Obviously for one of life's hopeless incompetents like Harry Goth, ""an inchworm inching,"" there is a fate worse than death -- the life made up of the gross humiliations he experiences here. When first met, the doctor who has proctoscoped him has had a heart attack during the course of the examination. A later physician transfers his own leukemia to him and gives him only six months to live although no one really believes Harry, and his ball-breaking wife predeceases him in the bathtub. But then, with lint and dandruff on his eyeglasses, he has a long history of failure. He can hardly make a sale for his father selling toilet cleansers. Indeed, much of Mano's vision is confined within the circular rim of the toilet bowl and feculent realities abound. Mano's accredited talent with its unbounded caustic energy has been diverted to a comic but not necessarily funny parable of a reject's last rejection. It might even be tragic if one could view it in terms of the epitaph scrawled under the portrait of the founder of the family concern -- ""He lived for shit"" could one but overcome the stench of the nightsoil.