The Student's PDR

I used to hate school,
The teachers who taught me weren't cool.
Now I love school. I will do the best I can.
I will be the best I can be. I need not be more.
I will suck the PAPs dry.
I will trust the drugs; they will not fail.
I will love my teachers and my school.
I will. Oh, yes. I will.


The first time they shot me up with ontolophene, I freaked out. It's Total Perspective. Who can deal with it? Like Douglas Adams says in The Restaurant at the End of the Universe, when Beeblebrox is about to be put in the Total Perspective Vortex (sort of a mechanical form of ontolophene):

". . . when you are put into the Vortex you are given just one momentary glimpse of the entire unimaginable infinity of creation, and somewhere in it a tiny little marker, a microscopic dot on a microscopic dot, which says 'You are here.'"

Like I really wanna know that.

Yeah. Right. Get ready for your shot--who can prepare? Boom. Too much digression, not taking things seriously enough, and zap, skinny! you're shot ass-full of this stuff.

Wait. What if . . . ?

Are these studentially inappropriate behaviors (SIBs)? Am I angry?

Did I forget my placidoflavin, did teacher forget to give me that one (it's pink and tastes like a green jelly baby)? And I think some of that bad language is sneaking back, too.

Must renew my vows. Must focus.

Total concentration . . . mustn't get off track. And I love my teacher. Yes I do. I had this really great idea for what this poem means. It's gone now, and I'm glad. Yes, I am. I am back on track, back on schedule, and I will graduate. If I take my medicine. Faithfully.

I will be the best that I can be.

Every day in every way, la de da . . . (c'mon! sing along! you know the words). Why would I want to quit? The stuff hurts sometimes, sure. But intellectual growth is supposed to hurt. I can quit any time. Yes, I can.

Increased usefulness to society comes at a cost, after all. But how did I ever get here? Certainly I'm not worthy. I can't even speak good English. I don't know how to interpret a poem. I can't concentrate.

Unless I take my pills.

Good drugs. Socially Sanctioned Stone (SSS).


No digression, madness is digression; diffusion into hallucinatory folds is digression (juvenile) . . . allowing me, me, myself, into where the hedges meet, a soft blur of light and a sharp focus of demonic fervor.

There are only so many people who can come here, who can enjoy the benefits of a comprehensive education. Mustn't spoil it for the less fortunate. They will rule one day after all. Those others. Simple demo(n)graphics. Gotta make sure they're educated first. Safe. Smart. Cover yer ass.

I used to be late all the time.

What was I supposed to write about?

Oh, yeah. Bird imagery in Macbeth.


We were studying Romeo and Juliet in a tragedies class today. We got to the part where Friar Laurence tells Romeo to stop crying. I said that I thought it was OK for Romeo to cry, and that the friar was an ass. The professor said that, sure, it was OK for big boys to cry and everything, but that it should only be done, you know, in certain situations. That Romeo shouldn't have been crying in the middle of a crisis; rather, he should have been doing something constructive. I said that I thought crying was constructive, or certainly therapeutic. He said that all of this was irrelevant to the story, anyway, and that we needed to get back on task. Y'know, stick to the text.

Well, it's been a bad day anyway. My dog got run over last night and nobody seems to care. They've got me on this stuff, I don't know what they call it . . . some stuff that makes it where I can't cry but I still feel like crying. The tears just won't come. They say it'll make me deal with the desire to cry more effectively. Well, when I left class, I asked Theresa what she thought about the stuff. They've got her on it too, 'cause she cries a lot and she wants to be a doctor so she's gotta learn to be tough. She said that it's OK for her; she's getting better about holding it in . . . she said they're going to cut her dosage real soon if she keeps improving. I told her they already got me on the maximum dosage and I can still squeeze out a tear. She said I oughtta try upping the dose, and taking some of her directalis too--said it'd get me back on track, concentrate on what's really important. She gave me some of her extra stuff.

Well, so I took six of the stop-crying things instead of two and a couple of the directalises so I could study. This was an hour ago. Now my head feels like it's gonna cave in. Everything bad, y'know, or sad, that ever happened to me is coming back, it's all right in front of me, and I can't even squeeze out a single tear. I can't deal with it. I can hardly write this. So I'm gonna jump from the top of the dorm. Fuck it.

And fuck you, too, university and Shakespeare professor. I hope Jimmy, my roommate, finds this first. If so, I love you, man. Don't let 'em get you, too.

It's OK to cry. Melancholinexin bisulfate is completely safe used in normal dosages. It is extremely unlikely that this young man's note is truthful. The real cause of his unfortunate suicide is almost certainly that he was having a homosexual love affair with his roommate (Jimmy is not his real name), and Jimmy was preparing to "come out of the closet." This eventuality was unbearable to the victim because he feared the response of his parents, who are both fundamentalist Christians. Since he was probably not going to pass the tragedies course under Professor S., this latter provided a good scapegoat.

--D. J. Robinson, Ph.D.


And what if I keep the drugs under my tongue when they come my way, don't swallow them? What then? How closely will they check my buccal cavity? Will they come after me with those bullet-nosed flashlights, lookin all around my insides . . . ? But why would (do) (will) (did) I resist? These people are, after all, professionals . . . all the more reason to rebel I suppose . . . we who attend upon the destruction of all our forefathers so carefully built and which has given us all that we have: cars, assembly lines, financiers, financing, schools, curricula, acute nervous exhaustion, and drugs for that too. But it's scary, isn't it? Turning traitor? Gotta get away from Dad. Gotta hide. But Dad loves me, he really does. If he's gone . . . ? What comes next? As if we knew, could anticipate . . . full glory-shit boogie toward some vision of a governed-less future: and the ticktock of time just attracts the shitflies . . . timeflies, blowflies around the whalish corpse of all our fine fine demo(n)cratic institutions . . . I once saw a page from a psych text that said things written like this are paranoid--so well, so well . . . they have drugs for psychosis too, I understand: convenient, ain't it? Then the sicko stops playing with words, and starts safely masturbating in a dark corner (not in public! we have drugs for that too) . . . Wait, Dad! Don't read this. Don't show it to Mom. Too late . . .

Dammit, kid, these are sick people--totally outta the norm. You belong to us. We want you. Come closer. We don't want you. Go away.

And we all know--nudge, nudge--what's the norm, don't we? It has something to do with numbers; very scientific. Quantification of behaviors, check the following on your Skinnerized list (clipboards up! Lab coats starched or suedesleeved jacket and pipe rumpled). Check: Kissing inappropriate things, sucking inappropriate things, saying inappropriate things (check these things off as they're done 1,2,3,4 numbers of times), multiply times the deviancy modal scale and divide by pi (3.14 will do here). You will get not only a diagnosis but a useful label for the popular press.

"He's a queer! She's a lesbo! Those people are ivory-tower eggheads! Them? They're homeless . . . and of course they're black. Just look at them. Don't even need to check behavior, 'cause they're inherently dangerous, so it'd just be a matter of degree . . . Strangers in a world they never made . . . sick in calibrated degrees, easy to check and chart, degrees."

Degrees of sickness: O'Neal Carr--never mind, he's an old friend, not a scholarly source--noted that even rectal thermometers have degrees and you know what we do with them (wink, wink) . . .

