed all day. Blue spatula, blue spatula, blue spatula!

Travis felt blue spatula so sad one blue spatula day that he blue spatula drove up to the mountains to blue spatula have a picnic by blue himself spatula. She wore bluuuuuue spatula. Bluer than spatula were her eyes.

Quoth her navel, "Blue spatula!"

Travis pulled up a blue spatula and had a man to man talk with his son (from a previous marriage). Azure slotted turner . . .

"Why do you want to be a soap box racer?"

"Blue spatula."

"How are you getting along with Back-head?"

"Blue spatula."

"What is the meaning of life?"

"Blue spatula."

Days went by and blue spatula. Travis was adjusting very blue spatulaly to his new job. Blue spatula. Travis was on one of his slightly longer coffee breaks and so he decided to call his wife of three blue spatulas. Unfortunately the line was blue spatula busy.

I'm having big bad blue spatula thoughts. There were blue spatulas between my toes. Is it a headline or is it a title or is it a blue spatula? Blankets blow bleeding blue spatula.

This chapter was really weird.

CHAPTER 666

Thank you. Thank you. This means a lot to me. I . . . I still can't believe I really won. It's a good thing my father made me write this speech just in case. Ahem. First I would like to thank Dr. George Hamilton for originally nominating Overnight Pacific in the first place. Secondly, I would like to thank the Pulitzer board for overlooking my young age and inexperience, and giving me this award anyway. I should also thank my fellow nominees . . . for not being any better than they were. I barley won this as it is and would feel truly honored to be runner-up to any one of you. To my agent, Bernard Shwartz, I would like to say thanks for putting up with me. I know how difficult I can be sometimes. I'd also like to thank my publisher, SPLinc. Enterprises, for, well, actually publishing my book. Your faith in me is astounding. You guys truly deserve this award as much as I do. A big thanks go to my fans. Without you, Overnight Pacific would be nothing . . . or, well, as good as nothing. Another note for my fans: my new book, Canadian Elephants On Whole Wheat will be out in hard cover by August. At a suggested retail price of just $18.95, it's hard to beat. Look for it at B. Dalton Booksellers and Waldenbooks. Ahem. I would also like to thank God for getting me to where I am now. If you had seen my taxi ride up here tonight, you would realize that it was something of a miracle that I even made it to this auditorium. There are also some people I would like to specifically thank for making Overnight Pacific what it is today: Aaron Schilling: who, after reading a very early draft of my book, decided it would be best to break up the monotony by putting a crossword puzzle some where inside it. Justin Griesenger: for single-handedly developing the style in Chapter V, and then not suing me when I attempted to copy it. My friend and unpaid editor, Rob Christopher: for always giving me his honest opinion of my work. I should also thank my family: Barb, Colin, Dad, . . . and the rest of you, for always supporting me, even when they didn't understand what I was doing. Finally I'd like to thank my one true inspiration, Yeardley Smith, For always just being. . . you. God bless you all. Once again, thanks. Peace.

CHAPTER XX

Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis Travis.

Where were we? Oh yes. Well . . . anyway. I've always wanted to be in boxes and bells and things on her toes. I know what you are thinking right now . . . that I must be totally stoned. But that's not true. Right now I am sitting in a hard desk in an easy class. I should be working on my homework or some such but instead I am writing the first draft of my novel. Funky, eh?

Anyway, I'm sure a lot of you out there have a lot of questions like: "Why did I read this far?", "Why am I still reading this?", "Who is Jack?", "Is Back-head dead or not?", and "Who does Scot P. Livingston think he is?" Well, I'm not going to tell you. Ha!

is a fragment.

Travis! Travis! Are you out there? Who are you? Come to me in a vision of light. I need your inspiration. Help.

Something's burning me. Something's burning my hair and my eyes and my love and my chacras. Are we men yet? Have we gained what we wanted? Are we saying what we mean?

Help me we gotta grotto godoo mmm . . . You are where it's at. Typewriter, typewriter I bless you.

O.K. I'm losing it again. I swear I wouldn't be half as prolific if it weren't for these long boring class periods. "Rewrite this paragraph so it has a point." that's what they say. I don't know.

CHAPTER XXI

Blackjack.

Travis was waiting. Waiting for the light to turn green. He was in his car. A sporty blue car. Slightly dinged on one side as you may recall.

Travis was home. His home. Back-head was cooking bacon. In the kitchen. Smelled real good. Travis salivated. Ate. Nothing on T.V. tonight. Went to bed early.

