Chapter 8: Piece & War
Following her "rescue" Maria undergoes traditional g**gb**g by beauty contest judges—Author spends Christmas with Adolf Hitler at Berchtesgaden—Author's heroic (but failed) efforts to end WWII in 1941 & save "not only 8 million fellow Jews from Nazi Death Camps but all those gentile 'spearcarriers' who would perish in a fascist Götterdämmerung."
HAVING (APPARENTLY) DISPOSED of ever last question, issue, problem, controversy and incongruity which needed clarification before this true story could continue without the slightest taint of incredulity, the time has come, dear reader, to rescue poor Maria from the agonizing suspense over whether her 1942 Turnip Tournament Queen prayers would be answered—not to mention the starknakedness—in which we left her standing on that stage so many pages ago.224 After a brief conference the other judges and I unanimously agreed Contestant #23 (as Maria was then known to us in keeping with what was supposed to be the "quasijudicial" role we were playing225) was the winner. Since Ballbraker was the senior panelist he had the Honor & Privilege of draping the floorlength Royal (purple velour trimmed with fake ermine) Cloak over Maria's shoulders. "To signify," he proclaimed to her, "your presumptive entitlement to all of the privileges, prerogatives, perquisites and other emoluments which come, if only for a day, with the wearing of that most coveted crown—" The standard procedure, by which "the winning contestant remains silent and motionless in a suitably regal pose until her cloaking formalities are finalized," was violated when Maria impetuously clutched the Royal Cloak's otherwise unfastenable ends together with her hands; thereby bringing what should have been another 2 or 3 precious minutes of seeing her in a state of at least seminudity to a sudden conclusion.226
"I'm awfully sorry about breaking the rules," she apologized through chattering teeth. "Believe me, gentlemen, I didn't do it because I'm bothered all that much by standing here in the buff for your benefit—but simply to keep from freezing to death now that my girlhood dreams of Turnip Tournament Queendom have all come true!"
"That's the point I was trying to make before you pulled that cloakclosing stunt, you foolish wench!" Ballbraker scolded her. "Those dreams of yours haven't all come true. At least not yet—"
"They haven't!?" Maria exclaimed with a mixture of alarm and curiosity. "But I thought the fact that you—"
"The fact," Ballbraker stated sternly, "is that in addition to this cloaking ceremony there are several other formalities which must be observed before you are officially crowned. Which is why I deliberately emphasized the word 'presumptive' in what began as my explanatory remarks—"
"Maybe we should just start all over again from scratch?" she suggested while indicating with her body language a willingness to either reopen the cloak or let Ballbraker remove it entirely.
"There's no need for that," he said—but only after a telltale pause. "Now that I have your undivided attention we can proceed with what I was about to say several minutes ago. Which is this: The act of crowning you as Moronia's 112th Turnip Tournament Queen can, according to the traditions governing such a solemn transaction, only occur after: (a) The virginity you claimed on your entry form has been duly verified—"
"Why would I lie about a thing like that in a country where everyone—especially its FIB Director—knows exactly when, where, how and with whom a Moronette loses her innocence?"
"—and;" Ballbraker continued, ignoring what he knew was Maria's irrefutable argument in order to trump her with his "(b) That said verified virginity is thereafter freely placed by you at our complete disposal not only as a gesture of gratitude on your part for the honor we are bestowing on you but, more importantly, that your rite of passage from maiden- to womanhood should be supervised by men who are old and wise enough to fully appreciate the pricelessness of the gift you are bestowing upon them."
"Well, if that's all that stands between me and my crown," Maria purred, "is there anything that stops us from disposing of (a) and (b) right here and right now?"