What to do, what to do? (Liberal amounts of handwringing recommended here; this gives conservatives something to be tough about: stop whining, you sissified fags! Stop your handwringing and whining and do something . . . shoot something! (Be classifiable as a Radical--either end, fascist or red--and then we can outlaw you . . . we, the buildings.)

The hide of the institution is tough; it doesn't take injections well. The needle bends, slips under the leatherish dermis at an oblique angle, and the antidote won't enter--can't get thru the slender pipe.

And after all, what is the antidote? A PAP of its own? An anti-PAP, antipope, antichrist? Anti--? Why anti? Omigosh--I'm playin with words again. More Thorazine, more Haldol, more Tests. Totally Rad, man.

Radical what? Violence? Gibran says: "Some of your youth seek pleasure as if it were all, and they are judged and rebuked. I would not judge nor rebuke them. I would have them seek." Khalil Gibran is buried in a wall of his house in Lebanon, according to P. J. O'Rourke, who claims to have been there, and to have seen it. He thinks it says a lot about the guy. Maybe so. Seek, huh? Seek what? Have them seek? Seek a gun and go to Beirut--just down the road from Gibran's house, after all--and shoot? Shoot change into being--shoot change into consciousness? Shoot 50mm missiles into buildings?

Shoot drugs?

Drug-bullets, heavy doses of lead? Powerful syringe.

Shoot drugs into the structures . . . ? P. J. also tells of buildings pockmarked with bulletholes: either mighty bad shootin or somebody's got the right idea--shoot up the buildings, get 'em hooked. Shoot up the Evil: yes, it's in those buildings. Where else would it be? In the people? Very well, we'll shoot them up too! Good will be revealed later, behind the curtain where Jay's standing. (And it'll be mo' better good, too.)

Junkie Axiom:

If it can be broken down, it can be shot up.
If it can be analyzed, it can be taught.
If it can be synthesized, it can be bought.
If it can be shot, it can be broken up (down).
A story: A junkie goes to a doctor. Doctor says What's wrong, dude? The junkie says I'm sick. My head hurts, my leg hurts, my heart hurts, I'm nervous all the time, I puke a lot. The doctor says Whoa! You're sick, man. Junkie says Yeah, I know. Doctor says We can fix you (doctors use the papal "we" here, as befits the pontifical stage of dia-gnosis). Junkie says Good, 'cause I'm real sick (junkies are suffering, vicariously-atoning gods and don't need to use the we). I need painkillers, anxiolytics, antidepressants, says junkie. Doctor says, Whoa, wait a min. I'm the doctor here, and I say that you need painkillers, anxiolytics, antidepressants (PopeDoc is now in God-role, uses "I" unabashedly). Junkie (now supplicant before the throne) says, OK--you're the boss, you know best.

Junkie always leaves with script(s) just like the whole scenario always comes pre-scripted.

Junkies always have more than one doctor.
always have more than one illness.
have more than one medicine.
more than one brain.
than one life.
one eye.


Have you got it, yet? Do you understand? Do you follow that school is a system? guts, and nerves, and circulations (bloods) are systems? School is a building? Mind and body aren't separate, building and personnel aren't separate, personnel and ideas aren't separate, memos and papers and inks aren't separate. I have plumbing, therefore I am a building. I have plumbing, therefore I have plumbers. And plumber's helpers. Or, I have windows, therefore I have people to look out of them at the big big world outside. And people to interpret the view. And people to look in, and window washers, and if somebody got into this bodybuilding then it must have a door or there couldn't be anybody in there at all to look outta the windows or flush the pot. Right? It follows.

Trains don't run off track, do they? And boats don't float on tracks, do they?

Except in Looney Tunes.

Which isn't worthy of comment.

'Cause they aren't real, y'know.

Tracks, I mean.



by Millicent Multigourd, Daily Weasel

The Robespierre Elementary first-grade students in Chemmie Runzit's class listen as she reads a story on mammals. Occasionally they will read certain words out loud before Runzit gets to them.

Not only do the students read along with Runzit, they understand the subject she is reading about. The students tell Runzit that the Latin word for mammal is mamma. They also tell her that mammals feed their babies milk.

When Runzit reads to the students, she explains words in the story and how they can use them at home. Runzit is one of the teachers in the Gonzo Public School District using the Pharmaceutically Assisted Pedagogy (PAP) approach to learning.

The PAP approach is a chance to provide students with the process of knowing how to combine everything they learn and then use that outside of the school setting--for the learning drugs administered in school have long-lasting effects. In this way, such positive behaviors as eagerness, attentiveness, and responsibility are continuously maintained without constant adult supervision.

Runzit says that the PAP approach cuts down on her paperwork. "I simply check to make sure that they are getting the right PAP's in the right amounts. It's all made so simple with the PDR [Pedagogue's Desk Reference]. If they are in school on time and receive their drugs as prescribed, they will rise to meet expected educational standards, thus enabling the USA to outperform Japan on standardized testing. Of course, if they don't come to school on time to get their pills, we have a drug for that, too. It's all so foolproof," Runzit said.

The PAP program has been used for some time in secondary school settings, but its use in elementary schools has been controversial. These PAPs are, after all, drugs. "But they are very safe and useful drugs, remember," says Runzit's principal, Timothy O'Leary. "And they are only prescribed and administered by highly-trained professionals. Parents have nothing to fear from PAP use at the elementary level. We at Robespierre Elementary are proud to be spearheading their use."


Muffin is sad. She wasn't picked on selection day for a sorority. Actually, sad doesn't quite get it, capture the feeling, jar it, bottle it. It's more like a horrible rejection. Being pushed away by other sisters, in ferior merchan dise. Doomed to get through school with head held high in spite of this bonerattling shoving-away, forced to smile thru her tears, thru her awful rejection-complex, her sudden weaning . . . and now her schoolwork, this alone remains. Her classes. With no sisters. Her family, the Ledbetters, well--they're just hoping that she doesn't turn to drugs. Or promiscuity. Or weird politics. Muffin is dejected. Anything could happen.

Meanwhile, across campus a bit, Gridiron Torment IV, chapter president, is worried about the selection of freshmeat available this year for his frat, Sigma Tic Rectum (Symbolic Alert: use of "meat," "tic," and "rectum" may indicate homoeroticism). No rigidopam available. Obedioflavin supplies are low. What to do, what to do . . . Gridiron sucks on a beer bottle abstractedly.

There's no conclusion.

Academia survives, like the Dead Sea Scrolls.

In a building not far from where Muffin sits with her boyfriend Brad (they've found a half pint of peppermint schnapps and some Sprite and are sitting in a grove commiserating), Dr. Dredgewell Danforth Harbinger, a minor administrator, is worried too. What will the future hold for him? His wife, up till now humble enough, dependent enough on him, will soon be a Doctor of Philosophy, (refrain)--just like him. Of course, he had his first. But she'll want to get a job. She'll publish. What then? She's not even using his name any more; her diploma will have some other name on it. And what will the Chancellor say about those PAPs that are missing? The ones that



It's all wrong.

They really really do give drugs to kids.

Let's list a few of 'em . . .