Travis went to work the next day. Every day. Didn't do much. He was paid to. Very monotonous. Called a few people. Travis turned on the radio. Flipped through the stations. Heard the news. A rhinoceros escaped from the zoo. Travis imagined it walking down the streets of Some-City. In the park. In the library. Getting on a bus. Wearing a suit and tie. Climbing the corporate ladder. Silly Travis.

CHAPTER XXII

Q: Just how old is Travis?
A: Like I said back in paragraph two of Chapter One, Travis is thirty-seven.
Q: Where is this "Some-City" you keep talking about?
A: Actually it is just another name for Pittsburgh.
Q: How did Back-head get her name?
A: From her parents of course.
Q: Why are you writing this?
A: Not for the money, that's for sure.
Q: What is the meaning of life?
A: Yeardley Smith.
Q: Is Back-Head dead?
A: Depends.
Q: Why do you keep referring to that one guy as "Son (from a previous marriage)"?
A: Because that's who he is.
Q: Is this book supposed to make sense?
A: Yes.
Q: How do you say accordion in Swahili?
A: Kinada cha mkono.
Q: Isn't this question and answer section supposed to be helpful?
A: Not really.
Q: How did I end up here?
A: A combination of the choices you have made, fate, genetics, and environment.
Q: Is Elvis alive?
A: How the hell should I know?
Q: Since you and I are really the same person, why are we going through with this charade?
A: Because I told you to, that's why.
Q: How many roads must a man walk down before they call him a man?
A: Just one . . . East Colfax.
Q: When you become famous (because I know we will) are you going to build your little Disneyland, something along the lines of Elvis's Graceland?
A: Probably not.
Q: Who is your favorite author?
A: Right now it's Matt Groening.
Q: Are we all quite ready yet?
A: Huh?
Q: When is this book going to be over?
A: Never! Ha! Ha! Ha!
Q: That's scary.
A: That's not a question. You shouldn't have a "Q" in front of it.
Q: Oh, I'm sorry.
A: That's o.k. So, uh, is there anything else you would like to know?
Q: Yeah. When is this chapter going to end?

CHAPTER

Once upon a time, there lived, in a far away realm, a young man named Travis. Now Travis knew in his heart of hearts that he was really a prince. However, since his father, Shawn, was not a king, but rather a Democrat, most of the townsfolk thought that Travis was just plain crazy.

Then one day, while Travis was out taking a walk in the moonlight, he saw a fair maiden bathing in yonder lake. He thought that she was the most beautiful woman in the world (but then again, who doesn't look beautiful naked in the moonlight?) Little did Travis realize that the nude woman he gazed upon was none other than the Princess Back-Head. Many rich and powerful suitors from around the globe had tried unsuccessfully to win Back-Head's hand. But Travis fell in love immediately, so he ran home to tell his father about it.

His father was very sad when he heard the news. "My son," he said, "your great-grandfather, Jezedial, once stole a magic carburetor form an evil witch. So she cursed him and his posterity. Since then, all the males in our family have been impotent. The only way to win the heart of the Princess Back-Head and break this evil spell is to confront the witch's mechanic. He is now the evil wizard who lives in a castle in the middle of a spooky forest."

Travis, realizing a good plot set-up when he heard one, set out the next day for the wizard's castle. However, Travis had not stepped more than three feet into the spooky forest when he became hopelessly lost. "What will I do now?" sobbed the broken-hearted Travis, who may also start singing a ballad here.

Suddenly, out of the ground appeared a comical talking groundhog by the name of Chug-a-doo. "You seem like a good fellow," chirped Chug-a-doo in a squeaky, high pitched voice, "I will help guide you to the castle." Several days later, Travis finally reached the evil wizard's lair. For lack of a better idea, Travis offered the wizard three magic beans and an enchanted amulet. The evil wizard promptly turned Travis into a goat.

Now Travis was disconsolate. He was sure that Princess Back-Head would never marry him now that he was a goat. Travis just wandered about aimlessly, not caring much where he was going. Eventually he ended up in the Royal Pastures. Princess Back-Head, who just happened to be out there that afternoon playing with the swineherd, saw the little goat come wondering into their field. "Never before have I seen such a noble and proud beast!" declared the Princess, who immediately ran over and kissed Travis on the forehead. Unbeknownst to Travis, the kiss of a true princess has special powers that caused Travis to fall into a deep sleep for 100 days.

