S.P.D. was here: this novel was written by Spoonfed Pumpernickel Dawn Esq.

‘Ol George Magoopie, that’s who.

Have you seen him? Have you seen the man standing at twilight by the dark edge of the bay's waters? He who cuffs his collar wide. He sits like a temple. Like a great god. I have no idea what to say to him. Cuckoo. Who is he? Who-o?

He is me.

I know him. Who are you, stranger? We are trying to make this clear for the people, and you are scaring them somewhat. What are you? Who are you?

I am you, I am you.

Well, what is this about the people being scared?

They are scaring themselves. You already know that. I am waiting. You already know that, too.

Well, what can you give us?

A story.

Well, OK, then.

...Once upon a time there was a baby born in a trailer park in the wrong part of town (“holy shit he’s going for it, he’s going to type it, I mean, I’m like his best friend and he’s been talking about this for years and years”). This baby was born into a shitty family. This baby was named Baby George Magoopie, of the Magoopies, who lived at the far backside of Loop 4, Trellice 2, in the lovely, loose-gated Liverlively Trailer Park. Baby George Magoopie, me, basically, once he was older and wiser and had a spouse and kids of his own to keep up with, didn’t like the sound of the band JOURNEY, unless it was the love of his life singing one of their songs at the top of her lungs in the kitchen adjacent him, reminding the kids and he himself, the very writer, Mister grown-up by now Baby Magoopie, that his wife, their mother, the honorable Mrs. Magoopie, didn’t have the best voice: but, that it was, in fact, good enough, just as it is good enough, I guess, here, to begin the next best American novel. Nope, he didn’t enjoy the sound of the band JOURNEY, unless in that specific context. Enough, enough- oh gawh, gawh- they’re all over each other, these two. The writer and his one and only. Kids, eat your spaghetti. Oh gawd, look at ‘em, they don’t even know the difference between happiness and each other. Kids, eat your spaghetti, respect your origins.

But, but.

“Oh, I love ‘er,” he’s dawdlin’.

Kids, eat your spaghetti.

Oh, what is all of this nonsense, me sitting here typing away? Like they tried saying Kerouac was doing, those horrible columnists, saying he only typed and didn’t write: well, why not just type? I’m just typing. Warning: highly gifted typer sitting at his own kitchen table typing. Warning.

I gotta say I think I might be finding my voice, why, all this typing nonsense and what not seems to be leading me somewhere concrete. This must be how it was during the pantheon’s clash with the Titans. Shots out into nothingness. No typoes. No mistakoes. Nothing. Boom. Boom. Boom. Or, what’s that? Boom. Boom? Something’s coming, it’s our kids, oh shit, hide the pot, babe.

Yes, and I am now focusing poignantly on the keyboard and my fingers typing because I just noticed as I typed the above paragraph that there is a goddamn fly in the kitchen and this in turn caused me to turn up all my senses to overdrive. Blasted! Who in the goddamn motherfucker let this motherfucker in? Who? Well, I just had the back doors open not too long ago. Was airing out the place after burning my tortillas. Must've come in with the rats, the buggers.

Anyway, this is no game. No playing around here, thank you. The freeflow of nonsense is what the world is made up of, thank you. No, thank you, it’s not judgement that’s passed, but gas gas gas.

Why, you ignorant bastard. Who in the motherfuck do you think you are spending time writing this nonsense? And then posting it? Clarify this to me sir, for this is a horrible, horrible exhibition of a mind capable of enormous, ignoramus-like clarifications, or, unclarifications: who is your main character, and what does he do? He is an American typewriter. He types.

Ah, dear. I only took one laxative, then I turned on my new laptop, then I found, on Microsoft Word, where I tend do my first drafts, the font AMERICAN TYPEWRITER. And that really just set me off, just watching the words go, memories fuckall. So pleasant, this font. Like a pretty lady’s face on the body of a page. Like my dreams sprouting wings and meeting me in newly-weathered Tahiti, cause I’m about 189 lbs. Like, like, like.

