by Noted Anthropologist, F. Dolan Malachi, Ph.D.
Hello, I’m noted anthropologist, F. Dolan Malachi, Ph.D.
You probably read my well-received nonfiction tour-de-force, Vanuatu’s Elbow, which compared the Melanesian island nation of Vanuatu to the flap of elbow skin commonly referred to as the “weenis.” Due to its lack of nerve endings, no matter how hard you pinch your weenis, you won’t feel any pain. My book presumes that the same can be said of the calloused but supple people of Vanuatu. The New York Times described the book as “long, but in a good way.”
Many moons ago, I spent an undergraduate semester in Papua New Guinea researching the communication patterns of marsupials. As pretentiously glorious as this may sound, it was a painstakingly boring pursuit, and I very quickly found myself yearning for something (or anything) else.
One day as I strolled through a small fishing village in the province of Madang, I overheard an elderly man telling a group of tourists the account of a dormant volcano named Mount Pagual that had not erupted since the Mesozoic era. On a pre-dawn hike to observe its majesty, I learned that dozens of my contemporaries (dejected study-abroad anthropology students) co-habited there. I left my host family’s adobe that night without saying goodbye and went to join in on the fun.
Quickly and deeply, I fell in love with the “Shangri-la” they had created therein. They spent the majority of their time discussing ethnocentrism whilst high on mescaline. I wanted badly to fit in.
The son of a God-fearing grocery magnate, I was not familiar with mescaline — the white, water-soluble, crystalline-powdered psychedelic. What I did know, however, was mesclun — the salad mix composed of young leafy greens.
Who would have guessed that the latter could be even more addictive than the first? Certainly not this budding anthropologist. I “dived headfirst into the icy depths of my new addiction like a coyote into a swimming pool on the first day of winter.”
We relished in our collective vices for six weeks, but it felt like at least seven. We celebrated each day as if it were our last. It was lucky we did so, because many of my peers met their grisly end on the day historians call “Hot Thursday.”
Maybe Mount Pagual disagreed with our cavalier lifestyle. Maybe it decided it was just time for a cleansing. Whatever the reason, the great volcano erupted that cataclysmic mourn, spewing forth much lava — and more blood. In a few hours time, our land of milk and honey soured up and dried into a hard, sticky magmatic monstrosity.
My saving grace was that two days earlier I had fallen victim to a Vitamin A-induced coma while meditating inside an antique pie cabinet. The mesclun that had been my captor ultimately became my savior. I first regained consciousness a week later, floating in the Pacific Ocean, clinging desperately onto what was left of the cabinet. I ransacked its compartments for sweet leafy nourishment, but all I found was a 2GB SanDisk USB Flash Drive. I put it in my pocket for safe keeping and blacked out once more.
When I next awoke, I was spread eagle on a hammock in the backyard of an Asian-American family in Los Gatos, California, the sun beating down on my weather-beaten face. I thanked the Takaharas for their hospitality and asked of them one last favor: a ride to the public library. They obliged.
Once I was able to obtain a guest user ID and login to a computer, and then format the computer to recognize the flash drive as a permissible device (thanks to the help of Carl, the chivalrous technology assistant), I uploaded the enclosed files and was blessedly introduced to Dolph Blackburn and Erasmus Tesserman. I read the entirety of their correspondence without blinking once. I was perpetually transformed. Mesclun’s stronghold had built an intricate sand castle of despondency upon the beach of my heart, but their story was the halcyon whitecap that eradicated and then refurbished the shore of my soul.
Since the moment I logged off that Los Gatos Public Library computer, it has been my life’s undertaking to be the conduit through which the world receives their story. Unfortunately, for many years I was unfairly ridiculed, heartlessly blackballed, and flat-out dissed by my peers. Apparently, they were of the opinion that such a glorious tale as you are about to read could never be fact. I believe that everyone is entitled to their opinion, but obviously their collective opinion was, to be blunt, really stupid.
Suck it, other anthropologists.
It was only after every avenue towards sharing this story with the world was exhausted that I fundamentally sold my soul to Mephistopheles by writing Vanuatu’s Elbow. There is no denying that the book is utter genius and it’s not hyperbole to say that it forever changed the world’s view of both Vanuatu and elbows, but to me, its creation was only a means to an end. I now had the street cred to publish the story you’re about to read.
Unfortunately, two lying, cheating jerks named Tom Alford and D.J. Kaercher stole my manuscript and quickly self-published it as Dolph and Erasmus. I was planning to go with The Explorationers, which I think has a much nicer ring, and sounds less like a man-on-man love story.
I am currently suing those jerks, but so far my attorney has only been able to secure rights to have this foreword (and a complimentary afterword — don’t miss it!) added to this first edition. Future prints will eliminate their names, and will include some very special photographs of me from adolescence.
Regardless of its origin, the good news is that you, my dear, sweet reader, are finally able to partake in this tale. I hope you enjoy the beautifully written, hauntingly poetic letters of the greatest heroes the world has ever known and then lost, and then found once more.
It is my great delight to officially announce their arrival and present the story of Dolph and Erasmus as it should be told — in their own words.
- F -
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