I started dabbling at this idea in 1983 or so, for a friend of mine who had a filmmaking class at LeMoyne. I originally labeled it a “scenario,” but decided to complete it as a short story, which I did on March 20, 1984. I was 21 years old and the writing reflects my youth. I’m posting it here, on my old blog, because it has no place in the periodical I now own and edit. It would certainly perplex and offend the readers of that publication.
I have made some edits for readability but I did not change anything. I present it here for historical interest. I believe the coarsening of our country as predicted has come to pass—and the “scumbags” have won.
The authorities at the Upstate Home for Scumbags hardly suspected the massive revolt that was taking place in the locked rooms of that institution. All the scumbags were planning to break out of their padded custody and escape rehabilitation programs that might render them almost inoffensive. Far from craving the non-obnoxious life, they sought to free themselves from their state-imposed restraint and propagate their kind, subduing the Earth with it.
“Why should we put up with their crap?” said Scuzzy Flatcher, when he was sure no attendant could hear. “What the hell’s wrong with us, anyhow? We’re as human as they are. Humaner. We’re just squeaky wheels, that’s all. And squeaky wheels get all the grease. And—there ain’t nobody as squeaky and greasy as we are—am I right?” All the scumbags loudly agreed, and were almost overheard by the attendant in charge, who was just then making his rounds.
The revolt started in small ways. The scumbags’ main lavatory, already impossible for a non-scumbag to enter without a gas mask, became worse. The walls were covered with poorly spelled and badly drawn graffiti, and smears of various odors and colors. All these intermingled and overlapped, covering everything.
When the place was cordoned off for cleaning, deodorizing, and disinfecting, during which two workers had to be hospitalized, most of the surfaces were scraped clean. The next day, the scrawls and foreign substances were laid on thick as ever. “Well, you know scumbags,” the authorities reasoned. But did they?
The recreation that the scumbags enjoyed while unsupervised proved the futility of all attempts at rehabilitation. They held a farting contest—with honors going to the loudest, longest, and (especially) the most fragrant. First prize was—what else?—a windbreaker that the scumbags had stolen from the attendants’ lounge. That it didn’t fit Skag McDonnell made him no less proud for having won it. “I can always let it out,” he said, putting it on and simultaneously ripping it up the back. This was greeted with loud cheers and other sounds.
And as things became smellier at the Upstate Home for Scumbags, they began to activate their Great Escape Plan. Al “Humpty” Dunphy, who worked near the kitchen, stole a pint of sour cream and some cottage cheese. These the scumbags let stand in their rooms (where the aroma would go unnoticed) until an opportune moment—an attendants’ coffee break—presented itself. The few attendants that were standing guard were easily overwhelmed with unwashed underclothing, and before the others left the coffee machine, the scumbags painted the exits with their ripe dairy products. Every guard coming within ten feet of those doors was soon gagging uncontrollably.
The scumbags snatched a key from one of the unconscious attendants and made good their escape. There was a guard at the gate house, but he was incapacitated as soon as the scumbags hurled a cupful of their dairy products at him. He was gagging too much to reach his tranquilizer gun, let alone use it. Their plan had worked!
They went as far as they could into the woods, and camped out. They had no trouble kindling a campfire, for one of the scumbags had thought to bring along matches and an old dictionary. For reading, they brought along copies of the New York Post that had long ago been smuggled into the Home. When a scumbag swears an oath, he does so by putting his right hand on a copy of the Post and scratching a private location with his left hand. Whatever then is said may be taken as the word of a scumbag. The word, of course, may be broken at any time.
Scuzzy Flatcher was chosen as the leader because he smelled the strongest. But what he said around the campfire that night was shocking to his companions—who nonetheless conceded that he was right.
“We’ll have to bathe,” he said. “If we wanna get back into the mainstream of society, we must be subtile. We gotta do it in small ways, to earn the trust of our neighbors and all the other sanctimonious jerks who put us away. Afterwards, we can revert to our old style. But not till then—one false move can be fatal. That’s the whole nine yards.”
So after one last night of reveling in their profound aromas, they glumly immersed themselves in the creek that ran nearby. Some of them had to soak for a good hour to remove years of proud accumulation. It may be no wonder that there was never good fishing in that creek thereafter. Any phlegmatic fish that may have survived their initial bathing must have succumbed when they washed their clothing.
They were clean, yes—but they were still scumbags in spirit. This bolstered many, but a few of the weaker ones were sad and a little confused. They had never been like this. “Who are we?” they seemed to plead. But, as if to answer, someone farted extra loudly and everyone cheered up. “You can take the scum off a scumbag, but you can’t take the scum out of a scumbag!” observed their captain. Under that banner, they marched into town.
Temporarily separating, they went around and applied for jobs. This immediately removed all suspicion. Fortunately, there were no openings, but they were not pegged as scumbags. They could carry on, for the most part, as they pleased.
When the group reunited, they began to devise a plan that would ensure the scumbag lifestyle gaining a foothold in the community, and remove the stigma associated with being a scumbag. Al “Humpty” Dunphy suggested that someone hang around the school playground to discreetly teach the kids dirty words during recess. He also discussed the idea of smuggling of air horns and rolls of toilet paper into local sporting events.
Skag McDonnell (who said he didn’t need an air horn) suggested forming a vandalism squad—a group to go around smashing streetlamps and spray-painting buildings with “witty sayings”—which would contain references to local high school teachers and personnel to divert suspicion to students.
Scuzzy Flatcher said that it was a good idea, but maybe unnecessary. “If we can get the locals into scumbag culture using our subtile methods, we might not have to trash anything. Most people are scumbags to some degree, anyhow. They try not to think about it. They keep it to themselves if they feel like doing something scummy.
“Al Dunphy has a good idea—if we can get at them when they’re young—to teach them that it’s okay to let out those scummy feelings and that ‘polite society’ is unhealthy and a big pain in the ass, we have beat the wimps!” The scumbags cheered; their choice for leader had been a wise one.
In the weeks and months that followed, the outwardly clean scumbags made surprising progress in their quest to make the world a slimier place. Scuzzy Flatcher, having won two thousand dollars from the locals at cards, anonymously published a pamphlet called Truly Witty Remarks, which contained every dirty joke he could think of. The profit from the massive sales both financed the scumbags’ cause and itself spread the message: Repression is Unhealthy.
Before two years of similar campaigns had passed, the anti-scumbag laws were repealed. What may have helped in that particular victory was that, having changed his name, Scuzzy Flatcher bought his way into the legislature with the net proceeds from Truly Witty Remarks IV.
Indeed, as the taxes on soap and deodorant escalated, it seemed as if a fairer balance of things had come to pass. A few people of the “polite” persuasion complained, but their complaints were laughed off as “repressive” and “mid-Victorian.” Most of their ilk had come to realize the benefits (in terms of emotional freedom and comfort) of being at least a partial scumbag—and each gratuitously uttered four-letter word gave joy and relief.
Scuzzy Flatcher (now Congressman Flynn) stated the new philosophy best in one of his popular radio addresses: “Friends, a world without scumbags is like a day without a good, healthy bowel movement. He who is constipated cannot be happy. Those of us with laxatives have at least a shot at happiness. And I want you to know that I have never really been unhappy, if you get my drift.”
The next sound his listeners heard was eloquent, but was not a word.
