Day 105

5.03: A million bucks and the cost of a plumber, and you can crap Catcher in the Rye style.

Roll up roll up, Salinger’s “used toilet commode” is up for grabs, “uncleaned and in its original condition”.

If you believe the toilet pedlars, Salinger produced 15 manuscripts while he was sitting on the toilet at his house in Cornish New Hampshire, where he lived from 1951 until he died in January.

Possibly he wasn’t the six-decade recluse that everyone thought, just as heavily constipated as if he’d eaten a haystack.

Or was it because he was a massive paedo? wonders the Daily Mail, in one of its customary interludes of mature and meditative calm.

I don’t know if the Mail’s run anything on the toilet auction story yet, but watch out for “Sallinger: The Paedo That Couldn’t Poo” headlines.

Anyway the 15 manuscripts, also known as Salinger’s Straining Cycle look like they could all come bursting through in a great outpouring explosion. Think of it as uncorking a literary bunghole.

Or they might be destroyed.

Either way, brollies up everyone: there’s a shitstorm a comin’.

6.57: I think Stuart and my kettle are in league together. The kettle’s gone as crotchety and temperamental as a mad old timer who appears on his porch with a shotgun. And Stuart, for some reason, is refusing to  type a full stop (these ones are copied and pasted from my story – this thing coming up’s a literary full stop, folks). But apart from only being able to finish sentences by Heath Robinson means, and drinking coffee made from what’s effectively a boiling water firework fountain, we’re still hobbling towards the finish line. And don’t we all bear the scars, Stuart.

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~ by David Thorley on August 24, 2010.

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