Preamble To “Kookaburra Me”

An excerpt from ‘Kookaburra Me– Copyright © 2020 by Michael A. Kuch


“Not Funny, Kook!”

None of the Beautiful Shit masquerading as Mia Dolce Vita was my idea, except Part III – Act VII, the penultimate scene where I perish – or do I? – in a Shiitake mushroom plume of ash, vapor and chunks of molten lava at the smoldering base of Mauna Loa … a reluctant Mannchylde Martyr hedging on a big, fat promise to save Humanity from it’s nasty-assed self while a paparazzo potschkes with the lens cap and misses the Magma Enchilada exploding on my impromptu photo bomb.

The alternate ending finds the goofily-titled protagonist – Kookaburra (Ah, That’s Me, Folks, Fauna & Flora) – as an adorable, lapsed Romantic with non-devout, hypo-Christian tendencies (All Righteous-like), being filleted into Cannibal Sashimi by a herd of irreverent Hipster Zombies at Coachella.

A third possibility of My Pending Martyrdumbness: Go-All-The-Way-Up-Or-Down in flames at Burning Man before claiming My Last Freak-On – Commando-style – Oh, Groovy Mojo Don’t Fail Me Now, Brother … should this One-Horse Rodeo decide to poop the linens on me.


Two Universal Truths For The Price Of One Lame Effort:

The Law of Lazy, Lard-Assed Procrastination and the Law of Deflection of Burdensome Shit Nagging My Under Carriage – respectfully, neither Deepak nor Tupac scripted these ditties – dictates that I haven’t finished writing either banal version yet …

… Deferring the weighty project of Unnecessariness Of Being to a shelf in the brackish pond of my mind in a virtual file labelled:

“Why Bother: No One’s Ever Going To Read It, So Don’t Sweat Your Sweet, Silky Butt Hairs To Get It Done All Nicely-Nice Now, Bossa Nova.”


Andy Warhol’s promised 15 Minutes of Fame has happened …

Now, if it did and swooned anywhere near my cranial orbit, it passed my extra medium-sized melon without ceremony, and was so feeble the nine-hundred ticks didn’t qualify for anything more than a prolonged Meh Moment.  

Damn it, I want my Brouhaha served in a proper highball glass on the Promenade deck while reclined on a striped lounge chair … with just a hint of Mint and sublime Lime, but not so much that either draw from the sweet rum nectar – Muddled – because I doubt James Bond ever slurped a Mojito in Havana, Pizziricco.

I don’t want to exclude any highlights as I scratch out the final draft and later embellish the manuscript to glorious smithereens. 


I offer This, This, This … And, And, And … That, That, That … self-published echoey nonsense with irritable reverberations-cum-abominations in the unsettled debate of which is better:

“Literal Crap or Figurative Garbage?”

Kook is a quasi-biographical steaming heap of feline scat to navigate through and meant to paw over like a plump fecal Tootsie Roll covered in dusty, crunchy Kitty Litter gravel pellets … Um, digital fish wrap would be another fine choice if you decided not to flush it.

Buffy The Tabby would approve.


A biography will be co-written by my two Dandy Lions Offspring – Uno e Due – and crafted into a film (Noire, of course) of critical regard and zilch hope for commercial success.

Credits will stream down the screen on the closing night of TIFF in my hometown of Toronto (pra’nounced: Tah-Rah-Nah or Noh – please nevah, nevah – Tore-Ron-Tow) to appreciative hearts, tears and rapturous applause …

… drowning out the slow clap from a shadowy figure in the mezzanine before the theatre is swept of un-floss-able popcorn shrapnel and rogue Skittles.  

Spoiler Alert: Read The Ending First – I Croak, So Get Used To The Idea Of Me Not Being Here For Eternity … Now, Who Feels Sad n’ Shitty? – It’ll Bring Tears To Your Smile.


The Get Busy Living part is done, a dink of a distant relative I’ve never liked and wouldn’t normally invite to the house (when I was walking upright, breathing and mattered) will interrupt his condolences with:

“Are we having cake later?”

… when he bloody well knows there will be Sfolgia served at my wake on fine Villeroy & Boch china – the set with the lovely Mariposa pattern missing the lid to the sugar bowl, because it was printed on the invitation to the memorial service.

“C’mon now … Join Us for a Celebration of Mick’s Meh-velous Life … Please use Promo Code “Cha-Cha-Cha” for an extra serving of Sfolgliatella.”


