The Sugar Frosted Nutsack by Mark Leyner Read Free Book Online

whom are unusually reserved people. It’s a distorted depiction that makes them appear more glamorous and significantly more scandalous (and inane) than they actually are (were). For instance, the idea that Ruthie , in public, would put her hand down the back of her husband’s sweatpants and tickle his butt-crack ( Like she’s checking his prostate! cackles the First Session) is absolutely ludicrous. So is the notion of the relatively modest Ruthie ( She’s an anarcho-primitivist too! ) parading around on her front lawn, wearing a transparent “prairie dress” and no underwear. And so, most egregiously, is the idea that Ike would build some garishly obscene statue of the Goddess La Felina ( naked, dildo-impaled! ), when it’s so much more likely that he’d construct something elegant and self-​contained to propitiate the Goddess, something akin to one of Joseph Cornell ’s enchanting little shadow boxes. But, obviously, generations of blind, spaced-out, Sunkist-swilling bards who—over hundreds, if not thousands, of years—mixed and remixed the First Session felt obliged to pander to an audience which prized the salacious over the subtle and preferred their heroes loony and rotten to the core. Or XOXO sabotaged the First Session. (One can’t discount, even for a second, the possibility that XOXO kidnapped the First Session and plied it with drugged sherbet.) Over the years, a number of experts including William Arrowsmith , Richmond Lattimore , Bernard Knox , and most recently the Dutch classical scholar, expert on circumpolar populations, and milliner Pym Voorjans , aka DJ Doorjamb , whose wife has a spectacular big-ass ass (courtesy of Fast-Cooking Ali ), have each provided incisive analyses of one of the most glaring errors in the First Session: Ike raising his voice ( “And they’re gonna eat my fuckin’ Italian breadcrumb mandala!” he screams with mock consternation, then cracks up… ). Ike only speaks in a whisper. In point of fact, he is said to be frequently inaudible. Ike is reticent and sometimes abjectly bashful. He is so self-effacing that one wonders where his galvanic charisma, his magnificence , derive from. Aside from this erroneous characterization of Ike screaming in the First Session, there are only two instances in The Sugar Frosted Nutsack in which Ike actually raises his voice above a whisper: in Session Nine, when he eulogizes his late father and threatens to destroy the synagogue, and in the Final Session when he chants the entirety of The Sugar Frosted Nutsack to his half-divine infant grandson, Colter Dale —a recitation that, of course, includes this paragraph about the only instances during which Ike actually raises his voice above a whisper. Had Ike neglected to include this paragraph—if for no other reason than the fact that, as he was chanting, the ATF or the FBI or the British SAS or the Dutch Korps Commandotroepen or (most likely) the Mossad was firing 3-Methylfentanyl (the aerosolized fentanyl derivative that Russian Spetsnaz forces used against Chechen separatists in the 2002 Moscow theater hostage crisis) into his modest, brick, two-story hermitage in Jersey City, causing Ike to consider, under the circumstances, a slightly abridged version— Colter Dale would have felt—and justifiably so—cheated. Also, Ike scrupulously eschews the use of profanity, although, unfortunately, you wouldn’t know that from the First Session. He would never say, for instance, “my fuckin’ Italian breadcrumb mandala!” or “you can’t find good shawarma in this fuckin’ town now that it’s full of Jews and Freemasons.” He can be wrenchingly graphic in his hypersexualized flirtations (even this, though, is invariably delivered in his gentle, barely audible murmur), and his truculent asides to other men can be phantasmagorically violent, but they’re always discreetly conveyed sotto voce into the ear of his antagonist, and the language, as bellicose as it may be, is never