While Travis slept, he dreamt about a Fairy Queen who was all dressed in rhinestones. In his dream, the Fairy Queen said to Travis, "You must first cross the scary mountains and then ford the icy river. When you do, you will find a patch of magic crabgrass. If you will but eat of the crabgrass, your ultimate destiny will become truly fulfilled."

When Travis the goat awoke, he and his faithful sidekick, Chug-a-doo, headed off toward the scary mountains. While climbing up one of the most dangerous passes in the whole trek, Travis and Chug-a-doo encountered a large dragon. The large dragon told them that they would have to answer a riddle before they could cross. So the two of them attacked and eventually subdued the dragon. Upon reaching the icy river, the goat and the groundhog debated long and hard about the easiest way to cross the icy river. Eventually they just settled upon swimming across. Upon reaching the far bank, Travis found and ate the patch of magic crabgrass.

Once he had done so, the Fairy Queen appeared to him again. "You are very brave, Travis" she remarked. And then she transformed both Travis and Chug-a-doo back into their human forms. The two laughed heartily during their journey back to Back-Head's castle. While they were walking, Chug-a-doo told Travis about how years and years ago he used to be a prince but a stray spell from a local alchemist turned him into a groundhog. He was told that he could only become a prince again if he did just one act of selfless charity. Travis was very excited.

When the two friends finally did reach the castle, Princess Back-Head fell madly in love with Prince Chug-a-doo. The next month the two of them were married. Cashing in the rather large royalty check from Disney, everybody reprised the big hit song one more time and then lived happily ever after. Until the next chapter . . .

CHAPTER XXIII

Travis agebat ipsum ad domu. Back-head exspectabat sibi cum cena. Cena erat gallinas acetaria et casei jus. Travis, fessimus, vadebat domum. Vomate on me, Dei! Vacca Bovisque. Travis est bonus. Travis est tuum amicum. Veni, vidi, victus eram. E pluribus, pluribum.

"Quo modo agis?", quaerebat Back-head

"Satis bene."

"Cave ne ante ullas catapultas ambules."

"Amicule, delicae, num is sum qui mentiar tibi?"

"Tu videoris fessus."

"Sum."

"Optasne cenam?"

"Ita."

"Et quid potare optas?"

"Lac opto."

"Quid me appelavisti?"

"Itane? Tua mater?"

"When did you learn to speak Latin?"

"Just a few minutes ago."

"Ede stercum et mori."

Days later Travis just forgot Latin. He also just forgot to go to work. In fact, he even forgot how to get out of bed. Despite Back-head's repeated exhortations and numerous demonstrations, Travis just laid there like a lumpy sack of potatoes. Travis was having a crises. He could get up or stay in bed. Either way he'd end up dead.

"Are you feeling sick, honey?", queried Back-head.

Travis turned to his wife of three years and said, "God damn it! Back-head, what's the point? I mean what has kept the majority of mankind from committing suicide for all these years?"

"To be perfectly honest, I really don't know."

"Give me one reason, just one reason to get out of this bed and I will. I need some hope."

"If you get up today you might see a Greyhound bus."

As usual, Travis got up and went to work. He saw not one but two Greyhound buses on the way home that day.

CHAPTER XXIV

Another day, another way to say hey. In my mind I find a kind of reminder to call you. I'm a rhyming fool. You always look dumb to yourself five years later.

(Trying to produce some delicate sound at the expense of my dear aunt grandmother).

Anyway, I was driving home with my father the other day and I saw a Sign. It was for Colorado Quality Muffler Company or something like that, but the important part was under the neon logo. You know that part of the sign that you slide letters into to spell out the special of the month or whatever. Well, on there were written the words "We Hear You." At first I thought it was kind of cute . . . for a muffler shop. But then it started scaring me. I got really paranoid. I started thinking it was some kind of Hitchcock, Stephen King, Twilight Zone type message meant just for me. It was really freaky.

I mean, think about it. Consider the "you" as very singular (and very you) and the "we" as a huge conspiracy that somehow encompasses everyone except you. Gives you gas, doesn't it?

I think I'm going to have a nervous breakdown. I've been trapped at home all spring break because the car is getting repaired. So all that I've done all week is re-watch episodes of "Herman's Head" and "The Simpsons" that I have recorded and I have worked on this novel. Oh well, it really hasn't been that bad. Besides, the car really needed to be fixed. I just can't take this anymore.