"What you are suggesting is highly improper, young lady!" Ballbraker said (but only after another incriminating pause). "As a result of all that malicious gossip some years ago about the socalled 'hankypanky' going on between the Turnip Tournament Queen contestants and their judges227—these preinvestiture matters are now conducted in accordance with The Revised Rules For Procedures (a) & (b). Pursuant to which we will consummate them upstairs on a certain article of furniture [actually an old "casting" couch] reserved for such special occasions in the theater manager's private office—the only key for which has been entrusted to me in my dual capacity as Chief Jurist and Master of Crowning Ceremonies." Thereupon he offered his arm to Maria; which she accepted with an elegance not unlike that of a genuine Princess being escorted to the throne where her longawaited sovereignty is about to become a political fait accompli. And, with General Schwank and I bravely bringing up the rear as a "somewhat abbreviated but not lacking in loyalty228 entourage," we all climbed our way to the theater manager's office. Where—while Maria made herself "comfortable" on the aforementioned casting couch in a "cozy little love nest" hidden229 behind one of the walls containing an extensive (by Moronic standards) collection of (mostly paperback) books concerned (appropriately) with the performing arts—Ballbraker announced the "batting order" by which we would take our turns "scoring in the most lopsided slugfest since the Yankees sent Lazzari, Gehrig and Ruth to the plate in their 1932 World Series sweep of the Cubs."230 As a matter of birthright ("After 5,000 years of watching the Persians, Greeks, Romans, Huns, Visigoths, Mongols, Turks, Slavs and Crusaders plunder our choicest female fruit it's time we Morons did some cherrypicking of our own!") and by virtue of his seniority ("I'm afraid this is a case of age before beauty, boys!") Ballbraker chose himself the leadoff hitter, with General Schwank in the on deck circle and me in the cleanup slot.
† † †
At this point, dear reader, for reasons of delicacy231 I will spare you the squalid details of what transpired in the theater manager's "cozy little love nest."232 It is sufficient to say that, mercifully for all who were involved, the entire affair lasted less than 10 minutes. At the end of which time, most of you should be pleased to learn, it was debatable who had gotten the better of whom; with Maria's 3 "Don Juans" feeling as if their "family jewels"233 rather than her maidenly virtue had been literally put through the wringer of a primitive manhood rite (or one designed by some Feminist From Hell), while she emerged from (what should have been) a nightmarish chain of copulatory events as fresh as the proverbial daisy! And, although the prize she received for enduring (what we hoped would be) the most degrading of indignities consisted of having a cardboard crown (whose aluminumfoil covering had seen better days) placed—rather unceremoniously as it happened234 —upon her head, Maria wore it as if she were no less a queen than England's Elizabeth or Russia's Catherine the Great.
ALL OF WHICH BRINGS US, at long last, back to later that same Christmas Eve when, after I'd been "escorted" to his headquarters by a Gestapo squad, General Schwank wined&dined me while we waited for the mysterious "Bigshot from Berlin" to arrive. And, when he finally did, just before midnight, Schwank and I were more than a little astonished to see Joachim von Ribbentrop, Hitler's Foreign Minister, standing before us wearing a set of aviator's coveralls—under which he was formally attired in white tie&tails! "I apologize for my tardiness, gentlemen," this most dapper of Nazis said, "but while flying over Transylvania (of all places!) Luftwaffe Eine235 not only encountered some nasty weather—a squadron of Spitfires tried to shoot us down! Apparently the RAF thought the Führer was making a trip to Moronia and launched a long distance suicide mission from one of its bases in North Africa." Having regained his composure Schwank started to introduce us but Ribbentrop waved him off with a hand gesture. "There is neither the time nor the need for any formal introductions, General. I'm sure Herr Goldberg knows who I am. And, after spending the last fortnight going over his dossier with a fine tooth comb, I couldn't be more intimately acquainted with him! So, without beating around the usual diplomatic bush, Mister Ambassador, allow me to present you with this document—which will make plain the reasons why it is being delivered by a 'messenger boy' of my exalted rank!" And, with a click of his heels, he handed me a square white envelope addressed to "The Honorable American Ambassador to Moronia" in a handwriting I immediately recognized as that of Adolf Hitler.236
Upon opening it I found the following combination Christmas card, party invitation and personal note inside—237
"I can assure you," Ribbentrop said, "this isn't an elaborate hoax."
His reading of my mind was almost as disconcerting as my reading of Hitler's note. "I will need some time to discuss this highly unusual development with my superiors, of course—"
"Not if you construe this invitation as a strictly personal affair between you and Hitler," Ribbentrop suggested. "Besides which," he pointed out, "since it is already Christmas morning in Washington I doubt if anyone with the authority to advise you on such a matter would be sitting behind his desk."
"Nevertheless—"
"You can send a message explaining the reasons for your sudden holiday visit to Berchtesgaden from Luftwaffe Eine's state of the art Command&Control communications equipment during our flight to the Reich."
