THE MAN WHO INVENTED THE STICKY POO DOLL, AND OTHER THINGS by John ANDREW DURLER Sr. (heaven official's blessing novel english .TXT) 📕

"What's it like, Marty? You've been so secretive?"

"Frances. You know better than to ask that? I have triple locks on every door in the house. The doll is locked in a safe. I promise, when the patent comes in, I'll show it to you."
“Marty. I want to see you. I haven’t seen you for years. So, you don’t show me the doll. I’d still like to see you. Wouldn’t you like to see me?”
I did know better, but the excitement in his voice made me forget his penchant for secrecy. "I'm, sorry. I got as excited as you did and forgot. You're right. I might have, if you told me, blabbed it to someone." At that time I was working at the New York Post as a reporter.

"Sure," he said, "and it would be on your front page." He laughed.

Two years later, he showed me the doll on his way to a doll manufacturer to present them with what he called his Sticky Pooh doll. I was flabbergasted. "Marty. You are a millionaire!"

He grinned that shy grin of his, "Well, we'll see, Frances." They started manufacturing Marty's modified prototype in a variety of boy and girl dolls, complete with enemas, with food that turned to a diarrhea, going through visible innards. If you left the doll overnight in that condition, it would groan and hold its stomach. Then your instructions were to pull out a glob of what appeared and smelled like, pooh, which you could break apart and investigate.

All ingredients were edible, tasting like varieties of chocolate moose. Don’t get me wrong, these toys were educational. A large market was schools, doctors and nurses. There were accessories, such as worms, tapeworms, telescopes, stethoscopes, etc., each, replicas of actual things. Nine months later Marty was he was elected corporate president of "All About Me" dolls.

He told me once, the diarrhea that transformed to constipation if left overnight, was just a fluke. They never imagined the stuff would do that, like a human. I wrote an inside track story in the doll and how Marty came to make it. It. The dolls were a phenomenal success. The company went public. After that, he was Director of the board. There was a lot of in fighting. He said, "I don't like working with layers, bankers, and brokers. I've made enough money to retire. Forty one is a great age to do it."

He sold out his shares and retired. The years of working long hours, constantly bearing down on himself, pushing himself to the limit, affected him. He burned out. A zombie at times, he'd shuffle around his house disheveled, unshaven, drinking too much. Looking in the mirror one day, he broke down. Enough. He called me, his only friend. His father, the only relative he talked of, dead twenty years.

When I got the phone call, he didn't make sense. He babbled and mixed up things so much, I barely got his address out of him. I had left the Post, and was working freelance, writing short stories. I was between assignments at the time, and had time on my hands. On the way, I wondered if I would have come in such haste if I was working against a deadline. Seeing him, I decided I would have, anyway.

I took him to a hospital, and stayed with him whenever they would allow it, sitting on a chair, sleeping there, only leaving when told to, drinking 7-11 coffee by the gallon.


Recovered, his old self, but still the same shy secretive Marty, he became one of those people who were afflicted with short term memory. Obsessed with the thought of getting Alzheimer's disease, he went to a doctor who sent him to an Herbal Healing Clinic. A health expert told him to take Gingko Biloba, an assortment of Gensing, and other Herb’s and minerals. He took a whole bottle, three times a day. His memory improved so dramatically, he not only remembered everything that he had a mind to, but also remembered other people’s forgotten things.

He became very popular in the memory set, mostly old people, and burnouts. His mind was soon stuffed with things to remember and one day he realized, he began to remember things before he had a chance to forget them, and then, even before he made a decision to do them. He became known as Mr. Spontaneous, which he wasn’t, but it seemed that way to many who knew him.

Since the thought prompted the action so quickly for him, he started doing two things at once to get a jump on it. It soon caught up to him, and he thought he was going to burn out again, but it adjusted itself. Then he started to do three then six. Before long he started to short circuit. He went into therapy. He started drinking St. John's wort. His life was a veritable whirlwind of conscious activity, but that something that was missing was being unbearable.
He started doing crossword puzzles, using both hands and two pens, finishing books of them in minutes, the pages smoldering. He would do them while reading schematics of motorized racing car kits, then put down the puzzles and build them in twenty minutes using quick drying epoxy he invented, because glues on the market were too slow.