Amerikan History

Kid's hyper? Can't sit still and read? Pump him (almost invariably they're male--look it up) full of Ritalin. Schedule II dope, that. Good as speed. I once found a bottle full in a surgeon's locker. He was hyperactive I guess. Speed, yes. Makes 'em happier to sit still and do worksheets at warp speed.

If they can't deal with that, hit 'em with a little detention. They can be forced to sit still after school, teacher can watch and make sure: nothing else to do except grade papers (right!) 'cause school's over: all the good little kids can go home (right!) and li'l Johnny makes an F in Amerikan History, 'cause he sits still running all through his arms and legs: dammit, kid, George Washington could sit still! Sit the fuck up, and shut still!

Rx: Ritalin 10mg. t.i.d. and h.s. as needed. Fuck that, Johnny thinks. Methamphetamine powder. Any quantity. Suck it up the nose, blast it in the arm, down the gullet, fullbore. I'll give 'em movement. Poof! and my mind and body become one again, Johnny thinks. Triumph. Mostly.

One day Johnny will be a Doktor of Amerikan History. And he probably won't even realize that he has that distinction.


Prof. D is a pervert. No, I mean it. A pervert. All he teaches is courses on "love," which is a laugh, because all they are is courses on sex. Penis this, vagina that; intercourse this, foreplay that. I was fool enough to take two classes from him, a world lit and a "banned books" class (which for him meant a porn course), and I swear, not a class period went by without him discussing some sexual act in lurid detail.

I know what you're thinking. She's a prude; she can't stand to hear a perfectly normal part of human existence discussed in public. So if a teacher talks about sex once or twice in a semester, she thinks that's all he talks about. But it wasn't that way. Every class he talked about sex; I mean it. Every time class met. And it wasn't just him talking about it that gave me the creeps; it was the look on his face as he did it, the way his eyes undressed the younger women in the class while he talked, the scary hypnotic tone in his voice as he soothed our embarrassments away. How can I describe it so you'll believe me?

Well, here's one thing: every class meeting he prescribed libidinol to every younger woman in the class. Every one of us, every time, no exception. None of the men got libidinol; the two or three older women in each class were exempt too. The first class I took from him, I was so young and naive that I went ahead and swallowed the libidinol tabs (or "bids," as we called them); they made me so open to and comfortable with his talk about sex and his roving eyes that I sat on the edge of my seat with interest and enthusiasm.

So what happened next? He prescribed pedagorine for me--only for me, several class meetings in a row--and then came on to me after class, complimented me on my beauty, my hair, my body, and (as if incidentally) my interest in "literature"!

I was still so high on libidinol and pedagorine, of course, I batted my eyelashes and said why yes, I'd love to go out with him. He said, how about right now? Shall we go to my place? Before the effects of the drugs could wear off, you see. I smiled and nodded--what else would I do, high on those two drugs together? So we walked to his house, and as we walked he kept touching me in "innocuous" places--arms, shoulders--and undressing me with his eyes.

Once we got inside his house, however, and closed the door, he took me in his arms and slipped his hand under my blouse. I don't know what happened to me then; by rights the drugs should have made me perfectly compliant. But they didn't. Maybe it was his breath, which stank horribly; whatever it was, I came to myself for a moment, shuddered slightly, went under again, then came out all the way, and shoved him off me. I'll say this for him, he didn't push it, though his eyes and voice went cold as ice as he snapped "Fine, have it your own way" and turned away, pretending I wasn't there and never had been. I was almost more scared by his eyes and voice than I was by the near-rape. What a sicko!

So I got out of there and from then on refused to swallow any pills he prescribed for me in class--tongued 'em, you know, and only pretended to swallow, since I could see his flat snaky eyes on me all the time. He asked me out several more times after that, but I always begged off; then his interests turned elsewhere. There were, after all, a dozen other young women like me in the class.

Well, I got a B- out of the class, when up to our little scene in his house I had been getting straight A's on quizzes and tests. I was angry and thought of going to the dean, but--stupidly, I now realize--decided I would prove to him that I could get an A from him despite his perversions. So I signed up for his banned books class--which was, as I say, a porn class. Not a single book that had been banned for political subversiveness or religious heresies or racism or anything like that; it was all Justine and Lady Chatterly's Lover and The Story of O. And I kept tonguing the pills and pulled a straight B- all through the class. What a fool I was! And by then it was too late to go to the dean. All I could do was write up my story and pass it around to other freshmen and sophomore girls, in hopes that they wouldn't make the same mistake I did.


Well, by now:

1. Muffin and Brad are pretty sloshed. They walk in to see Dean Harbinger unannounced, reeking of peppermint, ethanol and sociopathic anger. Brad helps Muffin tie Harbinger to a plush office chair and then she pushes sharpened pencils into his ears till she hears a crunching sound and is only holding the eraserless metal ends in her rednailed fingers. Meanwhile Brad is urinating on the desktop. They proceed to gouge out and eat Harbinger's eyeballs and then they fornicate vigorously on the plush red office carpeting. Harbinger's secretary is gone for the day.


2. Brad and Muffin are drinking in a grove not far from Dean Harbinger's office, as we know. Harbinger is worried about things, as we also know. What we don't know yet is that Harbinger has gone to his window for a breath of air, a thoughtful view of the academy's physical plant. He sees Muffin and Brad drinking. He yells out of his window to them, telling them to come up to his office immediately. They yell back Fuck You!


3. B&M do as told; they go up. Then same as above in #1.


4. B&M ignore his continued shouts. He gets his 30.06 from the wall-rack, scopes them dead-on, and shoots them both like deer.


5. None of this happens; rather, Jesus returns in a cloud of glory with the saints and raptures the hell out of the whole world and then all of the holyrollers say I Told You So.


6. All of that's too simple. Not excessive enough. Y'see, the way that Muffin n' Brad n' Gridiron n' me see it, true excessivity lies in the banal, the everyday muted extremes coinciding. But that's too simple, too. Too excessive.


7. Don't push it. It pushes it self. Itself. Its elf. It pushes its elf. Yes. That it does. And sometimes it pushes its elf further than elves were designed to go.


Peculiar pathologies are often found in patriarchal institutions, and these are not confined to Muffin-types (the Freud-dude) or to Gridiron-types (see C.G. Jung) or to silly administrator-types (see Monty Python, frequently).

Sure, there are normal and abnormal pathologies. For example, Taber's Medical takes the mystery out of "hanging out":


Victim is found | Skin is pale and | Pupils are dilated
hanging with | face is cyanotic. | and unequal if
constriction of | | cerebral injury.
the neck.

Muscles are re- | If strangulation | Respirations
laxed. Varies | is incomplete | have ceased or
with the level | pulse is rapid, | an occasional
of tenure [sic]. | weak, and irreg. | gasp is observed.
| | If complete, pulse
| | is absent.

Reflexes are | Respiratory and | Release the patient
abolished. | circulatory fail- | --cut the rope.
| | ure. Fracture of | Artificial res-
| | neck. | pirations. Treat
| | for shock and
| | possible fracture
| | of neck.

Tabers, Appendix 113.


Yeah, definitely. release the patient--cut the rope. Especially if you find the poor sot hanging in the classroom. Bad for business, y'know. If they have the common decency to hang themselves in their office or dorm room

(even in hanging-locale-options, the hierarchy of student<teacher<administrator holds firm: some have

more/better locale-options than others)

then cut them down gently, out of respect for their consideration in such matters.