"I suppose that's a possibility, but—"
"No buts about it, Herr Goldberg. Given your famous photographic memory you should be capable of encrypting a cable without using the secret code books we less gifted mortals must carry around with us for such emergencies!" Ribbentrop joked. Then, looking at his watch, he said "I'm afraid I must insist that if your decision is not forthcoming within the next 60 seconds—from now—it will be assumed you have chosen not to take advantage of this once in a lifetime opportunity."
"Now just hold your goddamn horses!" I exploded. "This bum's rush you're giving me might work on those thirdrate countries you krauts are used to pushing around but I happen to represent the United States of America!"
"Of course you do, my young friend," Ribbentrop replied calmly—and without looking up from his watch—"But that fact doesn't alter the question you must answer. Namely, which of these crossroads will you take: The one fraught with the most perilous uncertainties but whose potential for making history couldn't be more pregnant; or the one leading back to what you have described as 'the safety that comes from being stranded in the absolute middle of nowhere European mapwise?' Maybe," he added, "it would help if you considered Napoleon's advice about women and empires never being won by men who sit comfortably in an armchair while calculating their chances of success in either of those 2 most masculine of endeavors." While it galled me to agree with him, my Nazi adversary was right. As things now stood, what did I have to lose—except a life which seemed fated to end banglessly if it continued on its present course? Which I had every reason to believe it would.
"All right," I said, "we've got a deal."
"And with only 1 second to spare!" Ribbentrop exclaimed. "I must congratulate you on both your sense of timing and your talent for theatricality. Or did you think my deadline was a bluff? If so, for future reference—and in particular when playing poker with the Führer—let me assure you that 4letter word isn't part of the National Socialist vocabulary. As our European neighbors have repeatedly discovered to their sorrow since Germany announced its intentions of unilaterally revoking the Versailles treaty and pursuing its 'manifest destiny' to become a global superpower."
"I'll bear that in mind, Mister Foreign Minister," I replied. "And for your information, sir—once an opponent folds his cards no American poker player would ever reveal whether he was or wasn't holding a winning hand."
"Leaving aside the issue of who was the first to fold just now, Herr Goldberg, I will treasure this valuable knowledge you've given me concerning a game you Americans are so famous for playing," Ribbentrop stated with more than just a hint of Old World ridicule in his voice. "But enough of this verbal jousting, sir. The time has come for us to be on our way!"
"We'll have to stop by my apartment at the embassy so I can freshen up and change these stale clothes," I told him. Not only for face saving purposes but because after what had been a long and eventful day I didn't want to show up at Hitler's front door looking—and smelling in those predeodorant days—like one of the refugees shown fleeing the Nazi blitzkriegs of Poland, France and Russia in the newsreels filmed by Dr. Goebbels' Ministry of Propaganda cameramen.
"There's no need for us to do that, my friend" Ribbentrop countered.
"Oh?"
"We assumed such a contingency might arise. Accordingly, in addition to the unprecedented privilege of allowing you to use his personal lavatory on board Luftwaffe Eine—which includes your choice of either a shower or a kingsized tub—the Führer has persuaded Reichsmarshal Goering (whose size and sartorial proclivities you share238) to place at your disposal a halfdozen of his prewar Bond Street tailored civilian suits; among which I'm confident you will find one that strikes your fancy. Which, as we Germans say—is an offer even those who most mistrust our humanitarian motives can't refuse."239
"In that case, as we Americans say: Let's get this goddamn show of yours on the goddamn road—or in the goddamn wild blue yonder!—as the case may be."
DURING OUR 8 HOUR FLIGHT—throughout which Ribbentrop slept like a log—I occupied myself mentally rehearsing the most plausible of the scenarios that might unfold when the Führer and I took off our kidgloves and got down to brass tacks (or, more probably, knuckles). Everything I had read about Hitler convinced me I would be dealing with a peerless master in the art of bullying the most muscular of his adversaries, let alone those 97pound diplomatic weaklings Neville Chamberlain, Edouard Daladier, Emil Hácha, Kurt von Schuschnigg, Eduard Benes and Wilhelm Miklas. Even that arch browbeater, Benito Mussolini, dreaded his meetings with "the Hun from Hell," to whom he had so foolishly hitched his fascist wagon. Only Francisco Franco managed to withstand the Führer's sturm und drang histrionics—a situation which frustrated Hitler that much more because of the support he had recently given to his "fellow dictator" during the Spanish Civil War. (After wrangling with El Caudillo for "what seemed like an eternity" over his persistent refusal to let German troops participate in an attack on the British stronghold at Gibraltar, Hitler later complained he would "rather have 3 or 4 teeth pulled than go through such an ordeal again."240) Franco's strategy for stonewalling Hitler's demands was to follow the advice a Jewish mother gives to her tearful son when he reports some schoolyard antiSemite called him a "Christkiller," "Kike," "Hymie," "Hebe," "Mockie," "Yid" and/or "Dirty Zionist bastard"—
Sticks and stones
may break your bones
but names can never hurt you.
