Sippings from the Slipper of a Starry-Eyed Cynic
by
Book Cover & Preview Text
An excerpt from ".....According to Mark"
Act 2 of the Apostles
Mark: James, John!James & John: Hail, Mark. We’re the sons of Zebeedee.
Mark (sighs): I know, I know.
James & John: How are you?
Mark: I’m fine. A little nervous, but fine.
James & John: We’re all a bit nervous these days now that He has left us.
Mark: You can say that again. But that’s not what’s bothering me right now.
James & John: Confess. We can handle "confessions" now. The Master said so.
Mark: I’m just a bit anxious right now. I’ve written the story of The Master and I sent it to Simon over three months ago. Now, I’ve received word he wants to see me. Know why?
James & John: No idea.
Mark: Well, do you know where he is?
James & John: I think he’s in that one-room flat with the indoor plumbing.
Mark: He moved?
James & John: Yes.
Mark: Where this time?
James & John: Above the Holy Knish Café.
Mark: Ah! Know it well. Excellent latkes. Thank you.
James & John: You are most welcome, Mark. Are you seeking a publisher?
Mark: For what?
James & John: Your manuscript.
Mark: No, I think not. It can get quite expensive.
James & John: Try the self-publishing route. I hear that is most inexpensive. If Simon won’t help you, Schuster might.
Mark: That is an idea, but I still require Simon’s imprimatur.
James & John: Simon’s what?
Mark: Imprimatur.
James & John: Uh…Mark.
Mark: Yes?
James & John: I wouldn’t use “imprimatur” if I were you.
Mark: Why not?
James & John: It’s so Roman. Some people might think you a collaborator.
Mark: You’re right! I have to be careful. I have no desire to be stoned.
James & John: At least not that kind of “stoned,” aye, Mark?
Mark (smiling): You‘ve got that right. Thanks.
James & John: No problem.
Mark: What’s the Yiddish equivalent of ‘imprimatur’?
James & John: Search me. I’m just a poor fisherman.
Mark: I’ll figure out another way to say it. Nevertheless, I do require his “OK”.
James & John: I understand. He can get quite dogmatic at times. Why do you think they call him “Pope”? But you better hurry.
Mark: Why?
James & John: I’ve been hearing rumors that Matthew is writing the same thing.
Mark: That toll collector!
James & John: Yep. And you know, he has the resources to get his published. Both Simon & Schuster are interested.
Mark: I’ve heard rumors about misappropriation of funds.
James & John: No kidding, bubbeleh. How do you think he financed that condo overlooking Galilee?
Mark: Damn. I better move quickly then.
James & John: Anyway, may I read it once Simon approves?
Mark: Of course, boys. You’re in it.
James & John: We are?
Mark: Of course. You’re one of the Twelve.
James & John: Twelve what?
Act 3 of the Apostles
Thaddeus: Halt! Who goes there?Mark: It is I, Thad. Mark.
Thaddeus: Mark who?
Mark: Mark Mark.
Thaddeus: Oh, that Mark.
Mark advances into view.
Mark: Jeesh, Thad. We’ve only been together night and day for the past three years!
Thaddeus: We can’t be too careful nowadays, you know.
Mark (finally noticing Thaddeus’ pseudo-Roman garb): And what is this? A helmet? And you’re carrying a spear?
Thaddeus: Like them? How do I look?
Mark: Where did you get them?
Thaddeus: I tripped over some meshugeh centurion. He was lying in the gutter slurring something about a robe and having a guilty conscience.
Mark: OK, so now I know how you got them, but why are you wearing them?
Thaddeus: I’ve retired from fishing. I’m in the guard business.
Mark: We’re all in the “God” business now, Thad.
Thaddeus: Not “God”. Guard. I’m on guard.
Mark: On guard?
Thaddeus (slyly): I’m protecting Simon.
Mark: Protecting Simon? He only needs His protection. That’s all that matters.
Thaddeus: Mark, I couldn’t agree with you more. But he’s getting a little paranoid. Having nightmares. Nightmares of being crucified upside down. Can you imagine?
Mark: Where is he?
Thaddeus: Upstairs.
Mark: Well, I need to see him.
Thaddeus: What’s the password?
Mark: Password?
Thaddeus: Password. Strict orders. Nobody goes up without the correct password.
Mark: Come on, Thad. You know me.
Thaddeus: Sorry. No password, no admittance. You know the boss. His orders.
Mark: But I don’t know the password.
Thaddeus: Sure you do. You just don’t know you know. Just say whatever pops into your mind. You’ll get it.
Mark: Trinity?
Thaddeus: Nope.
Mark: Golgotha?
Thaddeus: Uh-uh.
Mark: Transfiguration?
Thaddeus: Close, but no cigar.
Mark: I give up.
Thaddeus: No, no, Mark. Don’t be that way. You’re on the right track. Here. Rub the brush on my helmet for good luck.
Mark: Crucifix?
Thaddeus: No, but keep pitching.
Mark: Crown of thorns?
Thaddeus: Sorry.
Mark (pissed and exasperated): JESUS CHRIST!!!
Thaddeus: Great! Go right on up.
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About the Book
Have you ever gazed deeply into your navel and contemplated: an emergency physician as an alleged mass murderer; pus; a flatulating mammoth; Mark's tribulations getting his Gospel published; athlete's foot as history's first public health crisis; the genitalia of Michelangelo's David; Churchill, DeGaulle, and FDR relaxing at iconic Rick's Café Américain; a wayward pelican interrupting a Yankee-Red Sox game; telepathic tortoises and pedicuring piranhas; Cagney, Bogie, and Edward G. Robinson rescuing us from life's current perfidies? These are but samples of the ironical, cynical, and metaphorical black humor contained in this tome. It's a glimpse through the diaphanous layers of the author's imagination. It's an imagination of another time from another place. It's an imagination that has been carefully molded by varying aliquots of Big Apple naiveté, emergency medical mayhem, madness & mirth, and a persistent fatalistic optimism.
About the Author
Consigliere to pimps and presidents, Paul Patrick Rega is a modern-day Renaissance man. A poet, a painter, an educator, a researcher, a writer, and an emergency/flight physician, Dr. Rega navigates life's moguls and potholes with equal measures of whimsy, wit, and cynicism. A native of The Bronx, he currently resides with his beautiful wife within the Federal Witness Protection Program.