Release the patient. Cut the ropes.

Professor Pigeon came to class early that day to check his medication tray. He had been having some problems with getting the right medicines to the right students, and had devised a plan (with the help of the PAPists) whereby he hoped to reduce the number of errors by arranging the tray according to height.

However, when he arrived he found a surprise (sort of). He found Muffin and Brad hanging from the fluorescent light fixtures.

So he did what had to be done: Release the patient(s)--cut the rope(s). Why don't the PAPs include a suicidinol or something? Professor Pigeon wondered. He is, after all, a humanist. He cares about such things.


Professor Pigeon is found later by the incoming class, hanging from the fluorescent light fixtures.

Mordred Miller, doing the rigidopam shuffle (like a thorazine shuffle, only stiffer, sexier), did the right thing: release the patient--cut the rope.

The class, working in orderly respect, laid Professor Pigeon's body next to those of Muffin and Brad.

Rufus Ogilvy offered an interpretation:

Thus they came, and we love our school and our learning . . . shall they therefore have died in vain? Or shall their untimely deaths at the hands of time remain a symbol of glory for us all, ever urging us onward to higher heights of wisdom and desire for grace?

Campus security rushes in at this point, waving batons and clearing a space for an officer to stand and speak. She clears her throat and addresses the class, who have by now begun to put the whole sordid event into a sort of perspective (PAP, PAP-Assisted-Perspective):

Her words are short and simple, and are spoken as denialozide is passed around with paper cups of Kool-Aid.

"You aren't here, this isn't happening, and you are not worried."

It became a chant, and was echoed across the campuses of the nation as a sort of Mantra.

"Hey, bro, what's happenin?"

"I'm not here; you aren't happenin."

"We aren't foreigners."

"I don't want to graduate anyway."

"I could cry if I wanted to. It's not the pills. It's just that I'm not that immature any more."

"I know all about feminist theory, too. Let's interpret this story according to Homans." (HOW ABOUT KRISTEVA, DUDE? BETTER KNOWN)

"Of course I want to write this response paper. My teacher asked me to."

"Why ask why?"

"Just do it."



Q: Have you ever ingested denialozide?

A: No, I have not.

Q: Have you ever contemplated experimenting with denialozide?

A: Quite frankly, it's never crossed my mind.

Q: Do you believe you would pass a blood test for traces of denialozide?

A: I'm sorry, I don't catch your meaning.

Q: If you were given a blood test to determine whether you had recently ingested denialozide, do you believe the test would reveal traces of the drug in your blood stream?

A: I don't understand. I'm not a doctor. How could I know that?

Q: Very good. Do you know anyone who abuses denialozide?

A: No, I'm sorry, I don't.

Q: I'm pleased to inform you that you have passed.

A: Passed what?

Q: The polygraph test. You're cleared for the PDR editorial staff.

A: You mean this was a test to see if I qualified for the job?

Q: Yes, sir, it was. And you passed.

A: Well, that's great, but--I guess I still don't see the connection . . .


Say, who's your analyst?

Really? Him? I thought he was a critical theorist.

Oh. So the class he teaches is really a kind of group therapy session, huh? But they aren't analysts. They're teachers, y'know--scholars. What do they know about psychologies and twisted thinking and obsessions and compulsions?

Mutual pain? That's the starting point? Working through mutual pain? What if there's no pain present?

Then that's denial? Repression?

So pain is found? Uncovered? Dis-covered? Blocking-points to growth? What are blocking-points? What is growth? Intellectual growth?

Sounds pretty sick, man.

Whatever happened to explication? Analysis of texts? People as texts? Whoaaaaa, man. Yeah, I know that's the theory--I've read it. In fact, I wrote a paper about it once. But in class?


ARREST REPORT, University P.D.

Officer Homer O. Stasis, reporting

Perpetrator: Terpin "Terry" Saynos M FM OTHER D.O.B. / /

Race: 24yrs. Occupation: Student SSAN# - -

Type of Incident: Mischief; Resisting Arrest

Location of Incident: Cafeteria and Vending/Catering Services Food Preparation Area, Gaggenchoek Hall.

Description of Incident: Ms. Nasrudin, the catering services supervisor, called UPD to report the suspicious behavior of Mr. Saynos. She said that he was "putting something in the food." I went to investigate and was taken by Ms. Nasrudin to a vantage pOint in the hallway of Gaggenchoek Hall, where we observed Mr. Saynos placing a quantity of powder into a row of coffee urns. Mr. Saynos was apprehended by myself after a rather nasty struggle during which Mr. Saynos swallowed the remaining powder and inflicted several very straight and narrow scratches upon my person. After swallowing the substance, Mr. Saynos was quite cooperative, and was taken without further incident to the UPD detention cell.

Follow-up: The urns of coffee, according to Ms. Nasrudin, were bound for the coliseum complex, where they were to be consumed as complimentary refreshments by those attending the Campus Crusade for Christ event scheduled for that evening. Mr. Saynos is the campus organizer for CCC, and had been responsible for promoting attendance at the event, a soulsaving preachathon by one Joshua McDowell, a visiting evangelist. Lab reports indicate that the coffee urns Mr. Saynos had been tampering with had been contaminated with quantities of illegally obtained obedioflavin bromide, an obedience-inducing pedagogic drug (PAP). Mr. Saynos confessed that he hoped to obtain more gratifying results for Mr. McDowell by tampering with the pre-event refreshments.

On the advice of the university attorney, no charges have been filed. All concerned have been most cooperative.

Status: Case closed.

ADDITIONAL REPORT, UPD, re: foregoing incident

Officer Cruller reporting

Addenda: Upon the urging of certain undesirable elements, the case was reopened to determine the veracity of certain assertions regarding the source of the illegally obtained obed. br. Mr. Saynos was using. My investigation has shown that it came from the supply kept legally at the Baptist Student Union for educational purposes. It is a supply used in their primary and outreach school programs, and is only used under the supervision of registered pharmeducationists.

The BSU declined to press charges against Mr. Saynos, and assured the UPD and other authorities that it would implement improved security measures to safeguard its supply, saying "our visiting evangelists don't need any help from PAPs."

Revised Status: Case closed.


The student will present with complications, usually. You will have to release the patient--cut the rope.

They will come to class with everything but what counts on their minds. You will have to release the patient--cut the rope.

You will have to show them how to analyze and debate; model critical thinking for them repeatedly. Release the patient--cut the rope.

You will have to select appropriate texts for them and make sure that they read them, by frequent quizzing. Release the patient--cut the rope.

You will have to make sure that they've met the requirements for graduation, guide them into useful courses, decent electives. Release the patient--cut the rope.

Cut the rope--give them credentials. Check their respirations. Check their (our, your) pupils. What is their tenure on the rope? Your tenure on the rope? What is your rope?

Where there's life, there's rope.

Rope springs eternal . . .


Yes, dilate your (our, their) pupils. See if they're fixed. Are they uneven? Is the right pupil fixed or wandering or undulating? What about the wrong pupil? The left(over) pupil?


