The meeting I'd been coerced* (* much like this blog update) into arranging, had finally arrived in the front room of my tiny cottage.
Me: "Foamy, I'd like you to meet my neighbor, Mister Pugsly. Mister Pugsly, this is my cousin Foamy. Be sure to keep her in the locked and upright position until we have reached cruising altitude. I'll be out on the porch with my crack pipe, headphones and pimp hat."
Pugsly: "No offense, old sport, but I left the Rohypnol at my mansion, so let us go there."
Me: "If you like. This is Foamy, so it probably isn't necessary. However, once there, I strongly advise that you not allow her to view clouds or your shirt collection."
We tour Pugsly's impressive mansion and wind up in his master bedroom suite.
Foamy: (Gazing out the window) "I'd like to get one of those pink clouds, put you in it and push you around."
Pugsly: "No offense, old spice, might we wait until we are married for you to push me around?"
Foamy: (Turning her incredibly short attention span to Pugsly's T.J. Maxx shirt collection) "I've never seen such beautiful shirts before!"
Me: (Makes hanging by tie gesture while rolling eyes) "Don't say I didn't warn you."
Foamy: "Is this a scrapbook containing printouts of all my blog postings?"
Pugsly: "I had a lot of free time and Internet access during the war. Anyhoo, why did you marry Mr. Foamy? Why didn't you wait for me?"
Foamy: "Rich girls don't marry canines, don't you know? Plus you were poor. Also, the neutering was a concern. Do you think it was easy for me? Young Lieutenant Pugsly scoots across the carpet and into my life, wearing your romantic uniform that hid who you were ... where you came from ... breaking my heart with your impossible love! Going off to your adventure ..."
Pugsly: "I told you I'd come back for you, in my tweet*. Your Facebook* status indicated that you'd wait." (* Editors Note: Did you notice how I incorporate current technology in order to make this timeless story more accessable to today's generation of hipsters?).
Foamy: (Sobbing into one of Pugsly's T.J. Maxx shirts) "I'd waited so long! Paula Abdul was completely clean and sober by the time I'd given up. We were so close .. in our 3.5-minutes of love. And I couldn't stop crying, but I wouldn't let go of my laptop containing your last blog entry, never knowing if there would be another. I hung onto it and hung onto it ... until ... townsfolk started comparing me to the Log Lady from Twin Peaks."
Later, Pugsly and I converse alone.
Pugsly: "I'll fix everything ... just the way it was before. Just the way I was fixed. She'll see."
Me: "You can't repeat the past."
Pugsly: "Can't repeat the past? Of course you can, old sport! Is Rick Perry not another "W"? Is Herman Cain not another Don King? Is Michele Bachmann not another Sarah Palin? Is Mitt Romney not another John Davidson? Is Ron Paul not another Marshall Applewhite? Is Rick Santorum not another Jimmy Piersall? Is Newt Gingrich not another Newt Gingrich? Is Jesse Jackson not another Puerileuwaite?"
It was when curiosity about Pugsly was at its highest that the lights in his house failed to go on, one Saturday night.
Me: "Today is my birthday. I am 30, once again. And I shall be going to Denny's for my free meal."
Meanwhile the 2-rubes are fighting over global warming and who really invented the Internet, in their government provided former-Vice Presidential lodging over the garage.
Husband: "Maybe you think you can fool me, Tipper. Maybe you can. (gazes out the window) But you can't fool God. God sees everything."
Wife: "That's an advertisement for the Canadian version of 'Breaking Bad'. You're so dumb, you think carbon credits are viable."
Husband: "Let's not fight anymore. Let's stay in and watch 'The Sarah Silverman Show' reruns on Netflix. There's some dangerous drivers out tonight (husband and wife both gaze out the window as Pugsly and Foamy whiz by, mooning the couple)."
I stand in Foamy's driveway as Pugsly pulls up.
Pugsly: "What are you doing here?"
Me: "Just standing here."
Pugsley: "Did you see any trouble on the road?"
Pugsley: "Did the rubes over the gas station look upset?"
Pugsly: "I thought so. I told Foamy I thought so."
Me: "Why didn't you stop?"
Pugsly: Foamy prefers drive-by moonings."
Unbeknownst to Pugsly and I, the rube decides to get revenge.
Me: "The rubes saw your bare asses, and you drove off!"
Pugsly: "All I can see is Foamy's moon. All I can think about is Foamy's moon."
Me: "You ought to go away for awhile, completely off-grid, perhaps to Alberta or Toronto."
CN Tower, Toronto Canada
Pugsley: "I can't leave! She'll be coming just as soon as she can get away."