Expressed in realpolitik terms these humble words of maternal wisdom become those stated by Machiavelli in his History of Florence: "When it comes to affairs of state—and love!—the louder a man rants and raves about the size of his cudgel, the smaller it usually is when he is forced to put up or shut up." Or, as Teddy Roosevelt could say with confidence when gunboat diplomacy was still an irrefutable fact of geopolitical life in Central America, among other places in the Western Hemisphere: "Speak softly and carry a big stick." And, although Uncle Sam's naval stick was by no means as big as it had been before the Japanese sneak attack on Pearl Harbor, America's industrial masculinity remained unrivaled by that of all the Axis powers combined. Given enough time the "arsenal of democracy" would—as it did in our civil war when the factories of New England finally brought the nimbler Confederates to their knees—overwhelm its more artful enemies with the sheer weight of the armaments it produced. Even more to the point, unlike the terror tactics he used so successfully against the Austrians, Czechs, French and British at Munich and Berchtesgaden Hitler could hardly threaten the Untied States with a declaration of war card he had already played 2 weeks earlier.241
But of all the scenarios I contemplated on that Christmas morning in 1941, the simplest and most obviously applicable was that in which I played David to Hitler's Goliath. And, if that chapter of ancient history were to repeat itself I would need a miracle no less Biblical than that by which the boyish Israelite smote the gigantic Philistine from Gath with a single stone hurled from his shepherds' sling. Thus, dear reader, it happened that: As young David went forth to slay the Philistine who was then the incarnation of uncircumsized godlessness armed with only a staff, a pouch of stones and a slingshot242 so too did I, Mordecai Goldberg, set off to wage a one man war against the forces of iniquity epitomized by this "Aryan" Superman with nothing but my Jewish belief in the efficacy of mind over matter!
Book Two Chapter 8 Part 2 Return to Index
Footnotes
224 While my treatment of Maria might appear churlish the argument can be made that: The prolongation of her torment was justified in poetic terms for the way it approximates those "eternities" experienced now and then by the most ordinary people during what seems to them like chapter- or even novellength exploits224s1 in their normally less than noteworthy daily lives; but which, as a matter of cold chronological fact last no more than a mere moment or 2.
225 In a country whose entire population was less than that of Grover's Falls, New Hampshire or Winesburg, Ohio the identity of the Turnip Tournament Queen contestants was no secret to a lifelong resident of Moronia like Jedgar Ballbraker who, in addition to the tabs he kept on them as FIB Director, was personally familiar with every single one of his fellow Morons. Being relative newcomers to Moronville, General Schwank and I were (for the most part) completely impartial when it came to any biases we might have shown toward those contestants with whom we previously had (or hoped now to have) a compromising relationship. But even if a corrupt thought or 2 had crossed our minds I doubt it would have changed our vote. It is a tribute to what was her truly dazzling beauty that, after we became (more or less) thoroughly jaded by seeing 22 (by no means unattractive) Moronettes fully revealing themselves one after another to 3 perfectly strange men, when Maria's turn came it was as if she were the very first starknaked woman any of us had ever seen.
226 The paradoxical effect of which being: Since she was no longer nude her facial expression lost virtually all of its erotogenic significance; whereas before she hid herself so completely within that cloak the sight of her undraped body so preoccupied the strange men to whom she fully revealed it they were oblivious to the even more beatitudinous show she was putting on for them above her neck!
227 To rank and file Morons all the pomp & circumstance surrounding the choice of their Turnip Tournament Queen was "nothing more than an elaborate charade to legitimize the g**gb**ging of some prize jailbait—for which poor slobs like us would spend a year of Sundays in the slammer if such a perverted idea even crossed our minds!" These preWWII complaints about the hypocrisy and misconduct of Moronia's public officials are ancient history now. As we Americans learned to do while descending into what were the previously unthinkable depths of White House sleaze where both of its occupants are potential targets of criminal allegations ranging from obstruction of justice, perjury, real estate fraud and inside cattle future trading to a prePresidential attempt to extort sexual favors from a state of Arkansas employee (with one count of indecent exposure!) our Moronic counterparts have drastically lowered their criteria for what constitutes the high crimes & misdemeanors of their most exalted politicians.