He picked up the phone when I called. In the course of the conversation, he said, "Frances. I'm wasting my life. I don't know what to do?"
"Marty, what you need is a good woman to fall in love with, to get you excited."
"Frances. I never have luck with women. I'm not a disco person. I won't hang out in bars or lounges. I don't really need it. I always choke up around someone I don't know. You know that."

"Marty. Tell you what. I'll come over, pick you up and we'll go out. What do you say? We'll go to dinner, or drinks, or maybe dancing."

"I don't think so. I won't be good company."

"Marty? I haven't seen you since we foolishly promised our undying love to one another. Remember I hugged you and you put your hand on my falsies, and I moved it under them?"

He laughed. "And you walloped my face."

"I did not. I slapped you."

"Yeah, well if felt more than a slap, as I remember."

"See, Marty, you're getting out of that mood you're in. Start thinking about that long kiss we had after that."

"Yeah. That was the best kiss I ever had."

"I'm coming over Marty. Get dressed. I'll be there in an hour."


It must have been on his mind, because one day in a book store, wandering down the aisles, he picked up a book of poetry.
That was the beginning of a new Marty. Slowly, Lisa managed to open him up for the first time in his life. As a couple they made numerous friends. We doubled for dinner a few times. Marty slowed down. When he slipped into high gear, she would hold him and kiss him, fondle him and read him a new poem she wrote.
Lisa's poetry inspired him and he would calm down, make love and write a poem in his head, not missing a beat at either, then read it to her and make love again. He asked her to marry him, which she agreed to.
After he asked her and she said yes, Marty began fretting that being married to one woman would not be enough marriage for him. He thought about marrying her sister too, who he met, and liked immensely. In his mind he could see a double wedding, two chapels, two receptions with different guests, and of course she would be at both. He decided to talk to her about it, one night, after making love.
He didn't tell Lisa her sister had called him a few times, alluding to a clandestine meeting, and instead, told her about a dream he had of the double wedding. She roared when he was talking, doubled over holding her sides, tears in her eyes, laughing uncontrollably.
She straddled him when he was done, kissed his eyes, forehead, and lips, and from that day Marty refused all phone calls from her sister, his attraction waning.
After the wedding, Marty swept Lisa off to a deserted tropical island and they ran around in the nude all day, except for when ships or helicopters passed by. Loved each other each night, regardless of passing traffic. They wrote volumes of poetry, coming back when it warm back in New York.
We got together. He had changed. They invited me down to his island. I went and became a yearly visitor. Last time, a year ago, when I was at sitting in their thatched cottage, I asked him why they dropped out.
He said, "We dropped in."
I said, “Yes, you dropped in on a deserted Island, but dropped out of society.”
He rolled the biggest joint I ever saw, as big as a Havana cigar, Breathed it in and passed it around, first to Lisa, his Gorgeous wife, and then to me. It was a first time for me, and I coughed. My eyes teared and my throat burned. I reached for the first thing I saw which was a big pitcher filled with ice cubes. It was so bitter my cheeks pulled in past my teeth. They both roared with laughs that boomed out over the island.
“Your face looks like Gumby after a five year old hit it with his father’s hammer.” Marty sputtered, his face red. He jumped up and pounded my back.
“What was that?” I asked when I caught my breath.
“Marijuana,” He said. “Leary's answer to society.”
"I won’t drink that again.” I said.
“That was our lemonade you drank, to soothe your throat, you fucking yo-yo. You smoke Camels. Why did you choke?”
“I haven’t smoked Camels for twenty years. I smoke 1% or 1.5% nicotine cigarettes, with less than 1% tar, anything on sale, and I keep nicorette gum for when they’re not.”
“Kind of half assed way of trying to stop,” Lisa giggled. “Why don’t you just cold turkey and get it over with?”
“I tried. I try all the time. I guess I really like it.”
Marty said, “Hey, whatever you do you do.”
Marty reminded me of the suits I ruined, the tables I burned, the carpets, sheets, pillowcases, car seats, front and back,