The First Annual Michael's Used Books Classic Parody Issue, Vol. 1

“A Congress of Buffoons”

I was almost three inches into Gravity’s Rainbow when Mr. Fineman, my employer, made a rather blustery entrance into the bookstore; the jarring sound of the bells strung from the front door made me turn sharply, forcing my stout body and keg-like arms to, in turn, knock several weighty tomes from their perch upon the antiquarian desk that doubles as our shipping area. Their fall was muted somewhat by the sudden appearance of my left food, which bore the brunt of Thomas Mann’s Buddenbrooks like a classroom full of somnambulant freshman.

The book, itself, was leather-bound Easton Press, priced at a song: $53.96.

The other books that were sent hurtling footward were slightly slimmer volumes of equally turgid prose. Frightfully their fall from grace was compounded by the fact that I had just set a rather ample root beer float atop that particular stack, which I intended to eat after I supped on a delicious cheese steak sandwich done in the style of the Philadelphia masters.
Mr. Fineman intrusively walked around the front counter towards the shipping desk forcing me to roll my chair out of his path in order to avoid being waylaid. Curling the corners of his mouth into a scowl, he looked down at the pile of books splayed out on the dusty floor, their fine cloth covers now wearing a Jackson Pollackian masterpiece in mustard and peppers, then looked up at me and bellowed, “Where the hell do you think yer going?”
As I explained that I was merely following protocol by vacating an unsafe work area and finding refuge until my superior officer had cleared the area, I felt the effects of my sudden lurch backwards in the chair and silently passed gas. This timely event gave me the subterfuge I needed to navigate myself out of this seemingly inexorable situation.
“I smell gas!” I yelled. “Flee! Panic! SAVE YOUR SOULS!” I rocked forward to try and extricate myself from the cozy leather rolling chair, but after two vigorous attempts ceded to strategy of staying seated.
“I don’t smell nuttin’” said Mr. Fineman. He was right. The sulfuric haze that rippled through my Corduroys (ah, Cor Du Roy—the Fabric of Kings) was already beginning to lose its pungent bouquet. “Well, didja at least get all the packages shipped before da’ post man got here?”
“Well not exactly, sir. I had some quality control issues that had to be rectified before I…”
“I don’t care what you had to rectalfy,” Mr. Fineman hissed, “how many of them friggin’ books did you ship out today?”
“Numerically, the answer would be zero,” I replied slowly, wanting to savor the pocket of mustard I discovered tucked in the crook of my mouth. “I had not completed my first quality control assessment yet.”
“Wha?”
“Quality control assessment, sir. In all honesty I cannot ship an item out until it reached the standard set by this store’s very name: “Fineman’s Fine Used Books.” Because,” I said, lowering my voice to sotto, “quite frankly sir, some of these books are in less than fine condition.”
His eyebrows knitted a quilt of bewilderment. Undaunted, I drove my point onward like Patton through Palermo, “I didn’t ship anything out because I need to wade through this dreck and drivel before I can judge whether it is of fine enough quality to forward on to our beloved patrons. I would need some assistance, a secretary of some sort. And butler. There is a lot that need to be buttled around here. Why, look at this place…it’s positively ramshackled!”

[To be continued…]