The 2007 SJ Anyone-Can-Do-This Summer Novel--Beta Version

Pow was a man of almost impossible good looks -- deep blue eyes, strong jaw, hair like nightly news anchor, and he radiated confidence in a way that reminded Emily of Clark Gable, even on his worst days -- which made it all the more difficult for Jemily's family to understand why he worked long hours at the local amusement park as a ferris wheel operator.

 

Of course, once they understood about the inheritance--he was the heir to the waterproof bandage empire--it made more sense that he had given up his medical practice ('The Joint Joint'...titanium artificial joint replacements) for a more understated life, in hopes of finding a woman who would love him for himself, not for the money and prestige.

 

Anyway, his options were severely limited because of the dreadful penis/hatchet accident involving his former true love L. Bobbitt, so he persisted in his duel quest for a soulmate and another life-changing invention, the artificial penile replacement.

 

Then he looked down and saw it: the horrible crimson scar had been there since that day 10 years ago when his grandfather was killed in a terrifying penis pump accident.

He had tried to remove the pump, but his grandfather had resisted. "No, Charlie, this thing's gonna work this time. It's just gotta," grandfather had shouted. And, then, in a flash, the gas-powered device that had been ordered via mail from the Pump Your Stump Company exploded.

Shards of hot glass stabbed into his groin. He had collapsed on the basement floor. And that's how the paramedics found him, clutching his testicles while his dead grandfather sat in his brown leather recliner, cold, lifeless shell.

He had been at his grandmother's side when the funeral home director had asked whether they wanted him to reconstruct her husband's penis for his wake. And now it was all too real, the scar, the new job, the girl. How would he explain it?

 

Jordan the undertaker hated his work, hated the preparing room,and he hated the smell of formaldehyde, which clung to his hands and clothes and made sure that none of the waitresses down at The Bucket wanted to serve him the five beers it took him to feel normal again after work every day.

 

HeinekenMan was then decapitated for his failure to abide by the one-sentence rule.

 

But with today's marvels of medical science, his head was re-attached, and thus his SJ posting duties resumed.

 

Now just how did he manage that reattachment? wondered the dicapacitated doc/ferris wheel operator.

 

"Plastics," SPOOTED said to no one inparticular. "Plastics."

 

Damn, said Jordan the undertaker, and I came in on a weekend to bury the bastard, and then they go and reattach his head.

 

What kind of Fenian world is this, Jordan muttered, looking at the space-age dental-floss-like stitches they used to reattach the head to neck.