228 When, in point of prurient fact, no more treacherous (or hornier) villains ever conspired to distress a damsel—under the dastardly pretext of saving her from being ravished later by some rapeminded runofthemill Moron with nothing to offer in exchange for the precious gift she was giving him but his failure to impregnate her with a brat—if she were lucky!
229 Accessed by pressing against the spine of a volume entitled The Complete Plays of Michel de Ghelderode—a book which even the most avid collector of dramaturgical esoterica (and/or especially the Theater Manager's wife) would be tempted to reach for.
230 Notwithstanding their habitual use of baseball metaphors, their infatuation with anything American and their fondness for peanuts, crackerjacks, crowds and home team rooting, the Morons have come to regard our national pastime as "one whose petty pace and tactical nuances leave us in a state of tedium similar to that produced by a performance of Wagner's Ring Cycle—or any of Chekov's plays." An opinion which, for different reasons and despite the Ken Burns/PBS 18hour elegy ("[whose] bulging length," according to Time Magazine's, Richard Zoglin "and rhapsodic tone become wearying, even for a diehard fan.") to Those Boys Of Summer, is now shared by millions of mainstream Americans who, since the advent of free agency, find it impossible to know on an almost daily basis which players comprise their home team without consulting a program.
231 And to advance a "plot" which, despite what at times must seem like its interminable and frustrating digressions, is—trust me my dearest reader —moving you and I inexorably toward that Happiest Of All Happy Endings (at least literary loveaffairwise) when what began as the GrandCanyon sized sociocultural gap separating us is finally narrowed to a point where our minds can meet in the kind of (more or less) complete intellectual equality unattainable by those who write and read the trashier bestselling novels.
232 For those who feel their curiosity over this distasteful episode must be satisfied, they may do so by reading Chapter 117, verses 12-33 of The Moronic Chronicles—wherein a g**gb**ging of the original Bimbeauxs (Kÿz•Mëé & Læ•Mëé) is described in terms sufficiently lurid to discourage its attempted repetition by even the most ignorant of Morons.
233 Ibid. for the specifics of that diabolical hex Dä•Dä placed on the genitalia of his wayward daughters to prevent any man (or beast) from enjoying his lustful ways with them in the event he somehow scaled the unclimable slopes of Old Smoky; on whose Edenesque top they had been condemned to spend the rest of their lives in exile and celibacy for the scandalous acts they so foolishly allowed Bä•Däz to perform on them by swallowing his "I'm an enchanted Prince who's been turned into a phallicshaped fish" story hook, line & sinker.
234 No sooner did Ballbraker complete the coronation ceremony than he fled the scene, claiming his suddenly remembered "need to do some last minute Christmas shopping." In reality, of course, unlike Schwank and me who, as newcomers to Moronia, couldn't be held responsible for our ignorance about the health hazards involved when fornicating with what Tacitus called "the most beautifully disguised boobytraps a Roman soldier was ever likely to encounter," the only excuse he could have offered was to admit his list of "conquests"—which, according to him, contained the names of Moronia's entire adult female (and, unlike mine, a significant number of its male) population—had hitherto not included a single one of that country's 2 or 3 dozen (depending on whether one counted those who insisted their "irresistible allure" was that of any other normal Moronette or -ess") Bimbeauxs.
235 The precursor of our Air Force One, Luftwaffe Eine was a Fokker Trimotor converted into what for those early days was the cutting edge of airborne CommanderinChief chic. A sitting duck in combat situations, even during the Führer's domestic flights, Luftwaffe Eine was always escorted by a formation of Focke-Wulf 190s piloted by the cream of Germany's aerial aces.
236 As a result of having recently read Ballbraker's autographed ("My Dear Jedgar—When it comes to the crimes committed against them by international Zionism the disparity between our 2 countries sizewise is inconsequential. Long live the solidarity of Germany and Moronia against their Jewish persecutors! Yours, as always, Adolf H.") copy of Mein Kampf.
