The easel stool folded in the closet. He

The easel stool folded in the closet. He was afraid to look at it and averted his gaze when the door was open. She had been leaving it open often, but catharsis was a long way off

the mark. He had no "moment." No "self-revelation." What he felt was conveyor belt banality. It just rolled like a tank track. On it's back were the seconds of his life. They drop

into the chute like so much dirty laundry, revealing more than necessary. For a stark moment, he wondered if this was what it really was all about: motion after churning motion.

The previously unattended chute; the rhythmic churning motion; the unbridled passion to smell the folded pile in front of him: Jason was a seasoned launderer bent on

making stain removal history. It would be the culmination of 35 years at the Tide Research and Development Center. Cuz Black EL Marko on alabaster linen was his white whale.

But then he abandoned his research when he heard Cowboy TV was in town! Oh joyous day! He hoped to meet Cowboy TV so he could

show him what-for. He wasn't violent, but one nerve too many had been stung by that vile man--actually, he wasn't even sure he WAS a man, but it didn't matter, today he'd

put an end to his foul broadcast once and for all. The best way to do that was to get the world's most hated celebrities to make a live appearance and perform

the macarena of death. That'll show that two-stepping maniac not to show his face around here anymore. He'll probably end up on Jerry Springer, anyway, confessing his