Ya Win Some, Ya Flot Some!

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 hands (joke).

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.