It’s not that I’m ungrateful for any of it – God Knows – No, He Knows. 

I’ve tried explaining, defending my position, pushing my agenda on to Him, but you know how that goes after a half century of persistent deflection? 

My Testimony sounds like a Teflon-coated Alibi He’s heard before, with few original excuses save for the one about Papa Lothario that I’ve never posted on social media – #DaddyIssues@FiddyPlus, #YouLoathsomePrick, #Fucker, #WTFWasMomThinkingWhenSheWasn’tThinking? #StillAFucker) – and how the old man used his weaponized penis (filled with misogynistic bad intentions) to impregnate my mother, then lamed his cowardice tail out to join Fiduciary Irresponsible Dead Beat Dads Anonymous and bailed on 18 years of child support – belated grazie, as I paid off my student loans @ 31 because The Bank Said So – boring down Sub Rosa back under the slimy rock garden from whence his self came

Nice one, pops.  El Papi gets a chapter or two in this chronic riddle because All Weasel Pricks Go To Heaven …


I don’t blame Him or him.  Okay, the insignificant him a little bit.  The Holy Father gave me all I needed to make something better of My Blessed Life.  And, perhaps I did, but I promise it wasn’t intentional.  Few of my Good Deeds started with Good Intention. Maybe the sample size is simply too small to draw an accurate conclusion.  He gave me indisputable True Purpose and the burden of humility and happiness that remains.  I’ll keep humility. 

You can keep happiness – if you can find it – I’ve never trusted Happy and Hope.  What’s that take?  Purpose and Faith … now we’re onto to something.

He made it easy with clear choices: left it to me to win or lose (I usually fell somewhere in-between), to take my preferred path (I know a short-cut), granted infinite do-overs, pulled me up, wiped the dust off my knees …  There, there little lamb …  Hugged me a time or two.  Let me ride out the dress rehearsal like I was the Star on the Marque and not the unheralded understudy I should’ve been. 

Its what God does when nobody’s watching we mistakenly call Miracles, when really that’s just His daily habit of going about His business of Divinity.  I think this is what we call Whatnot. Damn, He blessed me.  He forgave me a bunch of times when I should’ve done hard time repenting (see below). 


I did the self-misdirected Penance Gig for a stretch, too.  About 1,472 days, which is easily 4 years too long.  Boo-Hoo, Hermes.

I counted the tally one day, decided I’d had just enough of Me and Myself and left I guy the hell out of it because he always picks the wrong side, then said to the chair under my butt,

“Screw this, I’m out of here, Chair Bear.”

… and left my four-legged friend wedged between the table and wall to think about how much my ass meant to his seat. 


I’d wandered in pre-Purgatory long enough, moseyed into a sashay along Perdition Boulevard until I discovered its a dead-end strip, looped back to where the journey started, and went into Déjà Voodoo mode paying the tolls all over again. 

What I needed was a linear, non-interpretive hard smack to the cojones after The Epic Fail – Krashapalooza in the Spring of 2016 – and the Curtain Call-In-The-Fall when I fell over my ugly Ego … as a Trifecta of Epiphanies smothered me in denial and guilt and foreboding Redux or Die.  The briny aftertaste of sodium-laced Merde still lingers after that Dung Festival, but its nothing Love, Forgiveness and Faith can’t cure. Let’s keep Fate out of it for the moment.

I’m leaving the rest to Mio Ragazzi to scribble my obligatory Obituary and chewy, fluffed-up Eulogy with liberal creative license should they desire to engage in the idiocy their faja started. 

The diatribe to follow is all the information My Sons will need to bury me or incinerate what remains of the Physical Vessel / Fleshy Temple / Money Maker / Love Taker / Estrogen Shaker (sure) … along with a handy 70,000-word footnote to My Pretty Epitaph. 


Is a poor literary joke (without a funny punch line) I’ve been playing on myself since 1967 … when Crayola came calling.

The Alpha Draft is unreadable; lost under a half-dozen coats of alkyd-based lead paint – a mockery of grammar scribbled in Royal Purple Crayon on the hallway wall of a one-bedroom flat that housed a good-sized crop Kuchitarians

Its about the Raw Innards Turned Out – spoken with an Omniscient Narrative (I’m here, I’m there, I’m everywhere) – after the wheels fell off the bus and three pieces of the puzzle went missing. 

