The man with the giant gut sits on a plastic chair and smokes his cigar. He is looking into the landscape. He is thinking that this is the life.
As a present for his son’s 15th birthday the man with the giant gut brings his son to see the landscape. When the others ask what his name is the man replies “Dork.” The son has pimples and a pre-drinking-age version of his father’s waistline and he gives everyone a dorky, insecure smile.
“No, no really,” the others ask. “What’s your name?”
“I told you.” The dad says, laughing. “It’s Dork.”
The man with the giant gut goes up to the first man he sees and says “This is the most fun a person can have with his clothes on.” The other man nods in agreement, without taking his hands out of his jean jacket.
The man with the giant gut loves helicopters, steamboats and sheep herding in no particular order. All three can be performed with no clothes on, yet none of them can be done in conjunction with the others.
The man with the giant gut cannot run. He stands in the field—like a giant pear dropped from outer space—as his dog runs 400 yards after a small herd of sheep. The little dog runs his heart out, bringing the sheep in a neat cluster around the son, who has both arms stretched in front of him trying to frame sheep and dog into a photograph. He has watched the entire run through the cheap lens of his camera.
The man with the giant gut tells his son to move away, out of the way, away from the sheep. “And you thought he was just a lazy couch potato dog, didn’t you?” he says. His son, with all the woolies around him, cannot move.
The son with the mini gut lowers the camera, letting his stringy blond hair fill the void in front of his eyes.
“Ho ho ho,” the man with the giant gut bellows, looking into the distance. After a minute he “Ho’s” again.