The inevitable, of course, happened. (They tell you to assume nothing in prose: I can see the furious marginalia now: What inevitable? Why is it inevitable? Explain. Interrogative, interrogative, imperative. Answer: Whathefuck, it's y'know, inevitable: Shit Happens.) This is it: Muffin told Brad she had "outgrown" him and fell in with a group of radical lesbians, totally deviant, man-shooters, multiple-orgasmists. Mrs. Ledbetter was found hanging from the rafters of the carved, beamed, gleaming living room of her husband's ranch-style hacienda. This was right after Muffin's phone call, short, informative, and brutal. An empty bottle of rigidopam was at her feet.

Brad, quite naturally (beggin for more marginalia here), is distraught. He must, then, talk to an older and wiser head: Gridiron Torment, president of Sigma Tic Rectum's local chapter. Gridiron strokes the distraught boy's head, sucks on his ubiquitous beer bottle. Maybe they end up fucking around a little, maybe not. It doesn't matter. They are both needing to be released and--you know, cut the rope.

There are other characters in this neverending story, too. Various political entities which seem to feel that it's reasonable to identify themselves as such. Their parties are simple: Republican or Democrat. Their ideologies are simple, too: handclinging or handwringing. One of each is to be found in each cadre, each stupidity-cell. They play well off each other, create a dry-cell charge unless liquor is involved, and then it's a wet-cell charge. We have drugs for controlling the symptoms of these drugs. The difficulty is getting folks to take these pills and shots voluntarily. But we have drugs for that too--only we call these drugs politics, 'cause we like to think of them as being non-invasive.

Non-invasive drugs? You don't have to take 'em? 'Cause you've already got 'em?

The bookstore is a headshop.

The headshop is a bookstore.

The crackhouse is a university, a place of higher learning.

The university is a crackhouse, a place of drugdealing.


Hey it's excessive

They said it was puerile and cheap unpublishable
shockseeking behavior, totally juvenile:
responsible sound totally real & talented
writers don't a) write about writing
b) mention used Kotex, bloody & stuck to the inside of a brown plastic garbage pail which I have to empty even tho I don't wear sanitary napkins
c) refer to used, slime-filled condoms noticed lying by the side of the road
d) or use the words love, peace, truth, beauty, and other
abstract terms an they dont use Punctuation funny or fuck wif spellin or drop g's or move stuff around on the page without good reason
good advice
if ya wanna get published
too bad i don't read aint it
Poetry's a craft and itsa art
good advice (did I mention nose-picking? dont write that down either) (or sex) (fuck and shit and cunt should be used sparingly too) (dont forget muthafuckah or even mofo)
And dont use poetic language e'en in the morn ere you rise

Dont do it. You'll be sorry.

You're much too talented of a writer to resort to such cheap tactics

dont do it

its been done we've proved it can be done & that's enough we dont have to keep doing it over and over
& over


These are not atomic propositions. Nuclear, perhaps. But not (sorry Ludwig) atomic. Because the atom is divisible, after all. So what's the relationship between these subnuclear particles? Who cares?

What a shift in thinking! Some drugs are good, some are bad. The good drugs can be bad if they're used by bad people. But the people aren't bad, either, exactly--just misguided, ill, diseased. We've lived within this doublethink for years . . . it itself is a drug (a non-invasive drug--don't have to take it 'cause we already got it): Some drugs are good/ they don't fall into the Just Say No category. Aspirin is OK . . . even morphine sulfate is OK, if prescribed by a Dr. and taken as ordered. Newspapers are not even a scheduled drug, though some magazines are; they have to be taken as ordered, that is--just for the articles.

So whaddya want? Utopia? Gimme a break.

OK, here's a break.


There's a series of cabins stretching over the hills. Each cabin has a few goats and chickens and cats and dogs wandering around. People visit each other and talk about books, or they form into ad hoc groups and build fireplaces in the big communal lodge that never seems to get finished, plant beans, sing and play and dance. This is the university for the city kids who want a new educational experience.

There's a big building in the middle of a metropolitan area, with a couple of courtyards. It has elevators and lots of different-size rooms . . . kitchens, libraries of different sizes and such. All kinds of people live here. They have dogs and cats and whatever can survive in this place. They have music. They have jazz clubs and public areas with coffee and whiskey. This is a university for country folks who wanna get a city education.


But you asked.

Maybe people wherever they are just stop looking behind, inside, and just look. Or maybe they start looking inside, behind . . .

Whatever works.

If it ain't broke break it.


logical affair

All men are liars, I am a weasel
you're a significant other, formula
for our torrid passion calculus
Let yer lies and backstabbins signify x, then
my rationalizations for screwing your best friend
are x(n2), with implications/ for
gettin drunk t' forget = 3[x(n2)]
an slappin yer face +1/2(x3) equals yer fault/
now yer pissed off, an got a pistol
which's factored to x!
an I'm runnin like hell down square streets
buttons clickin tomorrow
headlines shoutin
Two Dead in Lovers Quarre1, police puzzled
only evidenoe a theorem found at the scene
& a bloodstained calculator in hand of corpse


Depart from me, ye workers of textuality, said the JesusDean. What was meant by that was, of course (you ill-read idiots): Depart from the text, ye workers of textuality, and by extension (ladders) to: Depart from sex, ye workers of sexuality . . . because natch the Nazaroo was a hip dude, totally in touch (tho' kinda touchy-feely for some tastes), and he knew a good breeze when it was comin down. Like the great hipster Himself says (Lord Buckley, of course, a permanent member of the canon-fodder): he wuz the most, the Naz, straightenin them kitties with the bent frames! Totally gone, man. Everything is textual sextuality (sextual textuality) (sensual promiscuity) and (fall, as in Fall From Grace, The. Vide Autumn) . . . but then, ah then . . . yes. The maximum dosage allowed of Propap, a fine drug designed by Christian Dior to cause those who may be reluctant to take their PAPs to eagerly desire them, nay--to lust after them, to thirst after diagnosis and treatment as a deer thirsts for a clear brook.

And so was I. Reluctant. Recalcitrant. Recalcified. A Re-gular re-ctum. Until the miracle, the jewel in the lotus, the jewel of the nile, the jewel of denial, the scum-covered pond water at the headwaters, the dark skin of the porters carrying professor Q's luggage thru the dense humid air. In the distance, a wolf banes.

A toad chuckles in the mud.


"And what would you like for a grade, Mr. Prodsnuff? Hmmmm? Perhaps--an A, hmmm?" he said snidely, snively, and shoved his hands deep into his velvetlined pockets . . . ticka-tocka, ticka-tocka, ticka-tocka, tick. Pocket pool, eight ball.

"Grade, sir?" said the Jewel of Denial, a bright young diamond in the field. "Surely, you don't think I care about something as plebeian as a grade, when the real godlike presence of your wisdom is here for me to strive toward? Grades are digressive," he added.

"Well said, my young porkchop. However, you are still full of shit. What is the meaning of . . . this passage, you young buckaroo, if you're so damned smart?"

"Well, this corpse represents a dead desire for female beauty, which is as pale and lifeless as the young drowned corpse of Fethar Stone in this magnificent story."

"Is it that simple? Or is there a yet deeper meaning that you can't find because, because, because, you haven't taken your medication?"


Oh, shit. I've been discovered. I've been found out! What now? What now! WHAT NOW?!

There can only be . . .