Me: "Summer's almost over."
Pugsly: "Sad, isn't it? Makes you want to ... I don't know ... reach out and ....dress it in a gimp suit and hold it prisoner in the basement of a pawn shop."
Me: "There'll be other summers. (Pugsly starts walking away toward his mansion) They're a rotten crowd. Except possibly for Lamby. You're worth the whole damn bunch put together."
I'll remember the rest of that day as an endless drill of police and photographers and newspapermen, in and out of Pugsly's house. A rope across the main gate, and a policeman by it, kept out the curious. But little boys discovered they could enter by my yard. There were always a few of them, open-mouthed, about the pool, attempting to scoop out one of the many Snickers bars deposited there by the rube as payback.
Shocked and horrified by what appeared to be a substantial amount of human waste in his pool, Pugsly had recoiled in revulsion, failing to remember that a wood chipper borrowed from the 'Fargo' set was directly behind him.
All I could think of was Pugsly's extraordinary gift for hope. A romantic readiness such as I have never found in the absence of Viagara, and which it is not likely I shall ever find again.
I thought of Pugsly's wonder when he first saw the recycling bin full of empty liquor bottles at the end of Foamy's driveway. He had come a long way to this motley collection of bloggers and misfits. His dream of finding at least one marginally honest and reputable woman must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to escape it once commited.
He did not know that - much like the bizarrely-placed wood chipper from 'Fargo' - it was already behind him.
My cousin Foamy lived in one of Good Egg's glittering white palaces with her husband Mr. Foam, whom I'd known from one of their frequent over-the-top drink-fests. They had spent the years since their marriage drifting unrestfully, not unlike Stephen King's floating vampires from Salem's Lot.
I had the familiar conviction (since overturned on appeal) that life was beginning again with the summer. By autumn, my mood would be very different. No longer would I want privileged glimpses into the blogger heart, provided one could even be located.
About halfway between the two Eggs and New York, the motorway hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a short distance, presided over by the eyes of one Doctor /t.
Quite inexplicably, the good Doctor opted to billboard advertise here rather than in his native Canada. Some would claim it was for the same reasons that "Doctors" from the Hydroxycut and Liposene commercials can never be successfully Googled.
This desolate area is a valley of ashes, a fantastic farm where memes, what-my-day-at-work-was-like posts, and links to YouTube videos grow like shredded, colon-eroding wheat.
Because I hope not to take another year or so to conclude this story, let's agree that a garage / gas station was located in this particular location of misery and despair. Furthermore, allow me to quickly state that a couple of married rubes lived above the aformentioned garage and that these goobers were cruelly toyed with by Mr. Foam. As you may see before year's end, this plot element will lead to tragic consequences involving Leelee's swimming pool and the shocking discovery of a cadaver unlike the human variety that are frequently encountered in that body of water.
Whew! Glad to get that out of the way! Anyhoo, onward.
There was much speculation constantly swirling about Pugsly. Some claimed he was German, rumoured to roll with the Kaiser. Others obsessed with pinpointing the source of his wealth. Did he always take a penny and never leave one? Was it he who marketed bath-salts as crystal meth? Was he once kept by Martha Stewart?
A few lived in fear of him, worrying that Pugsly may get something on them. Serena's penchant for picking up and disposing of men involved in divorce litigation, K-9's anonymous shipments of explosive ornaments to leftist government operatives, and - of course - Lamby's fleet of Bahamas drug-running cigar boats, were all secrets at risk of exposure.
One blogger thought she heard that he had killed a man once for wearing sandals and not being Israeli, or perhaps was a spy for nosy neutral countries during the war. A horny school adminstrator in Texas heard he was into oil, and henceforth she would stalk him incessantly.
And then there were the ladies desperately wanting, many of them rationalizing: "You can't live forever! This means the shame would have an expiration date!"
One morning, a man presented himself at the door of my humble cottage. "Mr Pugsly would be honoured if you'd attend his party". It was at this evening soiree that I would first meet the mysterious stranger.
Pugsly - "How do you do, old sport? I'm Pugsly. Look here, what's your opinion of me, anyhow?"
Me - "I hadn't really thought about it. I normally choose not to participate in surveys."
Pugsly - "I'm the son of wealthy bean-farmers from the Midwest, all dead."
Me - "Well that explains the smell."* (* note how this witty reply works on 2-levels)
Pugsly - "I was raised in America but educated at Oxford. It's a family tradition."
Me - "I thought it was a tradition for MOST families to raise and educate their kids."
Pugsly - "My family died, and I came into a great deal of money."
Me - "Tragedy is no excuse for that type of perversion."