Comrade:   Someone with too much time, too few hands

   David Fairchild's castrated penis will be on be display again at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City later this summer, coinciding with a solar eclipse many scientists claim might actually make bugs seem to skitter right off the very last thing they were doing. And isn't that worth the $6.50 you'll pay in admission? Professor Emeritus Julian "Uncle" Bradikoff sure thinks so, which is quite possibly why he's been confined to house arrest and is receiving treatment three days a week. It might also explain his daughter, Lillian Fairchild, David Fairchild's ex-wife and owner of the aforementioned genitalia. Trained as a paralegal, but finding the big money in hardcore pornography and fruit basket delivery, Fairchild designed an expandable copy of Chairman Mao's Little Red Book, which doubled as a life buoy and which she was fond of displaying at the local elementary school until the principal asked her to stop coming to Show and Tell. That, of course, would be Principal Jane "Larry" Flanders, an ex beat cop with an attitude problem and an ulcer the size of a child's fist, voted most likely to shoot a preschooler by her graduating class at UCLA--and also one hell of a boxer. But more important perhaps than the day-to-day shenanigans and barnyard brawls of the schoolyard playground is what finally brough Fairchild and what he called "Long Tom" to the Alaskan wilderness he had meticulously recreated in his Maryland backyard. He'd spend half an hour nibbling on pieces of colored chalk, reciting misremembered passages from Dianetics, and dreaming of a perpetual motion machine that his hastily scribbled diagrams refer to as "my beautiful baby, Long Tom, love of my life, fruit of my loins". But what about the man behind the mask, beneath black cloth to focus on each tiny, lifeless and glassy eye of the birds of prey that would swoop down to devour the children of the village every evening? You thought we had forgotten perhaps? Oh no. Sometimes, we lie awake at night and all we can hear are the screams, remembering Fairchild and the butchered, mangled bodies that his wife mounted on a leaf with paraffin. Fairchild's crimes against humanity shall not go unpunished, I tell you this much! We shall be avenged! And would someone please get these damn bunny rabbits out of here? We're trying to run a respectable establishment here -- we've catered to heads of state and many other who were head-on at a time when most clients couldn't even buckle their pants or pull up their shoes. You know what I mean! You think anyone gives a damn that David Fairchild showed insects from the nape of the neck, the foot of the groin, the ball of the foot, the ying of the yang? No. He relished presenting "bloodshed and carnage" and "death and brutality" while nonchalantly flipping through the pages of his Spiderman comics. Fairchild was to the public as a large, festering boil is to someone's ass. No, not my ass! Someone's! And does anyone care? Says Fairchild's ex-wife, "They just might."

   Fairchild, who helped establish his name as a one-legged bandit in Coral Gables, Florida, first became interested in self-inflicted castration--that is, with the removal of his balls-- through his small son. "He was hunting for them with the same depraved cunning which served his mother so well and is the main reason I'm not allowed back in Tijuana." Elroy Fairchild, the young lad, has since been taken in for questioning and would not comment on his late father's exhibit at the Met. "Is it too much to ask that a young man be allowed to gouge out someone's eyes without such a meanspirited attack from the papparazzi?" young Fairchild's lawyer asks. "Elroy always said that a hunter stalks his game into the jungle," Fairchild recalled, "and the jungle sometimes comes with a covercharge and drink minimum. Because, if under CIA interrogation images of frolicking goats are going to be flashed into my mind, why shouldn't we hunt them with a bit more oregeno and lot more love."

   David Fairchild's been dead for three weeks and is starting to smell, so let's not talk about him. Rather, let us marvel as junior-high track and field coach (and Russian emigre) Augusto Markov conducts the London Philharmonic without any prior training or musical skill whatsoever. That sort of makes your own ability to make bugs seem to skitter right off the bit of dried canteloupe rind you carry around with you seem less than spectacular, now doesn't it? And what about Wesley Burton Kincaid, the water-skiing monkey-boy from Honduras? you ask. Trained as a cliff-diver, but destined to a life of crime, Kincaid's repeated shouts of "Who's your daddy?!" earned him a repurtation as a troublemaker and a following with the ladies, particularly with the daughter of Archbishop Mickey Fairchild. Clad only in a paint-splattered dishrag, Fairchild designed an expandable harpoon gun, which he lovingly named Umberto (after the love of his life), and which, upon his death, was bequeathed to an unknown beneficiary he called "Long Tom" to love and to cherish and to hold in his Maryland backyard. He'd spend half an hour doing something -- we're really not quite sure what, and were afraid to ask -- beneath black cloth to focus on each tiny, lifeless and quite possibly naked-as-a-jaybird band leader that his wife mounted on a leaf with paraffin. Fairchild's name has since been forgotten by most people, and we see no reason to change that by talking about him further. Instead, we would like to inexplicably change the subject by shouting some nonsensical nonsequitor we picked up while on holiday in Bucharest. We have, however, forgotten that as well, so let's talk, instead, about our late '80s car crashes, which were head-on at a time when most drivers were playing it safe. Remember, kids...oh screw it. Penelope Jones, noted cabaret singer and owner of a quite meaningless patent on "polaroid-panties," often showed insects from Madagascar, where she owned a summer villa. Her husband and manager, Henry "Bust a cap in yo' ass" Jones could not be reached for comment but his brother spat on us from the balcony of his apartment and we were lucky enough to get that on tape. He relished presenting "nudie photos" or 8-millimeter films "of mating ostriches to the public as a John Denver high on LSD might."