Smart Students--There are plenty of smart people in this world . . . but they're all talking at once. And none of them are students. Pupils, disciples . . . what a sorry lot. Always interrupting, always mucking about trying to imitate, which is flattering but also annoying because they just want to seem as smart as I really am. Really. Look at my test scores . . . look at my publications . . . look at my wife, my books, my office walls, my sneer, my shoes (the shoes are the giveaway) . . .

Smart Students--are still students. So much canon-fodder, canon-mudder, canon-udder, udder nonsense.


Don't write anymore. Don't they have spies everywhere? Don't they? Don't they love you so much that they strap you into a chair with a pen and a paper and a dry sticking pill, lozenge, dusty with filler as dessicating as aspirin cotton--don't they? Don't they tell you to be happy? And you are, tco. Yes you are. Verrrry happy. Until one morning, it's a fine one, you've finished your assignments, you eat breakfast (Lucky Charms), you drink coffee, you read the funnies, you cut your wrist to the bone with a steak knife, you go to class, you die.

And it's so damn funny.


Nomar didn't do that. Nomar was black and comely. Nomar had troubles. Nomar had no friends. Nomar walked along the sidewalks on the edge with his black shoes, wore a black Mötley Crüe sweatshirt, picked scabs at his elbows, threw rocks at birds and puppies, and cursed continually, long wretched curses about you, Dean Anomie, until one day he smiled and became sensible and stepped in front of a fastmoving bus.

You were sad, you stupid bastard. Sad? What the fuck is that?

Did you cry?

Yes, I think you did.

So does Daimon, who was in your office that day, the day that you were turned down--REJECTED, stamped "Eat Shit: We Don't Want You"--regarding your promotion and your acceptance speech was crumpled in your pocket. Daimon went to see you.

See you he did.



The Dean of Education.

His hand on the doorknob, leaving you, reluctant, like a lover wearing lingerie pausing, stopping, thinking of something to say, some reason to come back in and sit down . . .

And Daimon did sit down . . . relaxed, calm, angry.

He wanted to fuck you. Yes, he did. But instead he reached inside his pocket and drew forth a Perfect Reading. Yes, Perfect: the Reading of Choice. And he said to you as you sulked in your nylon suit and limp tie, he said loudly: "You! You son-of-a-whore, we are going to play a game. The game is one you will enjoy. It's called Why Did I Get An F? or, in other places, Reading, Reading, Who's Got The Reading?"

"I . . . I don't understand," mumbled Dean Anomie. What reading? What do you mean?"

"This!" snarled Daimon. "This poem! Don't play stupid with me, you coy bastard. You want it, my reading, you know you do. You want it real bad."

"I . . . that is, I don't know . . . I'm not feeling well," Anomie burbled.

Daimon, funny thing, he didn't answer that. He just leaped across the desk like a blazing faggot and tore up Dean Anomie's shirt to expose his bellybutton.

"That!" he shouted. "You know how you want it!"

And then Daimon plucked out his own eye and stuck it in the dean's navel. Read it. Read it. read it

The hole in his head was not bleeding. Was the eye glass? Was the I glass? Was the squint in his other eye a close look at hell?


Our demonology professor is Pat Butz. Contemporary Demonology. 300 level, lots of prerequisites. Permission of instructor and all the devils in hell. So we asked, Where is hell?

We asked at the reference desk. Somebody there had it. The desk, that is. It was theirs, they had it, they were responsible.

No avail. Nervous titters, playing with pencils.

No. We mean it. Where is hell? Show it to us now, please. We must know. No speculation. This is an assignment for a 300-level course. Ha-ha, yes.

Don't you fucking understand? This is a requirement! Show us hell.

Give me that damned pencil.

Desk is now pushing the alarm button; guards are rushing in with ontolophene and a stretcher.

Give me the pencil.


I'll write where I damned well please.

I'll start here, and I'll go around the page, and off onto the desk, and across the floor, and out into the hall past the desk, onto the portico, down the steps. I'll write on the clouds. I'll write on this car, this pillar, this small animal.

I'll write across the sky.

The universe is my page and your pencil is in my hand. I stole it. And the eraser is fully operational.


Whenever Daimon ran backwards, time slowed down. This disturbed Professor Einstein, who insisted that it couldn't be done. Time slows as you approach lightspeed, he'd mumble. You can't do that, he'd grumble. But, Daimon argued, the murderers all ran backward, into old books, unless they ran forward into new ones, and they never read them backwards . . . it's one way to tell if you're dealing with a murderer . . .

Not me! he gleeful cried . . . I want hundreds of obscure characters, like, like students

like prostitutes

like chicken parts

like traffic cops

like you

and I'll not stop until they're all, every character, every last single one of them, even the ones born long ago and still being born and yet to come on the marquee, are included.

When you have their opinions, arrest me.


Depart from the text . . . run down the sides of The Book like madmen on amphetamines, tilt it up, run around it, grab the book and play keepaway with it, play kill the queer with the book, grind the book with snot into a fine paste and dry it and press it, and then cut it into bite-size pieces to share with your friends.

It will not crack like peanut brittle unless it's canonical; otherwise, it will need to be cut into pleasant squares like fudge.


Even a bat's blind eyes glint in a darkened cave.

No. Be reasonable. Be able to reason. Be reason to able. Be Abel, slaughtered by Cain. Co-Cain.

Some are born to appeasement, to sniveling servility. Like everyone, e.g. god, it sure must be a nice feeling to be able to say that you've published two books (count 'em! Two!) in one day, like Kierkegaard. What a smart guy. Let's hire him and give him an office with his name on the door. We don't even have to buy his books, although that'd be a nice gesture I suppose. OK (days pass like kidney stones, then)

Oh, hello. You must be Kierkegaard, the fellow who published TWO books in one day.

Yes, that's me all right. See my belt? Says right on it: TWO IN ONE DAY. Embossed, too. Real cowhide.

Well, here's your office and your committee assignments.

Thank you. Did I mention that I published two books in one day?


Well, OK. Did you see my belt?


Aren't you impressed?

Well, actually, we have a janitor here in this building who has published 9,897,678 books in one day.

Well, OK, but does he have a belt?

No, actually. He wears a oow around his neck.

As well he should. As well he should.

Well, I'm sure that you'll be very happy here, Dr. Kierkegaard. If you have any trouble with students annoying you, please do call. We're open twenty-four hours a day including Christmas. My card.




Daimon had replaced his eye with an alabaster grape from a basket on Dean Anomie's desk. It looked very nice.


MaryLou couldn't sit still. Nothing worked. Bunzocaine, rigidopam, even rigidopam plus with garters. Nothing. After an hour, she was done for even with all of that stuff.

So Professor X painted her blue and stood her in a corner.

No . . .

Actually, he put the make on her. Gave her a feel job. Tripled her dose of libidinol. Made mooky-mooky-schnookums noises at her in the library. Figgered before long she'd have to break down.

No . . .

Actually, there is no MaryLou. Only a replica which her father had built in the garage with leftover parts from a junked '57 Chevy and sent to schcol. Perhaps there is no Professor X. Only a cleverly painted nutcracker with wooden jaws that move in an almost lifelike manner when a hireling standing behind pushes a lever. Clacks a lot. Sounds like George Washington must have sounded with those wooden dentures. George couldn't whittle very well, and found, after a long search, a fellow on his plantation who could. This fellow carved some dentures out of a hunk of cherry tree. This name was George Washington Carver. He didn't get paid for this work. George offered him a job in the house, whittling dildos for Martha, but he declined. One of them uppity black folks, you know . . .

