Through no fault of my own, rather by accident or deliberate act of the Gods, I am on excellent terms with the curator of works by a curious (is a curator one who cures?) author named E. B. Fischadler. This Fischadler, most recently tracked down to a small town in Massachusetts named Upton1, has written, and unfortunately continues to produce, a body of literature much in need of the services of a literary plastic surgeon.
Still, I can’t help wondering why the world has never taken notice of this (thank God) unique writer. Some2 have said he is the literary equivalent of Don Martin. Yet his prose is not sprinkled with Martin’s famous onomatopoeias3 such as Kloon! Splortz! or Froont! Instead, Fischadler has a way of putting together words better left in solitary confinement.
In truth, Fischadler has tackled subjects as diverse as eschatology (Eschatology, or The Next Mission), physics (A Quantum of Freedom), and Medicine (Basted Son), without even knowing what most of these words actually mean (what in heaven or hell is eschatology anyway?). The outcome was that each of these subjects has gone on to score a touchdown, kick the extra point, and then be awarded 10 yards on the ensuing kickoff for unsportsmanlike conduct by Fischadler.
Little is known of Fischadler’s education, if indeed he ever had one. His writing style is suggestive of rejection by one of the better schools followed by expulsion from a lessor institution. No school has laid claim to him as an alum, although the way one’s mouth (and other orifices) inevitably puckers when reading his works is strongly suggestive of the stuff. This author intends to pursue this question; I’ll ask the curator of Fischadler’s works whenever his psychiatrist allows him visitors at the hospital.
Where would Fischadler’s work fit into the pantheon of literature? Other critics have dissected4 his works and noted he has the “gaiety of H. P. Lovecraft”, the “sensuality of Dr. Seuss”, and the “intellectual depth of Keeping Up with the Kardashians”. The reader will, no doubt, object that I have quoted the most favorable reviews of his work. Indeed, most reviews are unprintable in a setting accessible to the young and easily influenced.
Seeking his work in the catalog of one of the world’s most extensive libraries, one finds Fischadler under the number 0985 in the Dewey Decimal system.
There is some question among students whether E.B. Fischadler was a pseudonym. No evidence of a real nym has emerged, though it is known that Fischadler had a serial number for a period spanning 24 years to life. We also know that he was not attracted to other men, hence there was no homonym. He did go carousing and drinking under a synonym. Finally, it is agreed by most that his father’s sister went by an antonym.
A biography of Fischadler is being prepared (Something Fischy- Everything you wanted to know about E. B. Fischadler). It is appropriate that Fischadler’s biographer has received no training as a writer, formal or otherwise.
Fortunately, Fischadler has had no impact on my writing, which as this introduction demonstrates, is as sparse, terse, on point and full of examples of the use of a few words rather than a large number of words to bring out the core idea of a story, embellish, detail, enhance, include as many examples of, and generally write as though he was paid by the word.
So, without further ado (and if there were further ado, it would indeed be much ado about nothing), I propose to share with you, in small doses as prescribed by better judges of literature than I, some works of E. B. Fischadler……
1 Try as I might, I cannot find a town called ‘Downton’ despite the existence of the abbey
2 Actually, Fischadler himself
3In fact, Fischadler has questioned the very notion of onomatopoeia: “Why doesn’t onomatopoeia sound like one?” – Fischadler, the Collected Worst Works
4Truth is, they ripped him to shreds
5 0985 = 9,039,207,968. Try to find that in your local library.