I knew I shouldn’t’ve written this damn thing. I felt all constipated but without anything real to say. I blame the fontset. Blame the fontset. I warned you. Damn typer, sitting in his own kitchen, typing away. Somebody give him back his Proust or his James Joyce. The Muse took it away from him after he was spending all day, every day, reading and re-reading Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. On a side note: did you know that at the time of his sketching the first drafts of A Portrait, James Joyce and his partner Nora were staying only miles away from the Castle in which, contemporarily, Rainer Maria Rilke was writing his poetic masterpiece, entitled The Duino Elegies? But, ah, no, it can't be healthy now, so much reading.

Ah, AMERICAN TYPEWRITER. Moi. MacBooks are the only books I’ve seen it available in. AMERICAN TYPEWRTIER. What garbage, my typing. What garbage. But it feels so free, so light as a feathertickle underneath a cockle’schin.

Just know it is beautiful, the invisible penpoint of the heavenly uncreate, where the idea meets its frothy crown- the blinking bar: glory.

I would compare AMERICAN TYPEWRITER, the fontset which is to blame for all this madness, this typing, this idiot’s cry for imprisonment, with the font which is seen defaulted on most or all standard typewriters.

Ah, how lovely it is, seen emboldened with technological achievement on the screen before me, jumping, dancing ahead, without as much as a peep from any electrical or manual equipment.

Finally, the writer has now relieved himself off all the rainy pitpatter of heavyskies, his heavyskies, his heavyskies full of words and prerogatives for typing nonsense, damnit.

AMERICAN TYPEWRITER. A beautiful fontset. Reminiscent of the best years of writing. Reminiscent of shitty movies Hollywood has put out on Hemingway, also reminiscent of the shitty writing that came out throughout the first half of the 20^th century, like half of Monsieur Hemingway’s pre-mordem novels, for example. Also, reminiscent of the jangling, noisy reality of the very machines themselves, their workings, what made them tic. Tic tic tic. The letters of a typewriter. Tic tic tic tic, one can almost hear them. Tic tic tic tic tic tic.

And at this very moment, as I write in the Word template, a foreign message, as it were, unrelated to the nonsense spiel here, pops up in the right upperhand corner of the MacBook screen. 

It is a message from my father, to my little sister.

My younger sister, a beautiful example of maturing maidenhood with a mother’s eye and a dignified air, has just won her degree from a Nursing University. Her, my father, my mother, and her new husband (for they were married only last month, and have only just recently returned from their quick honeymoon in Seattle) have taken a vacation to Disney World, Florida. When I visited them upon their departure, my sister, knowing my MacBook that I have had for years is falling apart, gave me her MacBook, as she had just purchased a new one. Her old one was still in almost perfect condition, though replete with Youtube suggestions for makeup style-lists, among other things. I thanked her, and hugged her. They just landed in Florida not too long ago. As I was writing earlier, the message that popped up was from my father, to her, sent to her iPhone, I am guessing, and probably her new MacBook, and here: to her old, my new, MacBook. All at once. Syncing. Realigning... buffering.

Dad: “Mom and I are over by the pretzels. See you soon.”

So here I sit typing. It’s exercise. Syncing. Like how Kerouac used to watch sitcoms as he drank himself to carelessness, getting ready to finish up his final part of his legend. Benjamin Button that. I’m watching my fingers type absolute nonsense, preparing all the while to write the greatest novel the world has ever read.

As for the novel, it is entitled, as of this moment:

NEWS AND FIELDFLOWERS

Yes, very good then. Yes, wonderful this new MacBook is. I remember my first MacBook, a MacBook Air I was given before going away to university. I dropped-out of the University a year later to be a writer and go on the road, and the Air was destroyed on said road, utterly incinerated, along with most of my dreams to be a writer. My next few laptops were nonexistent, as I was a wayward, a noncommittal, a beat, a bum, a somegum sometimes farmer, oh, what have you. Then, my next few laptops were of cheap offbrands and resales, very cheap, very economic, thank you. Then, last year I got a MacBook off the streets, a pawnshop grab. Drove it to hell and back all over the Starbuckses and Mariposa Cafes of the lower East Side. It sits over at the other end of the kitchen tabletop, with all my stories on it. Cloud trade coming up: next stop, my next novel. This novel.

