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Pop Culture Mess: They Got Screech!

SCNN has the pleasure of publishing installments from Fisherking’s memoirs. The elusive writer will be updating us on his quest for the Greatest Story Ever Written. To learn more, visit www.popculturemess.blogspot.com

The relentless juggernaut of my intellect pushed onward searching for answers to the mystery unfolding before me. Clues sprang forth like gnats, dancing teasingly beyond the reach of my considerable grasp. Sitting alone in the study, I rubbed my elegantly beefy forefinger across the arm of my chair, drawing a thick, mucousy glob of strawberry jam onto my fingertip and inserting it hungrily into my mouth. From the master bedroom I could hear K-Ro grunting and moaning as he made enthusiastic love to Danica, and she, reaching climax, calling out my name. Suddenly, the fiercely intelligent entomological hunter that is my mind captured one of the metaphorical insects, and I closed my eyes so that it could reveal the truth it concealed.

“Turn on the TV!” K-Ro screamed as he burst naked through the door, shattering my concentration and allowing the insect to escape my grasp. The suddenness of his entrance, combined with my broken concentration and his naturalistic state, rendered me momentarily confused.

“Good Lord, K-Ro,” I finally said, “Is that your penis?”

“Why yes,” he replied, looking down, “That’s Tricky Dick. He appears to be spent.”

“He hardly appears at all.” The pun was not intended, but appropriate.

“Nonetheless, sir, you must turn on the television,” he continued, “There’s been a tragedy.”

I immediately switched on the TV and turned it to CNN. The scene was unimaginable. The flashing lights of emergency vehicles cast a sinister glow on the grounds of the Vick mansion that was darkened by the shadows of the thick plumes of smoke roiling upward and obscuring the bright California sun. Anderson Cooper appeared shattered and heartbroken as he read the names of the hundreds of celebrities who were killed in the bombs that struck the gathering outside the gates of the mansion. I sat dumbfounded and speechless. I could hear Danica softly weeping in the bedroom and I finally turned away from the screen, appalled, and looked at K-Ro.

“Put on some pants, will ya?” I said, my voice cracking.

For the next several hours K-Ro, Danica and I sat watching the news reports coming from the scene of the insidious crime. The death toll was shocking and extraordinary. It was a total loss.

“Oh my God!” K-Ro wept, “They got Screech!”

“Turn it off!” Danica pleaded. I flipped from channel to channel, only to find more accounts of the tragedy. Finally I stopped. Oprah was announcing her newest book club choice. The lights in her studio went dim and Michael Buffer strode to the stage carrying a microphone.

“And now, the newest addition to the Oprah Winfrey Book Club is…How to Hang Out and Screw Hot Chicks by Fisherking!”

I couldn’t believe it. Having won the National Book Award for my previous novels, Intimate Moments and the Men Who Lie About Them and Bulls on Parade: The Rosie O’Donnell Story, I thought that I had attained the highest levels of achievement in my professional life. But this was different. This was Oprah.

“Come on, you guys!” I said, trying to conceal my glee, “We’re gonna be on Oprah!”

“But what about the story?” K-Ro asked.

“Who cares,” I said, “We’re gonna be on Oprah!”

“And,” Michael Buffer continued on the television, “For the first time, Oprah has added a second book to her club, Stephen King’s This Time it Really is Scary, I Promise!”

“What the…?” I said.

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Labels: Anderson Cooper, CNN, Danica Patrick, Karl Rove, Michael Buffer, Michael Vick, Oprah, Pop Culture Mess, Rosie O'Donnell

Posted on June 13th, 2008

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