CHAPTER XXV

Travel squo flooed kell dror. Dis ho how wuff wed. Awed hiz fruunifur ised runed. Id cauzed im ah uv iz gnu fowned mealth. Duh stear E O wuz ay bigg blag eleadrigal meth. Hiff sun (fro a premious madige) tryid tooo fiks id bud awe in vein.

Sevwall peedle kayn un drobbed ovv meloafs. Ixpurts een kleanin gived idvace ohn reemozing te slobp. Th gubernent di nob offah toooo paye ford ig. Wig Travid thod wiz reellee crumie.

Daze lader Tradis sawed iss dawg drownnd in zuh baizmend (waiter). Id wuz thirst misstaikinn forr a bidgg wit hare-bawl. Id wath sew diskustin' dad Bad-Heaht pued aw ovah.

In fagt, Travid wud quide upsit cudz hiss inshoorans did'n cuvir fludd. No wun gnu y hizz hows flooodid. Dere wis no rayn und nunn of is pypes wer broge. Mayde thuh brix gawt satchurayted an summ how thay reeched a sirten poind and jes leekd. Hoo nose?

Tuh Natinal Quar head tooo bea cod iin tew invezigaitt. Day kud fine noothin rawng wif de howz so a ahl wint oam.

Bawc-hodd wend twoo Lezisz tto reeplayss aw du furnace-chur. Wall shee wuzz der aa big airy manm camed en an helld upp thuh cazhieer. Infordinittly tu cobz cim bidfore duh kroock coo mayd uh gedaweigh whin thaw poweese surrnoundead d billding, tuh mam toog Bag-heed az ay hausage.

Bach-hedge wud a widdle glag toooooo bea awhy froom Trivial, cuzz hee hawd benn sorda moo-D sins tu flud. Budt, Batch-hea didn reely wan tooo spen alll er thyme wit ae rood, obnoxic, ant somwut kriminell strainjur.

Travic, uv cores, wus goinn' mat twying tood raize ke monum forr rannsum. Zon (form a pervious mawwij) doughnategg aa kupel thowsant dowuz, sow Tavis payd oft te gig harry min. Ann thin ee gawd wis nife off tree yeerd badd.

De neckst de Travic wenn to wirc ad guh Bigt Cumpny inn Sunm-Sitee. Hiss code-irkurs herdd wud hapind tood hymn, ond sow day bade dim a kayk. Bug, decuz sumun ind ee offis uz gelus, a caik wz poyzond.

Travlis inded ub en de hostitil, bum lugilee ee ownly aid a smell slize ov cayg. Uthers ind gee orafice, hoo conthoomd kunsideriblee moore, dyed wit een a weec.

Avder aw dadt appind tooooo Trrafis, hee ann Bath-sead recided to ko onn vacuumtion tu te bich. Modely de jes sad awownd twying tood ged uh taan, buj heeee dit splatch arown inn eh oshun abid ohn wun dei.

"Tanx ford uh russt." sed Bag-ed.

"Y, yur walcim." resplended Travid.

"Wud ig du meeny ov lyfe?"

"Wil, darwing, do ee purfektlee honerst . . . Eye reelyy done no."

"Imm sarri." Un den Bash-hen feld aslee in Travesty ahms. Thad nye Traved drivved dem hoam in tiers.

CHAPTER XXVI

We here at the Scot P. Livingston Society are proud to announce that SPLinc. has found and will shortly be publishing one of the late author's first books, Overnight Pacific, to coincide with the 200-year celebration of the author's birth. Long thought to be hopelessly lost, It was just last September found in the attic of one Todd Maaske from Longmont, CO. However, before SPLinc. decided to print the book they wanted me and my colleagues to a.) check it's authenticity and b.) attempt to explain the title, Overnight Pacific, which to the untrained eye would seem to have nothing to do with the book. We have cooked up several theories as to what it all means, and in the spirit of Scot P. Livingston's last and greatest masterpiece, The Complete Unauthorized Autobiography of No One, we will let you the readers decide what it all means.

1.) An obscure Joycean style reference to Scot's grandfather who the day after being married was ordered to serve his country during WWII in the Pacific ocean

2.) A typical Livingston maneuver to annoy and confuse his readership.

