a dyslexic walks into a bra

and drinks a few shots of whiskey, does a line of coke off of the lid of the toilet, and drives home grooving to BTO. A month later he goes to a barbecue, meets his future wife, has his dad's co-workers help him get into a little business, fails at the business, and resigns himself to fighting over the scraps that are falling from the table to which his dad's friends' mistresses' illegitimate children have been relegated. Dyslexic sighs, walks into another bra, ties one on, slurs throughout the speech passionately defending his right to grab-ass the waitress, and drives home. Dyslexic find Dog while weaving across the unbroken yellow lines. Cop who pulled him over is not swayed by this relevation and dyslexic is convicted of driving under the influence. Dyslexic thinks this is par for the 1977 course, which has been something like the 7th circle of hell in terms of psychic agony endured. Dyslexic abandons whiskey and the Bolivian marching powder, and cedes over his entire being to the whim of Dog.

Shortly thereafter, Dad moves from leading shadowy acronym organization to bigger things, and Dad's friends, thinking him a liability and wanting to keep him preoccupied, give dyslexic a baseball team to play with. To his credit, dyslexic knows and likes baseball, feels its rhythms deep within his bones, and to that degree seems to be getting over his infatuation with cheerleading. He dreams of a career as a baseball commissioner, despite his self-acknowledged difficulty understanding internal nuances of the game. Later, Dyslexic translates Dad's effete Presbyterian whimper into a big affirmative for other dyslexics who've found Dog, and gains confidence in the process. Dyslexic gets out of baseball and, following in his father's footsteps, dives into politics. dyslexic comes into his own, rights all wrongs Dad neglected to right and embraces oedipal blindness. Does all of it in Dog's name.

Today Dyslexic talks of catching the freedom fire, which metaphor seems an odd choice in lieu of recent epidemics of charred bodies and buildings. (Dyslexic's advisors wisely nixed his wish to proclaim that "tidal wave of freedom will be sweeping over the Middle East and other such troublesome regions.") oddly enough, dyslexic's initial walk into a bra three or four decades ago led him down to the path to where and who he is today, which combination of who/where makes millions of Americans everywhere want to hole up in a bra at this moment and drink until tunnel vision distills the room into one single oscillating point that slowly exfoliates outward and covers everything in the amniotic warmth of darkness.