Forward

Back some months ago, in sixteen seventy-something, a certain poor English family man had the blues. His father, rest his soul, like all fathers everywhere throughout time, had wanted him to take up the family business, and, in this case, be a tinker. But John, not being able, or willing, to hold his sack, was unqualified. He felt called to a higher plane, and took up preaching the Good Word to all who would hear. Charles II, somehow, unfortunately, kept catching wind of this activity; and as the Good Word seemed wont to fly at odds in the face of the Church of England, of which Charles II was administrator, John no sooner uttered Good Words than he found time to compose his next sermon languishing in irons. Based solely on the amount of time spent doing it, languishing would have appeared to have been John's occupation of choice these last two decades or so. His family - and his wife in particular, we suspect - although loyal to the very marrow, were getting peevish. John, a sensitive sort, felt this. It weighed on his soul. Depression not having been invented yet, it was left only to be dejected, but he did it well, and carried dejection to its depths, defining new limits. "Woe; Woe to Thy Fervant and Chief of Finnerf, Woe," he might have sighed.

But Lo! he awoke of a morning enlightened. He had had a dream, he claimed; a divine dream, a dream of hope, a dream of encouragement, and what is more, miracle of miracles, he remembered it! And remembered it, it would appear, in mind-boggling detail. It changed his life. He could now take his swill from the turnkey and smile blissfully. He could now sweep last week's offal to the grate in pious exultation. They noticed the change in him, and shied.

John Bunyan was not satisfied, though. This bliss, this exultation, was too rich for him to keep to himself. He decided to inflict it on the public at large and, having at the moment some free time, he jotted his dream down on paper, and found a former fellow cell-mate to publish it. Born was "The Pilgrim's Progress - From This World To That Which Is To Come; Delivered Under The Similitude Of A Dream." The tome subsequently has inspired millions for centuries; which only proves the durability of a real idea.

But, to the point.

As many scribes feel even to this day, Bunyan felt that to plunge his readers straight into the text without some preliminary softening up might be considered hasty, if not cruel. To that end he penned a few pages of verse by way of explanation. Being a man of honesty, even of painful honesty, in a time when speaking aloud heart-felt truths could, and did, land one in prison, he minced no words in titling this verse. It was not a Forward. It was hardly a mere Introduction. Preface could not begin to cover it. John Bunyan, calling a spade a spade, in a statement either of bald humility or of bold hubris, began his masterpiece with:

"The Author's Apology for his Book."

That any work, much less a masterpiece, should be apologized for did not even strike the straightforward folk of that time as worthy of notice. In fact, this bit of inspiration lay unharvested for over two hundred years until, in eighteen hundred and ninety-nine, a man justly famed for his discerning eye and disconcerting wit wrote in a preface:

"Prefaces wear many disguises, call themselves by various names, and pretend to come on various businesses, but I think that upon examination we are quite sure to find that their errand is always the same: they are there to [our ital.] apologize for the book; in other words, furnish reasons for its publication. This often insures brevity." This giant went on to claim that in the case of his present edition, however, there was no possible explanation for it. He apparently felt his book was either self-evident or utterly unjustifiable, which choice in either case left the purpose of his Preface obscure. But, plumbing the depths of his ready invention, the author (alias Mark Twain) cleared it up for us by stating: "Upon these terms, . . . there is no occasion for a Preface; there is nothing for it to do - except to explain its own presence, apologize for its intrusion. That is what this present Preface does."

Thus, in two hundred years we have discovered two, and two only, reasons for a Preface, or in this case, Forward, to exist: to apologize for the book which follows, or to apologize for itself. You are no doubt keen on discovering into which of these two categories this present essay falls. Not so fast.

We, ourselves being of discerning eye and (ahem) probing intellect, have in a mere ninety years stumbled upon a third - yes, a third - possibility.

You might think all scribblers' dreams feasted more or less exclusively on the ecstasy of having their scribblings read. This is true generally. Why one would devote long hours to one's scribblings with the intent of keeping said scribblings mysterious, is mysterious. But, alas, it happens. We have to admit, it has happened to us. And in fact, it has happened here.

We are overwhelmed with a sense of duty, that's the problem. In scribbling this book, we became aware of a certain impendingness. At first nothing one could put one's finger on, it grew into a kind of weight boring into that knobby protruding bone between one's shoulder blades. Creeping downward, it dished out discomfort by the bucketful, until one day it capriciously reversed course, wriggled into our atom of soul and revealed itself vengefully.

It was Conscience.

Which brings us to the third possible and present reason for this Forward:

Warning!

This is a dangerous book.

This is a dangerous book. While closed it could conceivably serve as a bludgeon if no better was at hand; it is when opened that it poses its most ominous threat. Open, it could be read. We fear this with only the best instincts. There are, we posit, whole species which should not read this book. For this book is based upon, is guided by, pursues, and ultimately achieves that most dastardly and debilitating, and prevalent, of all human traits: Stupidity.

Do not take this warning lightly. It is not a joke. There is real danger here, and we will not be held responsible for foolhardy readers' actions. In writing this book, we ushered forth all our humble powers in the effort to make it stupid. We succeeded beyond our wildest dreams, and at the same time, inexplicably, miserably, stupidly, we also failed in toto. Don't ask us to explain this. We can't. It can be answered only by reading the book, but don't do it! Some things are better left unknown.

Stop reading here.

You may find the occasional turn of phrase, situation, or characterization to be not bereft of humor. This, we confess, was absolutely intentional. Others, not of your ilk, may find the identical turns of phrase, situations, and characterizations to be grounds for homicide. We will not address the legality of those grounds here. It is only brought up to illustrate that one reader's chuckle is another reader's choke. This is a Basic Fact of Life. While whole industries are founded and profitable serving wide thriving populations which refuse to accept basic facts of life, we refuse to succumb. We are adamant in this. Basic Facts of Life and Eternal Truths (another scorned category), are, we aver with heroic obstinacy, the only things that are really truly and always funny. This book explores both mercilessly.

Do yourself a favor, and quit.

Another great faultline riddling this book is its fascination with the obvious. We see nothing wrong with this. It is a convenient pipeline to stupidity which at the same time yields up opportunities for amusement. But our eyes are open. We realize there exist hordes who will refuse to be amused. They are those who eschew the obvious. Their favorites are obtuse by demand; the obtuser, the favoriter. These blighters are, we fear, like the obvious itself, ineluctable. They use the ten-dollar words because they cost ten dollars, not because they are funny. We are sorry for them, and take this last opportunity to save them further pain: Slap us shut. You will never know the anguish you avoid by doing so, but trust us; the knowing would not be worth the anguish. Shelve us, and shelve us now.

Please, give it up.

There is no reason to continue.

This book, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, is in reality completely blank following this sentence.

It becomes apparent that you are determined. Years hence, when you have possibly recovered, you will bewail your current inability to recognize Wisdom in its purest and most altruistic form. You yourself have, perhaps, cursed certain persons past or present for their refusal to listen to reason. Without intending insult, we must suggest here that you as of now number yourself among them. All the evidence betrays you. You will go on, damn you. Don't say you weren't warned.

We wash our hands.

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