LOST IN TV HELL. EPISODE 7 Susan D'Amato of Great Neck writes in, "I'd really like to buy a Volkswagen but I don't know what Fahrvegnugen looks like." The boys in the shop laugh and high-five each other. My brother, who came up with this advertising campaign one day during a Grateful Dead show says, "What kind of lame-brained bimbo writes to a car company?" "But I'm not sure what Fahrvegnugen looks like," says Gus the graphics chief in a ridiculous mocking voice. Dan says, "Hey, isn't that the same bimbo that wrote to Ivory Soap asking what the other 6/100 was?" "Oh my God, you're right. And what did they tell her?" "Wet Ostrich farts" "Concentrated." "With a glistening drop of retsin." My brother laughed and shook his head. "And she's still writing. You got to admire that kind of thickness. I mean, the idea that someone that dense even exists, much less has a husband, and is thinking of buying some little Kraut car. . ." "I agree," said Gus, "Can we do something for her?" "Give her something?" "Send her somewhere?" "How about Germany?" "Hey, what if she won our 'Guess what Fahrvegnugen means' contest?" "What if she didn't enter?" asked Geena. Everyone just looked at her. "What's first prize?" "Usual. Trip for two to Germany, expenses, new car, the usual." "And they follow a planned itinerary, right?" "Right." "Well, what if she had to go with me and my brother, and we changed the itinerary a little, to suit our tastes. . ." "Bingo," they all said. So we're in Germany at this little Pub called Die Lugershpittle. We love Germany because, like that woman says, they serve you beer in liter mugs and encourage you to drive as fast as you can. Mrs. D'Amato has proven herself to be truly a remarkable piece of work. I mean, not only has our 120+ mph average speed not fazed her, but we even let her drive and she was able to maintain that speed--through Berlin. And she will not shut up, either. She drinks her beer, eats some schnitzel and we hit the road. "I can't even tell you how exciting this is for me. I've never won anything in my life." "Well, you're no prize yourself," I say, under my breath. My brother gives me this look and says, "That's surprising. Your entry to the contest showed great originality." "Really?" She sounded surprised, which made sense since my brother threw her stupid entry out and wrote in one of his own which he knew would easily win, since he was judging the thing. "But all I did was look it up in a German-English dictionary. 'Fahr' means driving and 'nugen' is pleasure. The pleasure of driving. Simple" "That--that was your entry?" asked my brother, flabbergasted. "Of course." My brother looked at me. "Uh oh. I don't know how to say this, Mrs. D, but you'll have to get out. Now." My brother reached back, grabbed the lady's hair, and opened his door a bit, preparing to toss her from the speeding auto. She screamed, he closed the door and said, "Well, you can't honestly expect to continue with this little charade any longer, can you? You had us believing you were really something. Pleasure of driving my ass. That didn't win. Christ, every dildo who could open a German dictionary sent that one in. Pleasure of driving. Christ." He spit out the window with utter disdain, which quickly proved to be a bad idea since the window was up. Mrs. D'Amato started to cry. My brother opened his door and she stopped. "Wha-what was the winning entry," she asked, stammering. "Oh, it was 'Ream my ass with your ropy rod until my ears bleed and my colon quivers in undulations of ecstasy and you fill me with milky gobs of sweetest ambrosia..." "My God." "Truly beautiful, isn't it. Man, we should have known that no Mrs. fucking D'Amato could come up with 'undulations of ecstacy'." "Well, that's not what America's going to think." "What do you mean." "You remember that release you willingly signed?" "They said it was a formality." We laughed. "The first ads should be hitting the air back home about now. Tell me, your husband planning on watching the Super Bowl?" She started bawling. My brother turned on the radio, finding an English-language station. Within minutes, there was a Volkswagen commercial on. ". . . A Mrs. Susan D'Amato writes in, 'Now I know what Fahrvegnugen is. Now I can buy. . ." "Turn it off. Please. Turn it off." I obliged, right after the 'sweetest ambrosia' part. We got the feeling she wanted to drink, so we went into this pub called Die ShtupperUhpperShphinxterMitDasGrosBaton. This sounded extremely promising, so we donned our protective buttgear and removed Mrs. D's underwear and went inside. Now this was our kind of bar. Some fraulein was up on a pool table taking on all comers, Annie Potts was sitting on the bar, legs crossed way up high, adjusting a red lace garter. We sat down, ordered a few pints, and our attention wandered to a door in the back with a sign above it that said 'Aufwiedershein'. Naturally we're wondering what the hell this is. Unafraid of a back room in some sleazy Kraut biker bar, we sent in Mrs. D'Amato. My brother wanted me to give her my protective buttgear but I said no way. We ask Annie what the story was with the Aufweidershein room. She laughed and said, "I was hoping to save this conversation for my next--" "Cocktail party?" said some moron with a bag of videotapes at the bar. "Try anal rodeo," corrected Annie, leaning sideways and letting a steamy one rip right in his face. "More pork rinds, heavy on the Tabasky," called out Annie to the bartender, a big fat bald fuck who looked a lot like an ugly George the Animal Steele. My brother let her slide on the Tabasky faux pas, having checked his linoleum knife at the door. He said, pointing to the back, "So what about that room?" "You don't want to go in there," she said, "unless you're prepared to never--" But she couldn't finish. The kid from the Encyclopedia Brittanica had checked into the bar, gone straight to the Aufweidershein room and had spotted Mrs. D'Amato, who had recently become his hero thanks to her latest Volkswagen ads. He saw her, screamed like Linnea Quigley, she screamed, and about ten greased up biker guys screamed too. "Ohmigod," gushed the little blond brat, "like this is too amazing." He clasped his hands together and jumped in place with girlish glee. "Hey guys," he said to his biker friends, "this is the one I was telling you about." One of them moved in next to her. "Sweetest ambrosia, huh?" The others laughed. "I'll give her a dollop, right on--" "I--I've gotta go," said Mrs. D, struggling to leave a room already thick with manstench. But we'd already left. Now that was a good vacation.