I’ve been watching Laurel & Hardy movies lately, and as I walk around in the world--or shuffle around, apparently--I find myself casting exasperated, world-weary looks at the camera--only to discover there’s no camera! What the f*uck?! (See there, for the splittest of seconds, I let you believe you were going to be spared the actual spelling out of a dirty word, as if that prevented you from pronouncing it in your head, which I know very well it didn’t, only to dash your hopes and rub your faces in it, ha HA!) The epic movie of my life, chock full of ass-laughing-off pratfalls and heart-rending drama in equal measure and starring me in the role of a lifetime, is not being recorded for posterity! The cameraman didn’t show up! Ah, the humanity! W, I say again, the F?? Is the Wally Torta Library, vast and teeming with towers of books, journals, sketchbooks, 8-track tapes, cardboard boxes full of precious relics, such as a small porcelain bust of Abraham Lincoln that I won by plucking just the right yellow plastic ducky from a circular stream at a street fair in Lisbon, Ohio in 1961--is it destined to burn to the ground the moment an Obama death panel gives me the thumbs-down? How can this be? It's grossly unfair and unjust. But to whom do I apply for justice? God? He's the guy who made this shit up. Am I supposed to approach the bench and say, "You got it wrong, you blockhead"? How is this any more satisfying than not believing in him? I squeeze my eyes shut and wring my brain like a dirty sponge, and come up with nothing. Humans! We're just smart enough to know we're not smart enough.