In the thirty-minute talk, Kane points out that there are still heroically masculine monoliths like Larry Plumb among us, despite the overwhelming presence of beer-swilling, donut-eating Homer Simpsons and loudmouth podcast bros who, one moment, are nuclear energy experts and, the next, constitutional law scholars—despite having failed high school chemistry and learning civics by way of Schoolhouse Rock. Amid the noise of these low-frequency also-rans, Larry Plumb reminds us that there are men who think critically, honor their commitments, and hold themselves accountable—men who show up every day and make accommodations for others.

The group sat in rapt attention as Kane shared an anecdote about workshopping a small portion of the book in a Zoom class through the Iowa Writers Summer Workshop. He recounted a tense exchange from an early chapter in the book with the Zoom class, where Larry drops an “F bomb” on his daughter. A female classmate commented that both Larry and Kane might benefit from a sensitivity coach. Kane was a little taken aback by this comment, but after turning it over in his head for a minute, he had a suggestion for his classmate: “Why don’t you get some organic sliquid, lube up a mauve-colored Gwyneth Paltrow tennis coach vibrator, and stick your stupid comment and that purple pocket rocket in your ear.”

Shaking his head, the author said he never got a straight answer as to why he wasn’t welcomed back into the Zoom class.

But what really hit home with the group was Kane’s journey to becoming a celebrated author. He spoke of his humble beginnings on Lockwood Avenue, where he drank powdered milk and ate bologna sandwiches—endless fucking bologna sandwiches. He thoughtfully recounted his travails with Oxford commas, dangling modifiers, and subject-verb agreement. He spoke of being rejected by girls throughout his aimless teen years and his unwavering perseverance, which later led those same girls to rue the day they jilted Amazon’s eventual 1.5 millionth-most-popular author. All of which led to this night—where he owned the West Seneca Public Library’s podium in front of four electrified book-loving witnesses. 

Exhausted yet triumphant, Kane closed the talk to the thunder of eight clapping hands and wished everyone a Merry Christmas and good tidings for the New Year.    

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“Growing up my birthday used to be so special,” said Latoris with a far away look. “It coincided with the end of the school year and my mom would throw these great parties in our yard and me and my friends would go swimming, eat cake and ice cream and I’d get lots of presents. Now, all I hear from that son-of-a-bitch Larry is that: ‘It’s been a long time since you’ve been in school Betty White.’”

What really gets Latoris is that Larry will sit around drinking beer all day on July 4th or go on a three day bender around St. Patrick’s Day, but he’ll barely acknowledge Valentines, Mothers or her Birthday. He says, “It is right and proper to celebrate the emancipation of the American people from their British oppressors and to honor St. Patrick for using that little tin pipe thing to lead all those snakes to the sea or whatever the hell he did. But a birthday? Nine-billion people on the planet have birthdays. Same with Mother’s Day—there are billions of mothers. What’s to celebrate? Congratulations you slipped out of a birth canal and had someone slip out of your birth canal like billions of others.”

In response to Larry’s indifference LuLu has been buying a bunch of shit she doesn’t need. “I bought three new sweaters and six pairs of shoes as birthday presents to myself. Just the other day he was complaining that I had thirteen pairs of shoes in the back hall. If he wants an uncluttered shoe free back hall maybe he should acknowledge some of these special days,” she said bitterly.

LuLu then went on to explain that the sweaters were marked down from $59 to $39 and that she had seen similar shoes at Kohl’s at almost double the price.

The Latoris’ joined forces 1993 and will be celebrating thirty years of wedded bliss later this year with another shrug from Larry and an unnecessary Amazon shoe order from Lulu.   

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At one time, before marriage and family took up all of his time, the 1.5 millionth ranked most popular Amazon author was a respectable twelve to fifteen handicap. But the years long absence from the game eroded his skills and when he started to play again he could barely break one-hundred like a beginner. 

Of his diminished play Kane was quite verbose, “Bottom line is I hate sucking. Everybody tries to tell me it’s not about that—it’s about spending time with friends and enjoying a beautiful day. Well, instead of the frustration of four putting, dumping balls in the lake or dribbling my drive off the tee I can spend time with friends on my back porch drinking beer and swirling whiskey. When we’re drinking beer and swilling whiskey I don’t have to see anybody get their golf cool on smoking a dumb cigar or hear them play “American Girl” for the millionth fucking time on a tinny phone in their cart. Also, I have a dog and enjoy the beautiful day- everyday- taking her for a walk. She chases squirrels while I look at the clouds and listen to the squawking geese—such complainers. But there’s none of this skulling the ball out of the sandtrap, shanking it into the woods or trying to hit it off the side of a hill.”

Kane said the pressure from his brothers and friends to play has been intense in recent years, but he held strong until the fateful night when Jesse Holmes texted him early in the spring and asked him to be his partner. “You feel bad always telling everybody no. So I’m half in the bag and I get this text from Holmes—all of sudden I’m Venmoing the commissioner the league fee and I’m in. How bad could it be I thought? First time out a fifty-four and since then nothing below a forty-five—all of it torture. Self-imposed torture in the service of trying not to disappoint a friend.”

While tired of coming up with excuses not to play Kane thinks the only long term solution to his golf problem would be to finally just get rid of his clubs, shoes and everything else once and for all. Thinking on that for a moment he doubted he could ever be that kind to himself. 

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“I’m done with that shit,” the third richest woman in the world said. She then turned to an assistant and directed them to get Drake’s digits, saying “Young Money White Knight about to get himself a new boo- a new, rich as hell boo, and we be doing some real tracking. If he’s good maybe I’ll buy him a new studio or some other shit after breakfast.”

Since the divorce was finalized, Ms.Bezos has also been linked to George Clooney, Chris Hemsworth, Brad Pitt and others. An inside source said, “She keeps a gold plated tin of Viagra on a night stand in a lavish bedroom she calls, The Smash Box and goes through A-listers faster than Trump goes through acting cabinet heads.”

After chatting up Tom Brady at a charity event Ms.Bezos was overheard telling the star quarterback’s wife- supermodel Gisele Bundchen: “You’re on notice, girl. I’m maybe going to steal him away from you. I’m going to see for myself if he really is the GOAT- Baa! If he really scores I might buy him a research lab where he can develop all those dumb supplements that he thinks will allow him to him play forever.”

Bundchen stormed away with Ms. Bezos calling out to her: “Don’t go Gisele, I was just about to have one of my assistants get you Tyrod Taylor or Andy Dalton’s numbers. I hear they’re available.”

Later that night Bezos ran barefoot through the event parking lot drinking champagne and breaking windshields with a baseball bat while yelling: “I’m free. I’m free. No more dorks.”

An assistant was close behind depositing $10K checks beneath car windshield wipers to pay for damages.

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