There is a word in German-besserwisser -- which translates in my Cassell's dictionary as Òknow-it-all,Ó "wiseacre," and pompous ass.Ó In The Bunker, his perceptive book about the last days of the Third Reich, James O'Donnel shows Adolf Hitler as a classic example of the besserwisser. Late at night, to a paralyzing bored captive audi-ence of the faithful, an amphetamine-charged Fuhrer would sound off on such diverse topics as the fidelity of Arctic dogs, Greek architecture, and the ancestry of Eleanor Roosevelt, subjects. on which he was equipped with a vast fund of i9norance.

By extension the besserwisser is an is an individual! whose pretensions tar surpass his abilities or record of accomplishment. All whoÕve watched NFL games on TV have witnessed the spectacle of a flabby couch potato screaming accusa-tions of ineptitude at a superbly conditioned athlete who misses a tackle or drops a pass. Most of is, at one time or another, have fallen afoul of a besserwisser, a no-talent know-it-all who sneers at your performance of an activity that tie couldnÕt perform to save his life. Within the range of my own experience, my besserwisser from hell was an individual IÕll call Porndexter. I first encountered him in Acapulco in the early sixties. At the time, I was launching my career as a writer Churchmouse-poor. I was breaking in by submitting mate-rial to what were then two hungry markets: expose and men's ad-venture. (Wincing, I still recall some of the tiles of my published articles -- Veracruz--Steaming Port of Call (Girls), The Day They Smeared Hitler's Massacre Bat-tallion, When They Rocked in the Pad of the Marquis de Sade. I Am the Love Slave of a Voodoo Priestess.)

Porndexter in those days was a traveling salesman for a text-book publisher. Since his schedule was geared to that of colleges and universities, he had summers off. Our paths crossed because his department head, a college friend of mine, had given him my address. I soon learned that Porndexter himself had writing ambitions. I also re-call the lofty condescension with which he viewed my then 'literary efforts. Never would he de-grade himself by writing dreck for Confidential or True Adventures. He was going to publish a lapi-dary masterpiece, a pastiche of war experiences days in Paris, New York and Tangier, and philosophical insights into our culture and society that would put him in the Hemingway-Fitzgerald-Mailer-Jones category of leading writers to come out of world wars But there was one problem: he didn't have the fi-nancial independence to devote himself fulltime to writing.

That opportunity came in the early eighties, thanks to a providential death in the family. Now some fifteen years have elapsed --and what has Porndexter accomplished? In 1984 his anti-Stalinist classic, George Orwell writes of a Trotsky-like figure named 'Emmanuel Goldstein" who leads a lonely clandestine movement against the all-powerful "Big Brother,Ó obviously modeled on Stalin. Writes Orwell: Ò...although Goldstein was hated and despised everybody, although... his theories were refuted. smashed, held up to the general gaze for the pitiful rubbish that they were--in spite of all this, his influence never seemed to grow less."

What is the analogy with Poindexter? Simply this. In his decade and a half as a "writer" Porndexter has nut published him novel, nor a novella, nor an article, nor a short story, nor as much as a filler. His next published script will be his first. Yet -- in spite of this spectacular record of nonachievment -- Forndexter's arrogance and superciliousness have not diminished an iota.

To be fair, Porridexter has distinguished himself in another sphere -- one involving such familiar movements as pouring liquid into a glass, bending an elbow, and raising the glass to one's lips. If empty bottles were published scripts, Porndexter would match Georges Simenon, listed In the Guiness Book of Records as the most prolific of twentieth century writers.

One may well argue that the two disciplines are not mutually exclusive. PorndexterÕs models -- Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Mailer and Jones -- were scarcely members of the Temperance Union. Yet Porndexter has sur-passed them in one respect: that his devotion to Bacchus has completely eclipsed and he may once have had to the Creative Muse.

Porndexter's credentials as a literary faineant are matched only by his alcohol-fueled venom against writers who are, with varying degrees of success, making the creative effort. From the cattiness he displays dishing his superiors, it's obvious that Porndexter is a wannabe Clifton Webb. In this ambition he fails miserably, coming across as a doughy, soggy epigone of the crisp original.

Is there a cure for the Porndexters of this world? Will the day come when Porndexter realizes that the enemy is not writers who exceed him in industry and ability but his own lack of character and self-discipline? Will he one day acquire the modesty befitting a man with so much to be modest about? Frankly, I doubt it. Looking into Porndexter's future, I see it adumbrated by these lines from the Bard: ÒTomorrow, tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps on this pretty pace...Ó