Fubar
Authors: Ron Carpol
F
UBAR
UBAR
A N
OVEL OF
D
ECEPTION
RON CARPOL
CONNOR
&
JAMES BOOK PUBLISHERS
LOS ANGELES
Â
PUBLISHED BY CONNOR & JAMES BOOK PUBLISHERS
LOS ANGELES
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents, unless otherwise noted, are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher.
Book cover and design by Robert Aulicino
ISBN 0-9742560-4-8
Copyright ©2004 by Ron Carpol
All rights reserved
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
First Edition
CONNOR & JAMES BOOK PUBLISHERS
[email protected]
www.fubarbook.com
The author is available for speaking appearances.
Distributed by Independent Publishers Group
814 N. Franklin Street
Chicago, IL 60610 USA
Phone: 312. 337-0747
Fax: 312. 337-5985
www.ipgbook.com
AÂ
Â
fubar
fucked up beyond all recognitionâU. S. SLANG, Words & Phrases
Â
Do unto others before they do unto you first.
  âKurt Stafford
CKNOWLEDGMENTS
This book would never have been completed in its present form without the invaluable assistance of Nick Carpol, who tirelessly worked with me in every phase of this project.
Thanks also to the following people whose vital contributions are gratefully appreciated: Sunghi Yoo, my meticulous proofreader for correcting my endless errors; Cathy Giblin, for her research editing; Chris Carpol and Suzie Carpol for their story ideas; Chris Martin, for some great fraternity reminiscences; Thomas B. Sawyer, the bestselling author, (
www.storybase.net
), for the invaluable information contained in his indispensable book,
Fiction Writing
DEMYSTIFIED, who was the first professional writer to endorse this book; Paul Rodriguez, the great comedian, for validating that this book really is funny; Robert Aulicino, for his cover art and interior design, (
www.aulicinodesign.com
), and guidance and patience.
And in alphabetical order, the editors of these major college satirical publications: Vern Cassin, Editor-in-Chief, PRINCETON
Tiger
; Aryeh Cohen-Wade, Editor-in-Chief, YALE
Record
; Editors of GEORGETOWN
Lampoon
; Sammy Elhag, Editor-in-Chief, UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, SAN DIEGO
Koala
; Colin Kelly Jost, President, HARVARD
Lampoon
; Adrian Perry, Editor-in-Chief, STANFORD
Chaparral
; Ben Schachtman, Editor-in-Chief, RUTGERS
Medium
; Ken Schefler, Editor-in-Chief Emeritus, CORNELL
Lunatic
; Melissa Surach, Editor-in-Chief, McGill
Red Herring
; and Ricky Van Veem, co-founder of
collegehumor.com
.
And most importantlyâfor her help in everything involving this projectâto Elizabeth.
ABLE OF
C
ONTENTS
Â
Â
T
HE
F
IVE
M
ILLION
D
OLLAR
C
HALLENGE
Â
M
Y
G
ODDAMN
G
RANDFATHER
Friday, August 2, 2002
San Francisco
T
HIS
C
HINK
L
AWYER
, I
THINK HER NAME WAS
Y
OKO
O
NO
or something like that, laid down the blue-backed papers on her desk and silently looked right through me with the Mona Lisa expression on her face. I puckered my lips, raised my right palm to my chin, and blew this gook a big, fucking kiss.
My father jerked around towards me. His eyes tightened and the veins on the side of his neck puffed out like thick rope. No doubt about it. He was mad about something.
“After today, you're cut off. Whatever you inherit better last you a lifetime.”
“Who cares? I'll be worth millions in half an hour.”
Then I'd be off to the Caribbean for the good life: beautiful beaches, smoking dope, always drunk, and lots of pussy.
The lawyer broke the stiff silence. “Besides the charitable gifts that I already read, these are the bequests for the family members.”
But instead of telling everybody what we got, she started spouting off a bunch of bullshit about what a great guy my grandfather was.
I tuned out, enjoying my throbbing hard-on, thinking about Jenna Jameson, the porn star that Howard Stern interviewed this morning.
When the slopehead paused to take a swig from an Evian bottle, my father poked me in the arm with his elbow. His facial expression looked like he was smelling dog shit.
“Lyman's dressed in a suit,” he snapped. “Look at you. In that disgusting shirt that reeks of marijuana.”
Who cares if he didn't like my wrinkled T-shirt that showed a guy with slicked-back hair from the â40s smoking a joint? Above the guy was the word REEFER and below him were the words AT LEAST IT'S NOT CRACK.
“Any other complaints?”
“Yeah. Your breath stinks of beer and it's only ten o'clock in the morning.”
“Anything else?”
He pointed to Lyman who was sitting between my aunt and uncle. “Yeah. He's only seventeen and got accepted to Stanford and Berkeley. And you haven't amounted to shit. You're twenty-six without a day of college.”
“Quiet,” my mother hissed. “Let Mrs. Onoke read the will.”
What the hell did my mother know about anything except her daily ritual: church, expensive lunches, designer stores.
Just as the lawyer started to speak again, she suddenly stopped for a second and froze, staring at my mother's diamond ring that was just a little smaller than a golf ball.
“Because I only have two children,” Yoko Ono finally continued, still in that squeaky, high-pitched voice, “Mrs. Catherine Stafford and Mrs. Suzanne Pomeranz, they are to receive equal shares of my twenty-one million dollar estate with the exception of five million dollars.”
Then for the first time, this bitch looked directly into my eyes. Two seconds later she looked over at Lyman before quickly twisting her skinny neck around and looking back at me again. Her eyes, which slanted much more than Lyman's, suddenly sparkled, lighting up her round face with a smile.
“You're Kurt Stafford, aren't you?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you like me to tell you about your five million dollar inheritance in plain English?”
“Yeah.”
She tossed the will down on the desk and smiled again, like she couldn't wait to get to the punch line of a great joke.
“OK. Within one month you must enlist in the Marines and complete boot camp.”
Everybody except me burst out laughing; even the shyster.
“That's it? For five million bucks I got to join the fucking Marines? Looks like we're going to have a war!”
“Or,” she added, with a thinner smile that looked more sadistic, “that you enroll now in any accredited college and be sworn into your grandfather's fraternityâSigma Omicron Lambdaâby the end of your first semester.”
“That's it? Only those two dead-end choices?”
She nodded, smiling slightly. “Yes. That's it.”
That dead bastard did to me what pantyhose did to finger-fucking.
“What if I start college and don't last the semester? Can I still try the Marines?”
“Yes, but you must enlist within a month after leaving college.”
“What if I don't finish either one?”
“You get nothing.” Now, with a shit-eating grin, she looked at Lyman and pointed at him. “And your adopted cousin gets the money if he fulfills either condition.”
“But I get first shot. Right?”
She nodded. “That's right.”
My father's ruddy face beamed and his blue eyes almost twinkled. He looked way too smug for a personal injury lawyer who settled insurance claims from staged car accidents where quack doctors provided fake medical bills and reports. Everybody has a price, he continually bragged.
“We'll pay for college until you flunk out,” were his words of inspiration. “Unless you decide to skateboard down the Halls of Montezuma or surf the Shores of Tripoli.”
Again, the Chinaman bitch laughed like the rest of them, with my asshole cousin laughing the loudest before he sneered at me.
“You'll never see a dime, you fucker. I guarantee it.”
T
HE
S
CHEMING
A
RAB
1:00
P.M
.
“
W
HAT'S THE DEAL
?” A
LI
R
EZA ASKED
,
still chewing on the spongy crap he showed me between bites as we sat on the tan couch in my apartment.
