Everything Hurts: A Novel
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Phil Camp has a problem. Not that he wrote a self-help parody, Where Can I Stow My Baggage?, that the world took seriously and became a bestseller, or that he’s been using a phony name. No, Phil’s problem is the limp he’s had for months. His constant pain leads him to Dr. Samuel Abrun, a real doctor who wrote a real self-help book (The Power of "Ow!") that has made thousands of people pain-free.
So what happens when the self-help fraud meets the genuine item? Does Phil get better? Can he hobble out of his own way to help himself? Most important, can the reader make it through fifty pages without thinking, Wait a minute. Is that a twinge I feel in my lower back, or just gas?
Phil embraces the doctor’s unorthodox treatments, but saves some passion for Abrun’s daughter Janet—who has her own theories about relieving his pain. Meanwhile, Phil delves into his dark past with the Irish Shrink, his psychotherapist. And to top it off, Phil confronts his nemesis, a right-wing radio blowhard, only to find out they share a common enemy—the same family.
Like Carl Hiassen and Larry David, Bill Scheft knows that the best humor is excruciating. In Everything Hurts, pain is the ultimate jester.
the studio…. The math he was attempting started shooting migraine pellets. “I have to figure this out,” Phil said, and as he stood to leave, his right leg, the good leg, buckled, and he went down on one knee like a basketball sub getting ready to report in. “I understand,” said the Irish Shrink. With the help of the couch arm, Phil pushed himself back up to the full and upright position he had longed for seconds ago. Just how much of this shit was inside him? “Say,” the Irish Shrink added,
Excelsior Publications was not one that fussed too much with oversight. The night editor, harmless Stan Feigensen, usually pencil-whipped Phil’s stuff on through. Phil heard from Stan twice a year, the day before he went on vacation and the day he came back. Nah. It was out there. The Marty Fleck meltdown, Diasporama 2004 was out there. Phil checked his e-mail. Sender Subject Seth James Where the fuck are you? Seth James Where the fuck are you? Seth James Where the fuck are you? Seth
itself and his sock-fearing toes touch the floor. This. This was a woman out to prove a point. Well, point taken. And, oh, it would have been so great if Phil’s bliss could have avoided being derailed by a foot cramp. That’s right. Nothing says a man being pleasured quite like that same man saying, “Ee-yah! Cramp! Problem! Get! Move! Out! Hah!” Janet shuffled to the side on her knees with a quickness Phil might have appreciated if he hadn’t been leaping off the bed and stamping his foot. The
girl. Why not? “This is Amy, your great-granddaughter.” “Sure,” said Shirley. Jim, Jamie, and Amy covered her in generations. Phil took it all in, grabbed Janet’s hand, and they walked over to Gangly Gabe Erman and asked if he wouldn’t mind hanging around a few more minutes. “What’s up?” asked the rabbi. “Got time for a quick wedding?” Phil said. “Here?” “Yeah. Although maybe we should move down a little.” “Are you sure?” Janet nodded. “We were supposed to be at City Hall in Manhattan
almost slowed even more, but felt an arm around his lower back and a hand settle just above his left hip. That would be enough for now. Epilogue Bloggage Handling by Stacey Fleck (Note: This www.excelsiorpub.com daily blog is maintained by Stacey Fleck and devoted to news and information about her husband, former Excelsior Publications columnist Marty Fleck, whom she has not heard from since he left, allegedly for Uruguay, last April 21.) October 7 / Day 171 Still no word. Eleven more days