Violins violently vibrating, Vincent Valentine Verdi vociferously voicing, "Vixens, vocalize vehement vibrations! Vigorously, vigorously!"

Verdi, the half-witted Italian dwarf, a nineteenth cousin twice removed of the great composer himself orated to his sordid ensemble of shabbily dressed over-sexed fraternity brothers: nine disgruntled violinists, violists and vacillating vocalists, intoning loudly, deafeningly, depriving the wretched dwarf of his native Italian, causing him to think in nothing but his makeshift, self-taught American English, loudly, wishing there was a "Language God" to solace him in this his time of sorrows.

Agonizing now, the chubby quarter-witted dwarf flings his baton at the four-hundred-pound viola player still struggling to tune his instrument (NO! Not that one-the other other-the one with strings), to find, as it were, his long lost "A", or "A" flat or "A" sharp or any other "A" as hell oozed from Vincent Valentine's dwarfish soul and he ranted: "If I had but one well-taught violaist, not vacillating, not vociferously, but vibrating vivaciously, I would still believe in God!"

Verdi fell to the floor, Caesar-like in a fit, though un-Caesar-like, as well, for Verdi's not epileptic, he's having another epiphany caused by the scent of the testosterone clogged room that leaves him with but one word, that wonderful word he learned as a nineteen-year old high school graduate while touring Paris on that October weekend in Paris in the mid-60s when he had that magically mystical encounter with Pierre on that tiny broken splintery barge, floating haplessly and hopelessly on the Seine, where two boys twisted in their feeble attempt at man-love, Pierre, who was two months, nine-days older, and twice as experienced in the ways of making love as Verdi, had shouted: Voila . . . Here it comes! Here it comes . . . HERE IT FUCKING COMES! And both boys' souls became one, and love oozed from their hearts as well as their manly parts!

But now, Pierre's "voila" is barely a memory-and the ennui of voila had nearly vanished from Verdi's mind-that is, until this moment. . . this voila moment. . . when Verdi, who still wonders why he couldn't remove Pierre's sweaty underpants and twice-darned socks, or for that matter, why early today he couldn't corral these nine clamoring out-of-tune women or find a dozen eggs at the bustling Rue Mouttetard market for less than the price of a small ham. . . now lies here before us on the yellow and blue tiled floor in his spasm of an earth shattering epiphany, wondering why everyone says the sun rises in the east when it fact the sun doesn't rise at all and wondering why cowboy boots never fit his size seven feet-why one foot, his left foot, always feels at home in a man-sized eight and his right foot, his happy foot, his thinking foot, his tap dancing to hell foot, is only content in a boy sized seven while his left foot, that man-foot, screeches out in pain each time he forces it inside the matching boy's shoe. . . but mostly, mostly, mostly, damn it! Verdi wonders what went wrong with the hot fudge sundae he made last night-why it melted into goo and disintegrated before his one brown and one hazel eye . . . and yes, Verdi does all this thinking in the space of a scintilla of a moment of time and then rights himself and stands, straightening his pants legs like he's done since he started puberty-because one of his legs is a half inch longer than the other, even though he never remembers which is which or even give a rat's ass why because that's when the steam pours out of his head as quickly as his first glorious emission spewed across the sunbaked planks of the barge in what seems like a millennium ago, and he proclaims:

Voila!

The End

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