A DELICATE HINT OF TV HELL

     "Hi, Bob Vila here.  Did you know that if you can peel a hard-
boiled egg you can perform tricky testicular cancer surgery.  If
you can cut a small notch in a length of wire, drill two small
holes in the cranium, and work it back and forth like dental floss,
you can perform brain surgery the way they did in the 'operating
theater' of the mid-1700's.  And if you can ladle soup you can
remove so-called deep tumors from previously inaccessible
structures deep within the brain.  And if you can peel the silvery
part from a Wrigley's gum wrapper and keep it in one piece, that
means you're a virgin.  It's true. And did you know--"
     "All right, Bob, come along with us.  How many times have we
told you not to open a can of paint thinner in an unventilated
room?  You should know better than that, Bob, you're a professional
for chrissakes."      "If you can get a hard-to-reach boogie out of
your nose with just your  forefinger, you could be a proc--"     
"Bob, Bob, Bob--"
 

             LOST IN TV HELL. EPISODE 5
 
     So I'm bored and looking for someone to mess with.  My brother
says,  "Let's call that Citibank VISA 800 number."  This seems
pretty juvenile so we do it.  I tell them I was on vacation in West
Philly and my wallet was stolen.  The girl says, "I'm sorry, but
you don't have an account with us."        
     I say, "I know I don't, but the girl on the commercial was so
helpful and  cheery that I just--"
     She says, "You watch too much T.V., asswipe," and hangs up.  
     So I've got this little scam going where I float one bad check
after  another and then back them up with this stolen VISA card I
found in West  Philly.  Only, the card is almost maxed out because
I've already bounced about  five grand worth of these checks.  So
I call Citibank VISA and I say, "Listen, my mom really needs this
here kidney. . ."
     "Say no more, Mr. Goode, I'll raise your credit limit to ten
thousand  dollars."
     "But that won't cover the bone marrow for my boy,"  I say,
slowly beginning to sob.
     She says, "My sister had leukemia. . ." starting to sob also. 
Now I knew I had her.
     I mumble something through my tears and say, ". . .watching
your own flesh and blood waste away like that. . ."
     She says, "It won't let me raise it past ten thousand."     
Luckily, I just happen to have some familiarity with these types of 
systems.
     I say, "Do you know your boss's password?"
     She says, "Yes, but why--"
     "Please, just log in as your boss and bring up my account."  
   She does, and I say, "Now, is there somewhere on the screen that
it  mentions the word 'Gold'?"
     She says, "Yes, right here in the corner, it says 'Status',
and underneath it says 'Gold', 'Platinum', and 'Corporate'.  And
each one has a little box next to it."
     "Okay, move down there and hit return in the boxes that say
'Platinum' and 'Corporate.'
     She does and I say, "Now move up to the credit limit part and
type in all 9's."
     "Okay.  My boss will be back soon.  I hope your boy gets
better.  And thank you for using VISA."
     I say, "Not just any VISA."
     "Citibank VISA."
     "Bingo.
 
     So my brother and I are in line at a MAC machine, and we're
stuck behind  one of these guys that is pressing every single
button.  I mean, I think this  guy is Donald Trump, and he's doing
a hostile takeover by ATM.  We're getting pretty pissed, so my
brother starts shaking and says, "Jeez, I just wanted to get my
insulin money.  You got maybe a candy bar or  something?"  The guy,
who incidentally is munching on a Snicker's bar,  continues his
asinine takeover attempt, so my brother starts mumbling,  "...blood
sugar. . .bottoming out. ..think I'll lay down for a while."  So
this speeds the guy right up, who apparently was doing some
creative debt re-financing to rebuild his crumbling empire.  He
throws his Snicker's wrapper on the ground and my brother dives on 
it, furiously licking the inside clean.  
     Before Donnie leaves I say, "I just hope you aren't planning
on breaking that company up and selling off the assets."
     And he says, "Why the Hell not?  Scott Paper is extremely
diversified, and floating in cash at the moment."
     I just laugh, hinting at some hidden knowledge of the company,
none of  which I have.
     "All right, spit it out, what are you saying?  There's a lot
of money on  the line here."
     Seeing that the doofus has left his MAC card in the machine,
I try to get him to leave. "Of course," I say,  "you must be right. 
By the way, I used to fuck Marla Maples in high school.  She ever
get rid of that nasty case of--"      
     "All right, I've heard just about enough." he says, and storms
away.      
     My brother's already at the MAC console, refinancing Donnie's
empire  through a series of short-term high-interest loans,
underwritten by the Sony  and Matsushita corporations.  He looks
back at me over his shoulder and says,  "The public outrage over
all that money going to Japan should take care of this whole Trump
thing, once and for all."
     I lean over, hit a few buttons, and all of a sudden the entire
deal hinges on the price of silver going to some six thousand
dollars an ounce.    And my brother says, "Hey, you got any of
those bad checks on you?"  Of course I did, so we deposited a few
into Donnie's account, along with a Polaroid picture my brother had
featuring a troop of Cub Scouts, a young Hindu boy, a six-pack of
jolt and a garden weasel.
     I looked at the picture and shook my head.  "Man, they've
really upped the requirements for a Merit badge. Think these
kids'll make Eagle Scout?"      
     "Oh yeah, spread Ea--"
     "That's enough.  Where'd you get this picture anyway?"       
     "Found it."
     "Oh. OK"  Best not to know, I figured.  
     So we left, but not before we invested some more of Donnie's
money into some creaky corporate paper and snapper soup futures. 
Then, we withdrew some cash and headed into town.
 
     If only he'd given up that Snicker's bar.