THE FORWARD: A little about “About Bartholomew’s” Author—We met Paul (the author of this novella) after we became cognizant of the fact that he was our father. Not long after, we discovered that he didn’t know how to take a proper selfie.
We offer this photo as exhibit A. There won’t be an exhibit B—we’re not that cruel.
Our dad is very fond of saying that “About Bartholomew” is an amazing new work of fiction from America’s best unknown blogger. Naturally, this new novella version of his novel will see to it that it stays that way.
We never knew our dad had written so many other fabulous works of fiction, and apparently none of his publishers knew it either.
So, this might serve to explain why he does a blog at WordPress instead, continuing to labor in the shadow of the likes of Steinbeck, Austin, and Hemingway.
That would be Joan Steinbeck, John Austin, and Ernestine Hemingway — their blogs are so much better.
It is with great apprehension that we, his offspring, invite you to read this latest masterpiece from our dad “About Bartholomew.”
It’s been whittled down to a paltry 1437 words to spare you from having to read the (unedited, and unsold) novel.
Please keep in mind this was all made possible by WordPress — so blame them.
“I dedicate this story to my wife and children who now will not make one cent off of it —that’s because they laughed all the way through it.” I’ll show them—Paul
CHAPTER ONE: Don’t Go Towards The Light
It was a dark and stormy night, not that he would have noticed, as it was still warm and cozy inside.
He felt closer to her now somehow. Her heart was pounding like a hundred warehouse pumps in an echo chamber. Thump-thump, thump-thump.
“If only I had a pair of earplugs.” Bartholomew, thought himself.
Suddenly, up from down under (no not Australia), he caught sight of a light entering into the room. The ray of light grew brighter and brighter. He couldn’t be sure, but it sounded like a choir of angels were trying to sing — only they couldn’t carry a tune.
Bartholomew’s eyes gradually widened. Silhouetted against this light were shadowy figures.
He could just make out through his (Ray-Ban) sunglasses (recently purchased online) that the mysterious alien figures were all wearing masks.
His mind raced with a million questions, however, WordPress said I only have room for three.
“Who are these masked figures? What do they want with me? “How did they get access to my womb — room?” That’s when it hit him…
CHAPTER TWO: When Sally Slept With Tom, Dick and Harry… And Bartholomew!
There was only one man in Sally’s life, and that was Harry — and that was after a haircut and a shave. Not counting, of course, Tom (the Uber driver), Dick (the hunky pool boy), and … Bartholomew.
Sure, there were other men in her life, but this is only a novella not a five thousand page novel — as originally intended. So, you’ll never find out who the rest of the guys were — not without a court order anyway.
“But, it’s only Bartholomew for me.” Sally thought. ” And Harry makes two, and okay, all those other guys as well. But, mostly Bartholomew.”
Then, she was hit with an epiphany (and it hurt).
“What if Chris Hemsworth suddenly were available?
“Then Chris will be the only man in my life.” She smiled to herself, happy with that fantasy.
Otherwise, it was going to be Bartholomew… and Tom, and Dick, and Harry. Okay, and all those other guys.
She was satisfied to at least have some outs in case it didn’t work out with Chris.
Harry, on the other hand, came into her life like a millstone — that was earlier in chapter two. Athough, Bartholomew — the younger of the two — won her over without saying a word.
They shared a bed together, and yes, she put up with his babbling and goo gooing and ga gaing all the time. After all, he was her baby. What else could she do?
Put him up for adoption? Not hardly— because that would have required my having to write an extra chapter.
Meanwhile, Harry was wrestling with a whole different issue, and that issue was, Bartholomew.
“It’s not possible!” he thought. “She couldn’t have been pregnant, we never had sex!
CHAPTER THREE: Act Two
And Bartholomew did.
Still in shock from having been forcibly evicted from his tiny apartment by total strangers who were not midwives (and with forceps) Bartholomew was furious.
He swore revenge on the people responsible for his eviction — especially since they gave him no notice — and unleashed an act of revenge so diabolical, other parents of the world took note.
He started asking ‘WHY?’ to everything.”
Told you it was diabolical.
CHAPTER FOUR: A Colorful Narrative… In Black an White
The wind was howling the way coyote’s howl at the moon,
“Ahwooo…wooo…wooo…wooo!” Trees bending with each howl.
“You, tree on the left, bend that way. You, tree on the right, bend the other way.” said the wind — and a bottle of twelve-year old scotch.
A swift gale caused the night owls (bar hoppers) to fly backwards.
While real night owls got a hoot out of witnessing the sight. There they were, a bunch of drunks frantically flapping their arms about in an effort to stand upright while being blown backwards.
Of course, none of the above narrative has anything to do with the rest of the story, but I had to put it somewhere in the manuscript. So, why not in chapter four, right?
CHAPTER FIVE: All The Dramatic Moments You Missed While Reading The Colorful Narrative In Chapter Four
There was an exciting plane crash into Vatican City. Take my word for it, it was action packed!
Then the Pope pulled out a pearl handle gun from his shoulder holster — the papacy allows its use only in extreme emergencies — and he shot it out with a bunch of clowns from a traveling Circus.
There was a thrilling fight to the death atop Mt. Everest with a Sherpa who was dressed as a llama. This involved two characters who had absolutely nothing else to do with the story.
A “Great Flood of Jello” wiggled its way down the buttes into the Mojave Desert at midday and wiping out some odious traveling nomads who were searching for the mysterious birth place of Bartholomew.
Then the enchanting conclusion, where Bartholomew breaks into song joined by the entire town of Bakersfield, California (in a completely unrehearsed, beautifully choregraphed song and dance number) singing the title tune from the book.
This was followed by a revelation (at a masquerade party gone wrong) by Sally of who Bartholomew’s real father was, and it’s not Tom (the Uber driver), Dick (the hunky pool boy), or even Harry the boyfriend, but Jerry the mailman!
Jerry immediately swore to Tom, Dick, and Harry (as they were about to go all Bruce Lee on him) that he had nothing to do with the weird title character’s immaculate conception and that it was some hack with a red nose wearing pajamas (with footies) who was the real person irresponsible for the weird biographical invention and that none of what was written was true.
Of course, none of them bought poor Jerry’s preposterous story, and so he never made a dime from it. However, the author will.
You see, it’s not what you think, it’s what you imagine.
BACK FLAP—Paul is the best selling (albeit, delusional) author of two children’s books.
“The Marshmallow Man is a Smore Fluffy Fellow than you Realize”. And the classic, “Why I Write with Two Hyphens because Two Hyphens are Never Two Too Many.