   Fairchild, who helped establish something not terribly important -- and, by this point, who cares? -- in Coral Gables, Florida, first became interested in telekinesis and foam rubber representations of past presidents through his small son. "He was hunting for them with the same blind stupidity that a boy like him brings to every meaningless activity." It was, Fairchild (who I can't believe we've gone back to discussing), "like how a hunter stalks his game in the jungle. Yup, just like how hunter stalks his game into the jungle," Fairchild recalled, "and the funniest thing -- the thing that made me poop my pants with laughter -- is that I don't even have a son! Ain't that a riot?" I really think this has gotten out of hand, and see no reason to continue discussing the inanity that is Fairchild (especially now that he's dead), so I think I'll end before visions of killing more innocents have flashed into my mind, why shouldn't we hunt them with a gun, big gun, blood everywhere, spurting, dead, why not, bodies piled up, oh the horror, the horror, in my head, the hole in my head... "That's what makes this a great country," Fairchild concludes as I am whisked away to electro-shock. "And why I'm glad I'm no longer alive to see it."

   David Fairchild's a tough cop who plays by his own rules, and he's being hunted by bounty hunters who make bugs seem to skitter right off the potato salad at the picnic, if you know what we mean. Trained as a Solid Gold dancer, but losing his family to a rough gang of vaguely Italian mob figures, Fairchild designed an expandable robot partner he called "Long Tom" to help hunt down and smite his enemies as well as keep the peace in his Maryland backyard. He'd spend half an hour crazy, illin' on the ill circuit, staked out like a drunken tiger beneath black cloth to focus on each tiny, lifeless droog and mob scum, fondling his prized possession, a tiny model of a Finnish village that his wife mounted on a leaf with paraffin. Fairchild's inner demons would drive him to make crass statements at parties, and all his hit-and-runs were head-on at a time when most fashionable hit-and-runs were of the back-up-and-hit-again fashion, and trendy films of the time showed insects from Jersey talking in accents about marital infidelities and their places in the universe. He relished presenting "hot dogs with the works and a charming smile with a well-cut jib" to the public as a "wide-open challenge to any who oppose my might."

   Fairchild, who helped establish himself as a street-smart, pastel-dressed drug dealer in Coral Gables, Florida, first became interested in the trappings of Dodge Ball through his small son. "He was hunting for them with the same vigor and bloodlust that a Dodge ball-armed nerd hunter stalks his game into the jungle," Fairchild recalled, "and the oddness about me speaking of myself in the third person flashed into my mind, why shouldn't we hunt them with a huge Dodgeball the size of New Zealand."

   David Fairchild's elastic tongue got him into more trouble than David Spade at a NAMBLA convention, according to the French Kissing Team. Late model, foreign- make bugs seem to skitter right off the skittles right when they should be holding still and trying to look fruity. Buy American. Trained as a seeing-eye dog, Fairchild designed an expandable vocabulary to deal with the alien tax collectors who frequently slept in his car. One day in July he called "Long Tom" to pose as a naked statue in his Maryland backyard. He'd spend half an hour posting the resulting photos on the internet before Tom caught him and smothered him with french-cut men's bikini underwear. Tom stuffed the body beneath black cloth to focus on each tiny, lifeless skittle-shaped bug that covered Fairchild's naked corpse. Tom resented every one of their promiscuous neighbors that his wife mounted on a leaf with paraffin. Fairchild's rigor-mortus postures were head-on at a time when most corpses displayed more modesty. A journeyman Real-Estate agent showed insects from Queens the three-bedroom townhouse across the street. He relished presenting "affordable homes to bugs of all income levels." Meanwhile, yet another Adam Sandler movie appealed to the public as a "naked rotting corpse left on their front lawn might."

