Wrapped Up Like A Douche

Wrapped Up Like A Roast: WULAD Salutes Neal Pollack
It may be reasonably asked why I, a relative slime mold on the evolutionary ladder of literature (of which the Right Honorable Mr. Pollack is the slippery topmost rung) am qualified to contribute to his Celebrity Roast; after all, I have never met the man, nor shared his bed at the fantastic ranch and amusement park which bears his name, nor even felt his gentle, clammy hand clasp the nape of my neck in the most stepfatherly of manners. This concern is appropriate; but before I attempt to befoul the great litany of tributes preceding this one with the stain of my sophomoric pen, I ask that the assemblage consider the tale of the following missive I received from He Whose Tea I Am Not Worthy To Bag, which I believe amply demonstrates the depth of my connection to this brilliant, pasty man.

I cannot describe the elation I felt upon the appearance of the name “N_Pollack” in my inbox one shimmering day; it was beyond my wildest expectations that my PayPal donation of $13.56 would prompt a personal reply from the Man Himself. No, thought I, it must be a form letter from some anonymous lackey, a pale and pimply coffee-runner in the lowest basement of the Pollack Media Empire’s most remote outpost. I did not dare to dream that a lowly scribbling piss-ant such as myself would be the recipient of a personal reply from one who obviously wipes his brain’s nether regions each day with writers exponentially more prominent and talented than I, checking to make sure they have removed all traces of metaphorical stool before consigning them to the septic tank of his subconscious. But I was mistaken.

“Thanks, Ian,” the G.L.A.W. wrote—immediately uplifting me by typing my pitiful name with those glorious, if warty, fingers—“whoever you are!” (The warmth! The wit!) Mr. Pollack, or “Dad,” as I have taken to calling him, then closed with an exhortation to a Higher Life:

“Rock on,” he wrote, and signed with the touching sobriquet “NP.” Needless to say I needed an extra helping of yams that night, if you know what I mean. So without further ado, I give you my own humble homage to the man who may be the suppository cure for the cultural constipation of our society:

N is for the Need which he ably fills
E is for Eczema, and his plethora of ills
A is for Awe which spreads, tumor-like, as we read
L is for the Lard he devours while on speed

P is for the Pride which he humbly swallows
O is for Orgasm, which inevitably follows
L is for the Love which he showers on the reader
L is for the Lubricant this requires by the liter
A is for All of his appreciative progeny
C is for the Codpiece which hides his androgyny
K is for Knowledge, his work’s very crux;
...and these are the reasons why Neal Pollack Sucks.

Godspeed, you great doughy, balding avatar of American prose.