Roses are red, violets are blue.
That's what they tell me,
because I'm blind.
So ended Johnson Flot's first and last novel. He called the comedy
You Miserable Blind Bastard and set out at once to find
a publisher. The Bantam rep said "Mr Flot, this sucks.
You can't go around writing derogatory books about blind people!.".
Flot replied, "But that's the beauty of it! Blind people
can't read it, and we can all have a hearty laugh at the expense
of their miserable blind hides! Ha ha! Don't you get it?"
"But it's cruel!", blabbered the Bantam rep,
and promptly threw Flot out on his flub-chunky bum. Flot dragged
his bum to Del Rey. The Del Rey rep let Flot talk for a full
1.8 seconds (Okay, I've wrote this book that makes fun of blind
"people"...) before he was punched in the head,
kicked in the groin, and thrown out the second story window.
Only later did Flot find out that the Del Rey rep, whom he assumed
to be just another attractive woman with thick sunglasses, was
actually a former U.S. Marine drill sergeant, whose eyes had been
dissolved by an experimental army visine ("Gets the EYE
out!" was the joke that caused her to kill a marine comrade
and get court-martialed). Doubleday, Arbor House, Viking and
Dell all rejected Flot within seconds of hearing his proposal,
causing him to become despairingly discouraged.
Ready to give up, Flot got on a bus to go home. Feeling spiteful,
he walked up to a blind woman and put his penis in her hand.
"Its such a cruel world." said the blind woman.
"Why's that?" leered Flot. "Well, here
we are. Me born with no eyes, and you with no nail on your thumb."
Flot gurgled in outrage. He grabbed the blind woman's cane and
beat her until it broke. Then, he grabbed her prothesis and beat
her about the face and neck until her head fell off. "Ha
ha ha! Who's laughing now?!" screamed Flot hysterically.
This touched off a riot on the bus, and when everyone was done
laughing, they tried to chase Flot down, but he was already off
the bus and running toward downtown.
Flot, with his manuscript clutched to his meager chest, wandered
for weeks without food, eating alley rats and small children who
wandered away from their parents. Finally, near dead from swallowing
too many diapers, Flot came across a run-down shack of a building.
Above the shack was a sign, "Microsoft Press."
On impulse, Johson ran inside and asked to see the publishing
representative. The pretty young receptionist was blind, so Flot,
being cautious, did not mention the content of his manuscript
to her. He did snicker at the dozens of post-its saying
Kick me! and I won't even know it if you stare at my
tits, and the like, stuck randomly about her clothing, presumably
by prank-playing colleagues. The receptionist felt her way into
the rep's office. "Mr Foster, there's a man here to see
you" said the receptionist before someone tripped her.
Mr. Foster, bottle in hand, was relaxing in his office and daydreaming
about marketing a perfume called Foster Homme while casually
vomiting into his drawers (the drawers in his desk, not in his
pants). "Mr Foster," said Flot, "I've
written a book about... programming for Windows. I'd like to
have it published."
"Ah! Good! We only have 37 so far. Great! But
what about this title? Its too baroque for a book about programming."
said Mr. Foster.
"It's a soft-sell." blurted Flot. And so, You
Miserable Blind Bastard was published. Johson received a
check for $11.50 from Microsoft Press and began work on his second
book, Real Men Don't Use Wheelchairs. About this time,
approximately one month and two days after the publication of
Flot's first book ("A Milestone." read the review
by Mortimer H. Love, president of the Louisiana chapter of White
Supremacists Against Those Lousy Impaired People), Flot began
to feel the true effects of his work.
The book was brought to the attention of the president of the
Visually Challenged Women of America with PMS (the VCWAPMS),
who organized a rally outside of Flot's house. "Go Away,
you stupid blind sperm-banks!" yelled Flot, and he threw
bricks at them, laughing because they didn't know when to dodge.
Just then, from around the corner came a pro-Flot rally of Women
With Narcolepsy Against Blind People (WWNABP). Together,
using fists, rocks, blow-torches and fast-moving cars, Flot and
the WWNABP nearly succeeded in fighting back the tide of blind
people. In fact, the battle was going so well, that Flot yawned.
Disaster struck. Immediately, Flot's whole army began yawning
and fell asleep. Flot, sensing his impending doom, made for his
car, but was tripped up by a short, blind midget with a really
good sense of smell. The rest of the blind women immediately
gathered round and tied Flot to a fire-hydrant. The blind women
all had good laughs when the doggies came round for the evening
watering. Drenched in his own blood, and the urine of (gah!)
Other People's Dogs, Flot began to wail for help, but twas to
no avail. The president of the VCWAPMS gagged him with a piece
of doggie dookey and plucked his eyes clean out of his head out
with her high heels. Flot tried to scream, but they cut off his
Flot's world began to spin as he lost buckets of blood. The women
wrote huge filibustering brail messages in the street with rusty
thumbtacks and bits of broken glass, and forced Flot to read them
with all his face. Sentence after sentence he read, and still
the women would not release him. He thought he was going to die
when he recognized the beginning of "Now is the time for
all blind men to grope to aid of their country," but he was
saved by the police.
At the federal trial, Flot confessed to everything, and even pooped out the children's diapers to corroborate his epic. The judge passed sentence and locked Flot up in a jail full of blind men for billions of years. When Flot emerged, a very old blind man who could not even accept hand-outs, he died.
January, 1993 - David Holmes.