Either way, MaryLou received sound advising and tutoring and graduated at the top of her class (working class, antique car class).

She drove down the aisle in cap and gown, honking and spewing exhaust. Everyone was pleased. Except me. Oh, by the way,

I'm the narrator.

I'm very important.

But you wouldn't know that. Oh, don't worry. I'm 3rd-person limited, not omniscient. I can't see what color underwear you have on or check your lungs for cancer. And I won't pick your nose for you.


Oh, it's so easy for you, isn't it . . . ? Hm.

Hand out this, hand out that.

Give me a shove this way or that.

I love my drugs, and I am an addict, and I don't have a problem. I don't have a problem. I don't have a problem. This is what Wordsworth means in this passage from his Honda Prelude . . . he's looking to heal an inner child. Ha, ha. I don't have a problem. I'm not an addict. This is a movie I'm acting in. One day, later on, I'll stop rehearsing. But I don't have a problem. No.

I do have a problem, but this isn't the appropriate place to discuss it. Reeeaaaaallly. The nerve (pronounced "nuuuhve") of some people. Wounded? Me? You have a problem . . . do you think the world revolves around you? I'm a scholar, back off. This is my class, my curriculum, my car, my little baby crying inside-- Oops! Never mind that last bit. Awfully touchy-feely. Pardon. Like that dadblamed Jesusdude, not old "Iron Bill" Wordsworth. The poem should always mean what it says, first.


Well, I think that . . .

Me? I don't know. I'm a girl, and I'm not even a professor.

Hey! Don't crowd me, man!


Are you calling me a con? And speak English: it's the Con. Not la Con. And stop using that outrageous accent.

Why you young pup! Who sent you here.

Heeheeeheehheee, m-m-m-y MAASTERR sentt me heeeere. Yeee-haaahaaha! 666!

0, my Lord! The sign of the devil!

Wait! Isn't anyone here a real sheep?

Listen to me! Listen to me! We don't have to be just sheep!

Baaa. Baaa.

Oh yes, I'm baaad, I'm baaad, I'm really really baaad.


no shit.


Why should I read this? I already know it. (not!)

Because it's good for you, dammit. (not!)

But I know it already. It's been done before. (not!)

Well, do it again. (not!)

But I don't wanna. (not!)

Hey! Who has the rule book?


The Chair

Hello, Manny? yes, it's over. No, it's bad.
Yes, they gave me the chair. Murder,
they said. Give him the chair, and don't
forget his female companion, strap her in,
as well. And his little dog, too. And the cat.

This chair, here. In this seminar room.
This one, with the brains on the walls,
put them here. In this chair. By this table,
where we can watch, where we can peek on
our neighbor's notes, where we can prepare
our postures
in our chairs
like our bodies
our words
in our chairs.
Squeaking is rude. Sit still.
This is an execution.

We are killing them all
with little rustling sounds,
with yellow legal pads.

Yes, Larry.
Manny? My ass hurts.
It'll be over soon, Larry. Be strong. For her.


The Stiff

Poor Reggie.
Too much rigidopam.

And libidinol.

He tried to suck himself off.
He died that way.

Broken back.

They buried him on his stomach.
Closed casket. Invitation only.


Let's see, let's see. Everybody's a fucking expert on addiction all of a sudden. Addicts feel this, addicts feel that. Reading isn't an addiction. Reading is good. Pure. Empowering. Why, yes! that's it! Reading--of the proper sort--is empowering. It can even conquer addictions, reading. If it's of the proper sort. Lift the poor addict up from the filth by the bootstraps . . . straps.

Tie me down with straps. Tedium as torture. Shoot me fulla academic discourse--whooosh! Now sit still. This isn't a drug. Stop wiggling. Why is your mouth open like you're screaming? I don't hear anything. People who scream are supposed to make noises like: AAAghHHaaiiieee! Stoppp ittt! Why aren't you making any noise? You must not be screaming, then. It follows: mouth open, no screaming noise = no screaming, therefore pleasure . . . it must be an orgasmic noiseless shout of pleasure. Yes, that's it. Stop wiggling around. I know it feels good.

And now I can hear the whooshing in my head and chest, swish swish swash but it's not like a line forward, like a progression, like highs and lows, it's like volume knobs being twisted around in a circle fully from low to high high, low to high, not like that please, no troughs and towers, not low and back and forth . . . no, make it like

volume being played with, heavy metal music that only throbs and throbs and throbs in different places on my sodium-ion neural connections, not like science says, not like waves . . . I know, I know . . . volume is only an effect of longer and shorter wavelengths within the audible range, vibes and vibes

But this academic discourse dope is causing this . . . it's not like that . . . it's NOT, doctor, I swear, I don't even have the symptoms: I don't like myself, really. I don't play with my body even in jest and certainly not for fun . . . yes, this is a Serious Academic Situation (don't SAS me, boy), not an ashram of love, not a love-in . . . this ain't the summer of love, I know

But please don't tell me about the waves of sound . . . it's not that. It's a volume thing . . . pounding on me, moving my skin around . . . vibes, you know. Vibes

The vibes could be so good. So fine and tasty.

So ORANGE and YELLOW, y'know what I mean? I don't know; don't want to. I can't explain it . . . I only feel it. Then it isn't happening, ignore it. I can't; I love it. I love you. Shut up shut up shut


Another shot . . . Oh, he's an addict. She's a victim. Who is this "they" that you keep referring to? Be specific . . . It's YOU YOU YOU, you blind ass, it's ME ME ME, it's MINE MINE MINE and OURS OURS OURS . . . Look! Don't think, Look!


Tape his eyes. Stuff wax in her mouth. Cut off his weenie and sew shut her wango-hole. Make them sit still, dammit. Make them stop wiggling. I know they love it, want it, need it . . . And I'm qualified to give to them . . .! By the tits of Meshe! Strap their arms and legs.


It's too light. It's not heavy enough. Fill it with lead.

The box?

No, their words. They keep floating away. I can't grab them.

I can't fill them with hot lead. They're bubbles; they'll bust.

Do it, I said, I-gor! Rigidify the bubbleskins first, then they'll hold lead syrup derivatives quiet nicely, I think.

That's I-gor, not I-think. I-think was your first failed experiment.

Sorry, I-gor. Grab that bubbleword in these tongs.



Why, I didn't know that you cared. Of course I'll tongue you.

You damn fag! Just do the experiment. Hold that bubble.

(sniff, sob) OK OK, fine. You brute (repressed shitsack).

Now, I'll just . . . Oh shit.


It's one of those new Mark IV Insta-pop Bubbles. I can't use the lead.

Try a gram of this molten thesis.

Too unstable. That batch hasn't been cleared by committee, yet.

Well, whaddya wanna do?

Just flunk them and deny their right to bubble and spew.

Right, boss. I love you. I'll do whatever you say.

Hey, look man.


I put a coupla River in Egypts in this word-processor's disk drive. What's it say?

It says it's not a word processor. Look.