Well, if this is a novel, sir, then why are you still typing away and not writing?

Ah, verywell then. Que STAR WARS theme. Here’s the ash-tray again. Oh, oh gawd, no, not him. Not, not… Spoonfed Pumpernickel Dawn.

Damn, damn you, innocent myopic marsupial, noteworthy parenthetical mental handicappee, you silly Spoonfed. What is it?

Ah, verywell then. One sprightly, lightly oh, oh so lovely dummday, I was, me yes, Silly Spoonfed, Esq., was walking a lovely doodly doo one dilly double Buble booby over upon the perkynernerlerlia nerp and was thurply havin’ a-

Spoonfed, guy, you’re gonna have to take it easy on the Pig Latin.

Why, but, shemeckly weckly is not Pigsly wigsly.

Oh goddamn you then fine.

Ah, verywell then, we were walking a scurvey walk one sunshiney loosecobbled day when all of a notsudden a butterfly born it’s scurvy durp upon the nerploo.

Ah, fuckit. Spoonfed. Take a break, will ya.

Ah, verywell then, we were tickling a break in the armpit’s tit of the tit tit tit-

Spoonfed, take a break, and get yourself a Subway or somethin’, yer scarin’ summa our kids fer krissakes.

Ah, very well then, we wer-

*Licks Spoonfed Pumpernickel Dawn real good, up and down the carpet, as it were, of the city courtyard’s pavestones. To lick means to beat-up, to kick a person’s ass, to give ‘em a good beating or so, as in, me, the writer gave him one, see, because here we have a guilty man, a Mr. Spoonfed Pumpernickel Dawn. The man who made me write an idiot’s novel, a novel about a protagonist with the same name.

Yes, he is of me. But I have him now. Away to San Quentin with him. Guilty as charged. I give him no bail and clear his taint from my kingdom. Away with you, Spoonfed. You were time wasted. First novel mockery. Done.

As for us, gentle reader, we’ve only just begun again. No time to say goodbye to old Spoonfed Pumpernickel Dawn. His name was all he was.

Hello, what’s all this up there? Those previous precarious poohpoohy pages of no-nonsense nonsensereity?All of this? Damn nonsense it is. Right-o. Verywell then. This here is George Magoopie’s, thank you.

We, as in, the writer, were looking over a WEBSTER'S Dictionary just now, playing with the haphazard idea of writing an entry for every word. Every word as we, as in, the writer, see it. After all, Adam was, under God, to name it all. Name the place, Adam, God said. Adam said, table, chair, sunlight, etc., etc., etc. I like to name things. I'd like to name naming. I name naming: poetry. Yes. Nicely and with poetic gusto, yes.

This is a babblytale, a bubbly bobblebrook, a token of my respect to all, from the little allpoet to the all, a token of lovesong, looovsong, luvsong, luvsong, a luvsung lively, oh, bubblebrook, yes.

Oh, that I were myself today. I am merely a merrysome, merrysong’d writer. Myself, real-a-one, that a one, is a grand, grand entity. He is One. He has in his hand a trophy, that of Love. All other trophies are subpar next to Love. He holds his trophy, and chants, intones: love, love, love.

The merely writer looks up from his merely laptop. Birds singing. Or are they? What is all of that twerp twerpery? Nigh but a faulk song, a lingering air of mortality wrapped in thieving beauty and temptation. Or is it? Dear, dear. No wonder I luv Burgess’s Enderby Collection, all considerations of my book-hoardingishness aside. Oh, dear, dear novel. Quite hilarious. Rainsingin’ Dear.

Bubble a brook, sing a lily. Gobblegee a gooke, near bre a bookie, leepleer a lullaby, nully a new, noops-cake a leu, never a noe, always a chloe, ever a chlone.

You silly bastard, you’ve done it again. Everything is perfect. The novel's complete. The kids are fat and happy. The cows’ve come home. You've come home. And you’re worry free, as in, get off your ass and get to givin’ the good lovin’.