3.) A tribute to the first recorded attempt to fight institutionalized fashion. In sixth grade, everyone in Scot's elementary school was wearing Bermuda shorts and T-shirts bearing the rather large insignia "OP" or "Ocean Pacific." Scot's parents, who desperately wanted Scot to fit in socially, tried unsuccessfully several times to get Scot to wear this OP wear. Scot refused. However, it must of lodged in his subconscious brain and later on manifested itself with just a slight variation. (Overnight rather than Ocean).

4.) It is actually the protagonist's middle and last name. In his 1998 novel Free Greenland From Danish Oppression! there is a remark made on page 35 about a handkerchief bearing the monogram T.O.P. (Travis Overnight Pacific?) Scot has a perchance to name his characters some of the stupidest things, and this could just be one of them.

5.) Possibly suggesting a collaboration between Frank Zappa's 1973 album, "Overnite Sensation", and the musical "South Pacific."

6.) Humorous joke that no one else gets about waking up after a rather heavy wet dream.

7.) The word Overnight, like the word Travis, contains the letters V and I, in that order. Seeing as how the chapters are numbered with Roman Numerals, we thought that this was perhaps a clue to especially study chapter VI. However upon a complete and thorough review, we still don't know what Scot was aiming at with that.

8.) Two words picked randomly from the dictionary.

CHAPTER XXVII

Travis was happy, not literally but supposedly. He was supposed to be happy because he had won a cruise to Pennsylvania aboard the good ship "Pennman". He knew he was fated to win because his mom said that he would have good "Pennman" ship someday. The reason he was not as happy as he supposedly was is because he kept up with current events. He knew that Pennsylvania wasn't the island it used to be. In fact it never was the island it used to be and probably never will be. Besides, he already lived there.

Anyway, Travis called out his "Adioses" and "Bone Voy Ajés" to his wife Back-Head (he was offered either two one-way tickets or one two-way ticket) and hopped atop the "Pennman". Minutes later an old gent called out, "Ala Bored!" Now Travis knew just what was in store for cruise cuisine.

That night's entertainment was a comic named Carlos O'Brian. Travis stood up. He could not stand stand-up comedy. He went to his cabin, sat down and watched sit-coms.

Travis may not have known a whole lot about boats but he thought that something was wrong. "It is wrong for a boat to be tied to the same dock it was tied to when it started traveling.", said Travis to the captain.

"Well look who knows so much about boating.", retorted the captain.

Travis went back to his cabin assuming that the captain knew what he was doing.

He decided to sleep on the floor that night. It was rather uncomfortable, but Travis was used to hardships. He wished that he had a corduroy pillow. He had heard that it was making headlines.

After a somewhat intermittent sleep he got up and went to the cocktail bar. You couldn't imagine his surprise when he saw that the bartender was his old teacher from Catholic School, Sister Garbonzo of the Emancipation Proclamation.

"You can call me the Bar Nun." Sister Garbonzo told Travis.

Travis, whose knuckles were already starting to ache again, politely excused himself and decide to make up for the rest of his restless rest.

At sunrise Travis got up and had breakfast. Boring Eggs and Boring Toast, just what he expected. While mulling over breakfast Travis thought to himself, "If I'm going nowhere fast and getting there is half the fun, then going back is the other half and being nowhere is no fun at all."

Being bored himself, Travis decided to complain to the cook. The cook sent him to the Commander-in-Chef, who sent him to the Chairman of the Bored, and finally to the Captain, who said, "Look who knows so much about cooking."

