Hokey has written his story on toilet paper which is a perfect designation although it might well dog any self-respecting Flushometer. Hokey is 42, works for a local bookie, is married to Greta whose malodorous properties bear a constant referral (""not the girl of my wet dreams"") and finally he takes a bath, going down the drain. Thus follows some cloacal time sequences which entail his earlier excesses with various lovelies. At one point Hokey is a writer, which Mr. Stahl can never hope to be. This is just a booklength vulgarism, an indignity at that.