   Fairchild, who helped establish the rumor that corpses can breakdance, took his time decomposing. An unemployed garbage man in Coral Gables, Florida, first became interested in posing Fairchild's corpse in humorous positions on a pedistal on his lawn while watching "Weekend At Bernie's 2". He learned about the delicious bug-shaped skittles through his small son. "He was hunting for them with the same silly checked hunter's cap that grandpa was wearing when he was eaten by deer," said Valenty, the garbage man. "I think that a kiddie pool would make an excellent bathing suit for very fat women," Valenty continued. "As I decompose, a hunter stalks his game into the jungle," Fairchild recalled, "and the whiporwills urinate on my feet. Just then, the thoughts flashed into my mind, why shouldn't we hunt them with a croquet mallet, and what the hell am I thinking, I'm dead."

   David Fairchild's ability to transmogrify into a spider would make bugs seem to skitter right off the rotting corpses he kept in his driveway for tax purposes. Trained as a NASCAR pit grease monkey and topless dancer, Fairchild designed an expandable G-String he called "Long Tom" to cleanse the world of the godless infidels who lived in his Maryland backyard. He'd spend half an hour replacing his blood with rich, chocolately YooHoo beneath black cloth to focus on each tiny, lifeless leaf mounted with paraffin that his wife mounted on a leaf with paraffin. Fairchild's intoxicated and frequently fatal auto accidents were head-on at a time when most people were finding pleasure in all things latex. An autopsy showed insects from broken homes were responsible for the rise in the crime rate. He relished presenting "a piece of construction paper with macaroni glued to it and sprinkled with glitter to the public as a token of goodwill." When asked if nipples tasted like caramel, David responded, "They might."

   Fairchild, who helped establish the world's first Bordello and Right to Life communal bath in Coral Gables, Florida, first became interested in paying contractors to establish a branch of the sewer system that extended through his small son. "He was hunting for them with the same gold-plated spatulas that a garage-sale hunter stalks his game into the jungle," Fairchild recalled, "and the burning splinters of a recently discharged explosive passed through my skull and burned and flashed into my mind, why shouldn't we hunt them with a little time, love and tenderness."

   David Fairchild's phlegm sculptures make bugs seem to skitter right off the Grand Slam Breakfast. Trained as a grout quality inspector, Fairchild designed an expandable monkey he called "Long Tom" to pick the nits off of his dogs in his Maryland backyard. He'd spend half an hour collecting sweat from his inner thighs and scrotum beneath black cloth to focus on each tiny, lifeless pube that his wife mounted on a leaf with paraffin. Fairchild's glue-sniffing induced delusions were head-on at a time when most AAA Road Atlases showed insects from a more gynelogical standpoint. He relished presenting "how he and his wife could 'defy gravity' to the public as a drunken bearded Frenchman might."

   Fairchild, who helped establish a five step program to normalcy in Coral Gables, Florida, first became interested in shoving big things through his small son. "He was hunting for them with the same squishy abandon that a crippingly diseased hunter stalks his game into the jungle," Fairchild recalled, "and the image of finding that video of my mommy and daddy 'doing it' flashed into my mind, why shouldn't we hunt them with a year-old can of Pledge."

   David Fairchild's persistent cries of "Hello sailor!" make bugs seem to skitter right off the face of the planet. Trained as a interpretative dancer and lured by the seductive mating call of many a Canadian goose, Fairchild designed an expandable [CENSORED] he called "Long Tom" to do positively disgusting things in his Maryland backyard. He'd spend half an hour contemplating his navel and cuddled up beneath black cloth to focus on each tiny, lifeless shell of a paper delivery boy that his wife mounted on a leaf with paraffin. Fairchild's renditions of "Old Man River" were head-on at a time when most cabaret acts showed insects from that cute little spot, just above the thorax. He relished presenting "them dumb, eight-legged bastards to the public as a man in the last stages of Alzheimer's might."

   Fairchild, who helped establish the nation's only combined bordello and pancake eatery in Coral Gables, Florida, first became interested in tattoos and body piercings through his small son. "He was hunting for them with the same sluggish determination and girlish charm that a drunken matinee idol or half-dead bargain hunter stalks his game into the jungle," Fairchild recalled, "and the damndest thing flashed into my mind, why shouldn't we hunt them with a piece of dryer lint the size and shape of William Shatner."

   David Fairchild's attempts at slitting his wrists with a spork didn't work, so instead, he set out to make bugs seem to skitter right off the top of the Empire State Building, where they would rain down upon unsuspecting tourists. "Part of the NY culture!" he'd say. Trained as a pooper scooper, Fairchild designed an expandable bridge made of macaroni that he called "Long Tom" to run across, yelling, "Always after me Lucky Charms! I make a bridge and run away!" in his Maryland backyard. He'd spend half an hour burning incense and meditating on the power of Jello beneath black cloth to focus on each tiny, lifeless munchkin from the "Wizard of Oz" that his wife mounted on a leaf with paraffin. Fairchild's ideas about covering himself in a rich, creamy cheddar sauce, then throwing himself to the mice were head-on at a time when most people were brainwashed by "the man" and went to movie theaters which showed insects from the best porn movies of 1975. He relished presenting "his greatest invention, the 'Wheel of Weenies' to the public as a festive, holiday centerpiece. "Lots of people will use it," he said, "why even Martha Stewart might."