CHAPTER NEXT NUMBER

FEB. 27th Not much happened at work today. Had steak and potatoes for dinner tonight. Watched some Robert Tilton on T.V. and went to bed early.
FEB. 28th Not much happened at work today. Nearly got into an accident today. I was going through the parking lot at Walgreens, when a cop backed out of his space almost smack into me. Oddly enough it was in the same parking lot where I dinged up the car in the first place. I slammed on the brakes and barely missed hitting him. Had Scrambled Eggs and Hash Browns for dinner tonight.
FEB. 29th Not much happened at work today. I think Back-Head is upset at me for something. She tried to bludgeon me with a blue spatula when I came home from work. Maybe she's still upset about my firing my handsome male secretary, Jack, today.
FEB. 30th Spent most of today re-organizing my paper clips. Decided to take Back-Head out to a movie tonight to try and apologize for firing Jack. They must really have grown close the week he worked for me. Now that I think about it, I saw Jack leaving our house, while I was just pulling up, three times that week. He really couldn't type though. About the movie: Once again Tom Cruise has proven himself a very amazing actor!
FEB. 31st Spent most of the day housecleaning (Back-Head's idea). I think she's really upset about Jack. Maybe I should re-hire him. My new secretary, Bambi, just can't take diction. What to do? What to do? Cooked up a frozen Hungry-Man dinner for myself since Back-Head has knitting class on Sat. evenings.
FEB. 32nd Saw my son (from a previous marriage) at church today. He hasn't gone since he was a little altar boy. He told me that since the boxcar derby accident he has had more time to think about Jesus. I think he may have landed on his head too hard. Back-Head is feeling much better now that I have told her that I'm going to employ Jack again. She even promised to do his typing for him. Had meatloaf and asparagus for dinner. She knows that asparagus is my favorite.
MAR. 1st Man, am I in trouble. Jack has moved to Minneapolis. He has got a new job and even a new convertible. Back-Head tried to kill me with a blue spatula again. I swear I shouldn't leave those things lying around the house. Microwaved some Tater-Tots for dinner tonight.
MAR. 2nd Not much happened at work today. Coming home some stupid cops pulled me over for having a busted brake light. They're crazy! You'd think my tax dollars would have something better to do than chase innocent people around all day. I've got to think of a way to fight back.

CHAPTER $13.42

Travis woke up between the bed of his estranged parents. And why not? Art reflects life. Life is influenced by art. Art is life. Life is art. Some people watch TV. It's kind of like a one-way mirror. I can't see my reflection, but my reflection can see me. This book is trying to imitate life. Life doesn't make any sense. This book doesn't make any sense. Life is meaningless. This book is meaningless. I don't understand life. I don't understand this book. Life is carbon-based. This book is rectangular. This book was created by me. Life . . . well, it's possible. This book is schizophrenic. You're schizophrenic. Sybil's schizophrenic. I'm not schizophrenic but some of my other personalities are. Dave Thomas is a great actor. I am a white man trapped in a white man's body. And why not?

Next time you see a commercial remember that someone who thinks of him (or her) self as a real writer wrote that. The jingle was written by someone who fancies himself a composer. It was performed by "musicians" and sung by "singers." These people think that they're serious. And why not?

Think of the orchestra. Everyone of those violinists (and believe me there are lots of them) was their high school's wonder musician. They were first chair and everyone underneath him/her was jealous of their talent. The music teacher thought they could go on to be the next . . . I don't know . . . Paganini. And now they are all playing with hundreds of others just as talented, making enough to get by. Nobody's ever heard of any of them. And they're all jealous of the first chair in an obscure backwater symphony orchestra. They all want to take solos. Most of them could if time permitted, and very well I might add (or at least better than you, who only took lessons for three months and never made it past 11th chair). They become nothing. But what the hell, they don't realize it, so . . .

Why do fools fall in love? The same reason they fall into the Grand Canyon. They don't look where they're going. Why don't fools fall in love with me? Because my sideburns make me unattractive. I don't know.

A man walks into a bar. A man walks out of a bar. And yet the man is still in the bar. Why? Because they are two different separate men. And born that way.

It's kind of like tomatoes. There is no real reasonable explanation why I don't like them, but there's no real reasonable explanation why almost everyone else does.

The audiences of bad TV infomercials are all trying to make a living as actors and actresses and most of them are just barely succeeding. When they all gasp simultaneously as Cliff Henderson, "host" of the TV "show", Things That Happen, pours chocolate milk on a carpet while, Ron Popiel (or some imitator) looks smilingly on, they think they are acting. They think they can act. They think that someday they will be doing "Hamlet" or "Death of a Salesman" or if they're really lucky they will be winning an Oscar for a movie co-starring Tom Cruise, hosting Saturday Night Live, and doing guest appearances on Cheers. Look at them. Every one of them thinks they're a star. That's why I love watching those infomercials.

People who say that truth is stranger than fiction obviously haven't read the right books.