“It’s the Valentine I’ve never given to My Soul after we broke up … I’m sorry Me … Mwah, Darling.  I’m coming home, Baby Cakes.”


This is where I introduce Carrie – Mom – yeah, I know it makes me Son of Carrie IV … what’d you expect after three sequels are made?

My mother figured in the dichotomy of my early life messes – prominently and absently … the best kind – it wasn’t easy even for a maternal charlatan like mom. 

She was vacant in plain sight during the middle lapses of adulthood, skedaddling out silently without an emotional Good-Bye or a reassuring You Weren’t A Total Screw Up, My Last Son salute, missing the reboot and final encore.  There wasn’t any last moment confessions or explanation or apology.  Nada.  Nyet.  Nein. 

Just an unremarkable That’s It? …  Okay, I sobbed in convulsions for twelve minutes in my son’s room laying on a Spiderman bedspread two days later.  Alone, save for Spidey.  The best way to cry.  There, there.


I hope mom gets a kick out of Kook

She’d find My Version of the Truth strange and unfamiliar, contrary to the great lies she’d fabricated but never claimed culpability.  I haven’t been especially kind in writing about my mother.  The Truth rarely is. 

“Mom was a good woman … and she didn’t deserve the shit sandwiches served cold on a platter of broken promises by a trifecta of Cads we never called Dads” 

None of it was ever meant to be, which is best explained with one word – Because – except for accidental fate and tumbleweeds of regret withering against the fence dividing a broken mother and a son uncertain. 


Like the other Five in our Tribe of Mostly Bastardized Half-Siblings sired by no fewer than Three Svengali’s, that I was Mom’s Favorite DumplingPrime Pierogi … Dim Sum Darling.

Not true – nope – it means nothing, and translates as I’m her Last Best Mistake.

For the sake of Cupid, I hope Mom loved Papa Lothario, and he loved her better than he treated her and his family (wife and children) he lived with down the street.

“I’m calling bullshit on romance and honesty and truth ever seeing the sunrise …”


In my obligation to break The Curse

I trust mom’s decision to use the Rhythm Method of Birth Control was as intentional as it was irresponsible faithfully aligned with Fate and playing Craps In Between The Sheets Of Shame.

Dys-FUN-ctional Fact: Mom sucked at math nearly as much as she sucked at non-coital spooning with certain suitable Love-Me-Not Suitors.

So back then and now, and for a fair bit longer, there’s Me To Consider in The Aftermath …


I was worth the grand effort if took mom to Get Ready …To warm to the impulse of Sexy Flirtation … to saddle up and quench Desirable Friction, and ultimately, execute The Heated Momentary Mess of Climaxing – an Uncomfortable Post Grind Clean-Up and Dispirited Numbness of Two Prone Sinful, Empty-Hearted Bipeds with nothing better to do One Wintery January Day … moving on to Gestation, hours of Child-birthing Labor, and the 42 years she watched over me wigging out.

“Now, what kind of son talks this way about his Conception and his mother having sex with a married neighbor?”

The kind that says,

“This Is How Babies Have Been Made Since Way Back When Horny Irresponsible Adults Had Sordid Affairs.”


“Thank you, God.”

And, Mom – Capital M – for not forking me over to The Children’s Aid Society. I wouldn’t have faired well in foster homes though adoption has always been an unobtainable fantasy of mine …

This is My Pre-Party and its not over.  Its been a memorable soirée so far.  Sure, the costume never quite fit perfectly, but my skin does, and on certain days, its shiny and beautiful when it isn’t invisible.

If the reader chooses to venture further into this factually suspect tale, please don’t ask permission to laugh or cry.  I’m cool with judgment and hypocrisy (I’m a devotee to the craft).  I’ve never understood the difference between Joy and Sadness – Tears Are Tears – and why we need both when one would do, which makes me about the most observant guy in a room of blindfolded cryptic cynics with an inability to reason with the obvious. 


To skip the boring parts

I won’t be offended.

There aren’t many dull moments aside from this Preamble Ramble and mostly what follows … you’ll know it when you get there.

So, what happened before the avalanche was swallowed by the tsunami and Kook washed up smiling on the beach … Muddled?

Up Next: Chapter 1: Baby Boo Dressed In Blue

Photo by Anthony from Pexels

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