237 Since the original envelope and its contents—which were sent by me to Washington for intelligence purposes—have still not been returned, these facsimiles were reproduced from memory. As for their accuracy, I think you will agree even someone who isn't blessed with photographic recall would forget the smallest detail of such rare artifacts. Nevertheless I fully intend to sue the government over my ownership claim not just for credibility purposes but to use the proceeds derived from selling what are (second only to the set of nude pictures taken of an allegedly circumsized Hitler during his 1914 preinduction army physical) the most highly prized items of Führer memorabilia ever put on the auction block. Not, dear reader, that I would seek to enrich myself with what has to be the bloodiest of all blood money. No. The proceeds will be used to place stainless steel mirrors at the entrance of every concentration camp still standing so tourists visiting them can see who is responsible for the atrocities mankind continues to commit—-if not in the name of Nazism, to advance the more politically correct agenda of ostracizing (rather than exterminating) such perennial untermenschen as the "literary" novelists, "longhaired" composers, "degenerate" painters, "elitist" poets, "highbrowed" housewives (or "brainy" blondes) and, of course, all those other "troublemakers," "misfits" and "morons" whose obstinate refusal to accept the dogma of mediocracy is a personal insult to everyone who calls him(or her)self an average Swede, Pole, German, Swiss, Pakistani, Scot, Hungarian, Serb, Cuban, Croat, Uruguyan, Czech, New Zealander, Frenchman, Spaniard, Albanian, Slovak, Norwegian, Dane, Lithuanian, Italian, Russian, Chinese, Indian, Kenyan, Philippino, Australian, Canadian, Mexican, Portuguese, Bolivian, Japanese, Saudi, Argentinian, Irishman, Bosnian, Guatemalan, Peruvian, Chilean, South African, Iraqi, Rwandan, Honduran, Panamanian, Columbian, Brazilian, Cretin, Nicaraguan, Briton, Greek, Israeli or American which cannot be left unpunished.
238 As it turned out Ribbentrop was exaggerating. In 1941 I wore a 44 long while Goering's Bond Street suits were at least size 48. A mismatch —no doubt arranged by Hitler—that would contribute to the impression I was a boy being sent on a man's errand. (On the positive side of that equation, however, the roominess of Goering's attire added a certain "lean&hungry" edge to my mental faculties which had become dulled by the gourmandizing I did to compensate for the lack of sociocultural nourishment available in Moronia.) As for my "sartorial proclivities"— which included an old 2tone sportjacket and raccoon overcoat from my undergraduate days at Princeton—they were ridiculously tame by comparison to the bizarre theatrical costumes the Reichsmarshal wore when at home in his larger than life castle, Karinhall.
239 Ribbentrop's "unrefusable shower and change of clothes" offer was, of course, the same one used later by the SS Einsaztkommandos when enticing their "mistrustful of German humanitarianism" victims into the gaschambers at Auschwitz.
240 Count Ciano's Diplomatic Papers, ed. by M. Muggeridge, London, 1948, p.402
241 Although, as we shall see, the former Austrian corporal who, in 1938, proclaimed himself CommanderInChief of Germany's armed forces, had more than 1 ace hidden up his sleeve. And while this consummate act of villainy didn't upset my analytical applecart or have any appreciable effect on the outcome of WWII, the victory of Good over Evil would be marred by a footnote dealing with the question of whether the crimes committed by Germany—that most civilized of nations—in pursuing its racial purification policy would leave the mark of Cain (in the form of a Nazi swastika?) forever branded on mankind's collective brow.
242 And a recordbreaking quantity of chutzpah that wasn't surpassed until 1973 when Richard Nixon went on television and gave his "I'm not a crook" speech to a nationwide audience still unwilling to believe an American President could have been the "brains" behind what he himself described as "a thirdrate burglary."
Subfootnotes
224s1 Such as falling in love, child birth, falling out of love, hearing the triumphant resolution of those 7 falling notes in the Adagietto of Mahler's Fifth Symphony, reading the first sentence of A Death In The Family and/or any other Great American Literary Masterpiece—or that boldest of all "everyday" adventures: Plunging one's self headlong into what could be the fatally (in a socalled "culture" where average housewives who brazenly exhibit their intellectual aspirations become targets of the lynching animus aimed at those "uppity niggers" in postCivilWarDixiewise) deep waters of NeoEgalitarian Autodidacticism.