CHAPTER XXVIII

Hallelujah! Jesus loves you! Yes, Jesus loves you! He wants to bless you! But first . . . first you must make a vow! Show him that He's your savior! Gotta make a vow! Make that vow of faith! Be it $1,000 or only $200 or whatever. The Lord knows how much you can give. Don't try and be stingy with the Almighty. Like it says in Malachi: "Will a man rob God?" Will you rob God?!? Will you!!!!!! If you make a vow, God will prosper you. Your financial worries will be over and the windows of heaven will open!! Hallelujah! I . . . I see a man in our T.V. audience. He's . . . he's grieving for the death of his three year old wife. He thinks that there is no way for him to feel better again. Right now he's . . . uh . . . watching this show. Put your hands on your T.V. screen Travis! Do you feel that? I said, do you feel that! That's the power of Jesus working within you! St. Matthew says "Those who mourn will be comforted." And now it's time to thank your Lord Jesus, Travis. Praise the lord! I know times are hard, but if you dig deep and make a true vow of faith, the Lord will prosper you! Hallelujah! mmmmmmm . . . Nogo tawn rey ho. Telimo groucho á tegg. Lomno!!!! . . . Thank you dear God. And . . . and now I see a vision of this young man. This teenager is deeply troubled by something. He . . . He's trying to finish writing the 28th chapter of his novel. The Lord God himself will help you write this book if you just make a simple vow of faith. Ezra 2:13 says "The children of Andokim numbered six hundred sixty and six." Yes. Yes! YES!!!!! The Lord loves you Todd. And he loves you Rob and Nathan and Cheryl and Yeardley and Timmy and Cheryl. And the Lord wants you to make a vow right now! God has promised to prosper you. Don't you want to be prospered? Don't you? Satan! Satan is out there! With his demons! I see him a-whispering to you, "Don't listen to this man. This man is not inspired by God. He's just a crazy-head." Right now he's telling you that you don't have to make a vow to prosper. Are you going to listen to the Father of Lies?!? In the blessed name of Jesus, the Holy and Almighty savior I say unto you Lucifer: Be Gone! We want none of your witchcraft here! Be gone! Be gone! Aaaaaaaaaaaaaarghh!!! Hormel gloucose flido!! Mirmo dougmmah! Ung hiel! Blishma. . . . Did you see that? That wasn't me! That wasn't me! That was the Almighty Jesus talking through me. He wants you to make a vow right now. Amen.

CHAPTER FUD

So, like you know like Travis was you know like totally driving down the you know man the highway man when like dude these you know like cops like pulled him over for like man this little thing dude. You know it was like man his brake lights or something were you know dude like out or something man and so you know like Travis got totally P.O.'ed or something and you know so like the cop dudes like gave him a totally bogus ticket man. And like man Trav you know decided to you know get like even so like he you know just paid for like his whole fine in man like you know those little you know brown circle thingies dude. Man they're like man you know those little small money things that man you know aren't like you know worth anything you know. Like I think like they're like called like pennies or something you know. Right? And then like you know Trav pulled out like you know like this gun and then - cowabunga! - just shot the you know cop guy to like death . . . NOT! Ha-ha-ha. 'Cha! Right? And monkeys might NO! NO! DOWN TO LITERARY CHARACTER HELL YOU ONE-SIDED, TWENTY-FIVE YEAR OLD ACTOR PLAYING A TEENAGE STEREOTYPE!!! I EXCISE THEE FROM MY NOVEL, YOU BLONDE-HAIRED FIGMENT OF AMERICA'S COLLECTIVE IMAGINATION!! I KNOW THAT LIKE HALF OF THE KIDS IN HIGH SCHOOL WANT TO BE YOU, BUT YOU DON'T ACTUALLY EXIST! IF YOU EVER SHOW YOUR TANNED BIKINI-WAXED BUTT AROUND HERE AGAIN, YOU WILL NEVER GET ANOTHER JOB IN THIS TOWN! DO YOU HEAR ME?

dude.

CHAPTER XXIX

Dear Travis,

Long time, no see. What's it been now? Two - three years? Oh well. I guess I should explain to you (and all you readers out there) what's really going on. I'm not really dead, but I did die. I can't explain it. I'm not sure exactly how it works myself. Something to do with Schrödinger's cat and quantum physics. So now I'm kind of co-existing in this plane called the post-semi-afterlife. It's somewhere between Toledo and Akron, and they've got this great little Italian restaurant here. We should go there next time you visit.

Anyway, I've run into a bunch of your old friends here. There's one guy here that really disturbs me however. After he found out that I was your wife, he told me to thank you for not killing him. He said that you probably wouldn't remember his name, but that the words "A-Z Daycare Center" might ring a bell. I wasn't sure if he was joking or not, so I thought I would ask you.

Oh, I should tell you that right after I died, I thought it would be a nice thing if I looked up your sister. She looks worse than she did when she was alive, poor thing. Imagine trying to pick out a wardrobe to last you all eternity that will co-ordinate with plaid.

