George Smith -- background obscure, future indefinite, present chaotic-- is warned by his ex-wife that the only time he will stop traffic is the day of his funeral. Perhaps with this in mind, Smith continues the erection of a grandiose haraoh-sized mausoleum which floods him with unwanted publicity. Beleaguered by threatening communications from unidentified stockholders in his unexplained business, the newly wealthy, totally insecure Smith crashes through frightened days and weird nights. The otherwise physically insignificant Smith is sexually equipped like a latter-day Gargantua and ex-wife, secretaries, ex-mistress and maid are improperly impressed. He desires them all until after the fact, when they seem to expect something further of him. The single exception is ex-secretary Sally omson who is pursued at wildly funny book length. A Joycean stream of consciousness technique is joined to a Lawrence-like concern with orgasm but the details of highest nonsense are pure Donleavy. No Ginger Man this time, but a singular -- surely critic stopping -- Smith.