While Olney Garkle is taking the waters at the mountain spa behind the last village on the left, now seems a good time to spring a little surprise on Bilegrip devotees who have heretofore thought of him as a responsible political blogger.

Years ago the immortal Harold Hark wrote a couple of novels in which his old friend Olney was cast as the protagonist. The books weren't all that good, but not all that bad either. They needed the kind of editor Thomas Wolfe had, the kind who would painstakingly guide HH through the necessary corrections to make it publishable.

Unfortunately, Hark's motto (established long before Homer Simpson claimed it) is: If at first you don't succeed, give up. So he gave up, but not before putting both books on the web.

Here then, is an excerpt from Chapter fourteen of Living in the O. We join Olney on a rainy winter day in Paris. He has just left a bar in Montmartre, having stepped in a puddle and soaked one of his Florsheims as he made his way back to the métro.

At Marcadet-Poissoniers, Olney decides to change trains and head south toward the Porte d'Orléans. Excluding an empty car reserved for First Class passengers, the train is packed. Squishing his sopping-socked foot in a ruined Florsheim, Olney looks around in disbelief. He is squeezed in among every sort of Parisian, each of them arm to belly to hip. Some hold magazines and newspapers aloft, reading intently. Most stare into space; not an easy task, since nearly all eye-level horizons contain someone else's eyes.

After the first stop much maneuvering takes place in anticipation of the Gare du Nord. There, dozens get off as dozens get on, more even, and among them . . . Lloyd Have Mercy . . . the Goddess of the Collective Dream. Heat-seeking missiles pop their silos all around her as Olney, jabbering sotto voce to his own Peacekeeper, exclaims, It's She Who Must Be Laid, said Sidewinder replying, Dimwit. You think I don't know?

Indeed it is the very She whom the painterly hands of the masters have long sought to frame; the Matrix Madonna to whom clergymen, alone in hands-on cloisters, have ever offered their secret and spunk-stricken prayers; the Princess Perfect from whom Mr. Preterite (and the Mrs. too) has eternally implored carnal redemption.

Train under way, positions change, she is jostled to a hand pole near gibbering, whimpering Olney. Brazenly contravening the miserable conclusion to a cold and rainy January afternoon, she is wearing a little red dress made of . . . Oh, my God, it's silk. A small jacket, unbuttoned as it is meant to be, is hopeless at keeping her warm. In no way does it cover her breasts, which, Olney craning to see, appear to be exciting themselves against the silk. In the moving crush of people her cleavage is pressed to the hand pole and now, with Olney only inches away, it is certain her breasts are exciting themselves, nipples in pert particular.

Taking the curve towards the Gare de l'Est, there is a further shifting of place as passengers are squeezed out of position and others vaulted forward. Accommodating Olney rolls with it and Thank you, Lloyd! finds himself pressed against her port flank. He swallows several times, trying to prevent the increased saliva from overflowing his lower lip like a cum shot. Two other men, having also thrown themselves to the shifting swells of fate, now cover her stern and starboard. The top of her head comes just under the chins of her bodyguards, who are now so close they could kiss. The man on Olney's right is moving against her buttocks; he nearly buries his face in her hair. For all their closeness, the six eyes never meet, yet on tacit and trembling cue take turns nuzzling her fragrance. With an effort she wriggles her body this way and that in order to glance at each in turn, caressing, in the process, each gulping neck with her hair. Olney reads a fiery surrender in her eyes. He notices too, a slight esophoria, each eye pointing with its own code to the creamy source of that surrendering fire. The asymmetry buckles his knees.

"She's the Goddess, all right. Say, did you know," lecturing here to who else but Countdown Cock, "that only true Madonnas suffer eye deviations?"

"You bet," sez Cock.

"And that the Mayan culture fawned over cross-eyed women to the extent that mothers hung little wax balls in front of their infant daughters' noses so the girls grew used to focusing on them?"

"Absofuckinlutely," affirms Cock. Olney wants so very badly to hang his little balls in front of her nose, or just below her chin, to be oh, so exact.