How's your son (from a previous marriage) doing? I really think you should have given him a real name, Trav. If you're still looking for that gold watch you gave me (I know how tight things can get), I hid it in a secret compartment on the bottom of the third shelf in our hutch, along with some incriminating (if highly arousing) photos of me and Jack.

Are you eating all right? I know that your diet wasn't that good even when I was cooking for you. You should try and eat two types of vegetables with every meal Trav. I'm sorry, but I worry about you a lot. If you want to get re-married that's O.K. with me. I know you were never much of one for the dating game, but hate to think of you all alone doing nothing all day (have you retired yet, or not?) I love you very much. Don't forget to write.

Love & Kisses,

Back-Head

P.S. Toyota is actually an American car company.

CHAPTER OF DEATH

I hate to admit this . . . but I want to die slowly. Most people say that when the time has come for them to go, they want to go quickly and quietly. They also say they want to "try it all before they die", and still not be too old (i.e. over 45), because that's icky.

What's the fun in that? If you've got something like cancer and people know you're going to die in just a month or so, you will then get lots of presents (which you still can use for a while) and you'll get tons of unwarranted compliments and encouragement to keep up your spirits. You'll also get a chance to see all those friends and relatives that you haven't seen in years, who would have only come out for your funeral otherwise. It will be a chance to finally figure out who really cared about you and who was just being hypocritical-nice whenever they saw you. It also gives you a chance to say whatever you truly felt. You could offend anybody you want. What are they going to do to you? Hold a grudge? Stop talking to you? Kill you? HA! You'll be dead in a couple of days anyway. Eventually, though, people will start taking you for granted and act as though you're already dead. They'll start piling up and listing your accomplishments. You'll get to hear the rough draft of your own eulogy. It's the closest thing humanly possible to attending your own wake.

The only problem is that I wouldn't last two hours if I had cancer. When you have cancer (Or AIDS or being a prisoner of War or being stuck in a Nazi Concentration camp or solitary confinement) the only thing that keeps you alive is your desire to survive, a strong will and a good attitude. I was lucky as it was to have survived the three-day Boy Scout camporee. Strong head colds put me on my death bed. Anyway if you got to go, and you do got to go, and that's the way to go.

CHAPTER XXXVII (37)

Eggs
Milk
Chicken Noodle Soup
Dishwashing liquid
Vanilla Ice Cream
Chocolate Chewy Chunks Ice Cream
Ground Beef (for tacos)
Taco Seasoning
Tomatoes
Lettuce
Eggs
Bread
Swiss Cheese
Pork Rinds Lite
Bean Dip
Pistachio Pudding
Flan
Miller Lite
Eggs
Potatoes (5 lbs.)
Instant Flan
Hash Browns
Lots of Oreo Cookies
Shampoo
Garbage Sacks
Eggs

CHAPTER ?

I suppose its time to wrap up this book. I just need an ending. Let's see . . . They all lived happily ever after. No, no, no. It's been done before. I'd probably get sued.

No, Travis has got to die. It's the only nice thing I could do for him. But how? Hmmmmm . . . Travis died of old age. Nah. Travis died of cancer. Not quite. Travis fell on his own sword. Nope. An anvil fell on Travis's head and he died. No way. Travis was beaten to death with a blue spatula by his son (from a previous marriage). Maybe . . . uh, no. Travis noticed that a police car had left its lights on, and so he decided to reach in there and turn them off for the poor cop before his battery went dead. Then he was accidentally shot in the back by Officer Hannock. Right. Sure. NO!!!!!!!!

I know! I could just say: Travis died.

THE END

EPILOGUE

I know, I know, I know! This book didn't make a lot of sense to me either . . . and I wrote it. I was thinking and I don't know why I left so many things out of this book. I felt sorry for all of you who actually read the WHOLE book, only to find out nothing. While I couldn't explain everything in Overnight Pacific to you (that would require another book entirely. And not a very entertaining one). I have decided on the advice of my publisher, SPLinc., to explain the one of most important and pivotal mysteries to you. And I think from there you can guess the meanings behind the rest of the book. Ready, ladies and gentlemen? Here it goes: Back-Head is really a brunette. Are you happy now you little ravenous guttersnipes?!? You can all go kiss my butt!!! Ha-ha-ha! Thank you all for reading me. This was fun.

Goodnight.