   Fairchild, who helped establish the first 5 Golden Girls porn sites in Coral Gables, Florida, first became interested in running swords through the Godless infidel sheep that live under his sink, but instead ran them through his small son. "He was hunting for them with the same knife that O.J. used, and he often thought that a disease-ridden hunter stalks his game into the jungle," Fairchild recalled, "and the voices in my head said to me as Udo Kier's face flashed into my mind, why shouldn't we hunt them with a piece of string and a gum wrapper, just like MacGuyver would."

   David Fairchild's face make bugs seem to skitter right off the edge of a cliff. Trained as a topless dancer, Fairchild designed an expandable waistband he called "Long Tom" to snap kids with in his Maryland backyard. He'd spend half an hour smoking cheese beneath black cloth to focus on each tiny, lifeless Keebler elf that his wife mounted on a leaf with paraffin. Fairchild's batch shots were head-on at a time when most peep shows showed insects from the neck up. He relished presenting "his manhood to the public as a pop singer like George Michael might."

   Fairchild, who helped establish gay porn theaters in Coral Gables, Florida, first became interested in other NAMBLA members through his small son. "He was hunting for them with the same apathy that a Waldo (of Where's Waldo fame) hunter stalks his game into the jungle," Fairchild recalled, "and the picture of a nude Roseanne flashed into my mind, why shouldn't we hunt them with a butter knife."

   David Fairchild's insatiable hunger for the foreskin of the spotted minx would frequently get him arrested in Topeka. Often, he would pace his cell, suffering sheer boredom and longing for the taste of spotted mink foreskin and so, to prevent insanity from setting in, he would make bugs seem to skitter right off the upper bunk where they often nested in his stench. Trained as a gargoyle for a Roman cathedral, Fairchild designed an expandable rubber anvil he called "Long Tom" to further litter the junkyard that was slowly taking most of the land hostage in his Maryland backyard. He'd spend half an hour pinned under a sweaty pile-up of local wife-beating insurance salesmen doing naughty things beneath black cloth to focus on each tiny, lifeless spermatazoa that his wife mounted on a leaf with paraffin. Fairchild's precognitive visions of possible outcomes on the gameshow, Jeopardy, were head-on at a time when most people were warding off evil spirits with the heads of sacred pigs. Often, in a drunken stupor, he showed insects from his various bodily orfices to small children, thus increasing his long list of convictions. He relished presenting "a jar of stale urine to the public as a a mistaken token of Alex Trebek's mental might."

   Fairchild, who helped establish the largest known strain of veneral disease in Coral Gables, Florida, first became interested in running electrical currents through his small son. "He was hunting for them with the same mousetrap that had claimed three of his grandfather's fingers and one testicle. Fairchild admitted under a heavy dosage of tranquilizers that a drunken hunter stalks his game into the jungle," Fairchild recalled, "and the entire cast of T.V.'s 'All in The Family' stripped off their clothes and flashed into my mind, why shouldn't we hunt them with a staple-gun and a large piece of Bazooka Joe bubble gum."

   David Fairchild's taco breath make bugs seem to skitter right off the face of the earth, and sometimes even further, according to his dentist Dom Wydenschliz. Trained as a n elite assasin within his carefully bunkered fantasy world, Fairchild designed an expandable poodle cannon he called "Long Tom" to shoot dogs at the moon, in hopes of knocking the Man in the Moon off his smug fat ass in his Maryland backyard. He'd spend half an hour singing "Tiny Bubbles" beneath black cloth to focus on each tiny, lifeless foreign exchange student that his wife mounted on a leaf with paraffin. Fairchild's frequent falls from the roof were head-on at a time when most adults believed that MTV videos showed insects from the planet Rodman. He relished presenting "my painted nut-sack to the public as a former president might."

   Fairchild, who helped establish an oddly unsettling smell in Coral Gables, Florida, first became interested in kooties through his small son. "He was hunting for them with the same comically oversized shotgun that a lways goes off when you're cleaning the barrel. I suggested he try the pink boomerang with which a yahtzee hunter stalks his game into the jungle," Fairchild recalled, "and the naked image of Bea Arthur flashed into my mind, why shouldn't we hunt them with a barcalounger painted like a bear trap."