Hmmm. "I have no RAM." Interesting.

Type in "Well, what are you then?"

It says, "I'm not sure, but whatever it is, I'm not a word-processor."

Ask it if it's ever taken denialozide.

It says that it's never heard of the stuff, but thinks that it might be a drug of some kind.

Ask how it could possibly know that if it has no RAM.

It says that it's not qualified to answer that question.

Tell it it's lying.

It swears that it can't lie.

Unplug the fucker. It's no good.

Are you jivin me man? I'm gonna write my personal narrative on it. But it says it's no longer a word-processor.

It lies. Beautifully.


Gruesome, awesome. Look in the mirror and, gasp! Who is this? Who is it? Why are you looking at me? Why are you mirroring my every move? Pills. Shots. Elixirs. Oh, OK. It's just my reflection.



A. Goodbye. You're free to go. (tractor-beams released)

B. Well, OK. Goodbye. (uncertain; maybe they're still locked on)

A. So long. See you later (magical incantation, hopeful)


A. Goodbye. (maybe not)

B. Oh, by the way . . . (checking systems)

A. Yes? (realizes this is a systems check)

B. I want to eat your liver (breaks spell, hard)


B. The fish in my pants is rigid. (breaks spell, soft)


Don't you know that we're just trying to prepare you for the REAL WORLD? Why do you resist?

The REAL WORLD is full of mind-controlling drugs.

The REAL WORLD is sensible.

The REAL WORLD is asexual.

The REAL WORLD is economics.

What is this REAL WORLD? (symptoms of nonapproved drug abuse)

Why do you whine and complain so? Don't you know what a privilege it is to just be breathing in the air of the academy? To even be a student? To even have enough food to eat? A place to sleep? You spoiled brat. (there's an approved drug for this)

But look. I cleaned my plate. Doesn't that count? Doesn't that mean that I'm grateful? (there's an approved drug for this, too)

No, you have to say it . . . you have to feel--no, you have to be that guilt before I'll be satisfied. (go on, give this joker the approved drug--it's faster and cheaper than talking)

Sob, sniff sniff (honk!), snif, sob, snfl snf. I feel reeeaalll bad now.

(lies. give the drugs! give the drugs!)

No. You don't. Do you realize how many people would give their right tit to have what you have?

(make it easy on yourself, give the drugs)

NO! Goddammit. It's not my fault. I didn't ask to be born into privilege. I have feelings. I'm a victim, tco.

(watch out! this is dangerous. give the drugs, c'mon . . . quickly)


I'll see you after class, young lady. See me then.

I see you right now quite clearly, thank you, professor.


I see you quite clearly right now, professor.

Talk to me after class.

I am talking to you right now.

We'll discuss this later.

I don't want to discuss anything with you; I'm in your class because I want to kill you.

Kill me?

Yes. Not murder you, you understand, just kill you.


Because I'm God and you remind me of my father.

Say what? Are you insane?

Never ask a madman if he's insane. He'll tell you no.

But you aren't a man.

Worse yet for your little world of facts. I am a man. A madman, to be precise.

You certainly look like a woman.

I am God and I am going to kill you because you remind me of my father, and he's sick and I can't kill him.

You are seriously threatening me, in front of all these people?

I made these people. I am God. And I am going to kill you.

I'm leaving to call the police.

I'm everywhere you go. I'm God.

They'll lock you up.

Come on, man. Lock up God?

(professor leaves quickly)

(professor returns with police)

Prof: She's the one. Her, right there.

Cop: What? That's my daughter, Sissy.

Prof: I'm very sorry to hear that, because your daughter is insane. First, she claimed to not be a female, then she claimed to be God, and then she threatened to kill me. Tell him, class.


Prof: Well, tell him.


Cop: Sissy, did you say or do any of this?

(silence; Sissy and several classmates roll their eyes skyward)

Cop: Professor, I think you'd better come with me . . .

Prof: She did, I tell you! She . . .!

(professor leaps across desk and wraps trembling fingers around Sissy's throat. Cop reacts viscerally and shoots professor dead)

God: Yes, now I can have my mother. Y'know . . . (wink, wink)

All of them die you know. I didn't want to come back into the school; it's full of poison. Poseidon. Pose-eyedon. King of fish, you know . . . they float when they die, die lai dee dai de dalai lama rama rama . . . but you know that. Let's discuss our future around here. Let's get serious. Cere-e-ous. Cereal-ous. Surreal Cereal (with tiny marshmallows) . . . floats in the bowl like little dead fish, small dead fish . . . tiny tiny dead fish.

I was so happy to see you lugging in that giant hypodermic . . . I knew it was heavy, and the way it stuck thru your back and out your belly . . . it didn't hurt though, did it? No.

I'm sorry. What hypodermic are you talking about?

In your belly. Through your back.

I've no hypodermic.

River in Egypt.

Broken love affair.


That's how it started. Broken love affair. With a fish. Took two tabs, and then three, four, five, finally had to go to breaking them down and running them into the vein . . .

But there're no arms. What veins?

The veins of gold. Right into the brainstem.

River in Egypt?

In the brain-vein.



Pleasant interview. We'll hire you, I think. But first, have you ever taken any form of a drug known as "River in Egypt"? Or do you now, or have you ever, taken any dangerous narcotics?

I see.

And that's all? A little marijuana in grad school?

May I ask?

Dangerous? Oh, you know--not libidinol . . . we all have a fling with that in grad school. Yes, rigidopam. Uh-huh.

I'm talking about nonsocially sanctioned stuff, now . . . y'know (nudge, nudge), dangerous stuff.

You loved a fish?

Well, hm. But no "River in Egypt," hm?

Very good.

Here's your medicine tray and Rx pad. Wear them around your neck. Yes, you do have a neck.

No, I don't.

You do. It's there, below your chin, above your collar. It has that applething bobbing on it.

Chin? Collar? Bobbing?

Do you deny that you have a neck?

I've never heard of this thing you speak of. Neck? Look! (grabs neck) This thing! Here! (shakes) What you must wear your medicine tray and Rx pad around.

Please stop choking me.

I was never choking you.

Yes, you were.

Was not. I never.

You did. You grabbed my neck.

Neck? You've no neck.

I do. Right here (points). You had your fingers around it. You were choking me.

I? Choking what?

My neck.


What? What? Me? What? What? Me?

Why do you give me veridicals?

So you'll tell the truth.


Yes, so you won't lie.

What's a lie?

When you don't tell the truth.


When you aren't honest.

About what?

What you say.

What did I say?

You said that you never lied.

I didn't say that.

I just heard you. You lied. You said that you had read the book about my career and you hadn't.

I did read the book.

Did not. You know nothing about it. I tested you.

But I wrote the book about your career. I know what it says.

You lie.

OK, then, if you're so damned smart, what's my career?

Being a willful liar.

I enjoy lying . . . don't you? Create facts as they oocur to you?

We can't have that. Nobody would ever be sure when another could be trusted.

So trust everybody.

Or nobody.

What's at stake?

For whom? Whoooom whroom whrooom, putt putt putt . . .


What's wrong with going eyeball-to-eyeball if you aren't afraid? Go ahead, challenge me. I'm not God. I'm just a professor. A pro. Fessor, that is. Fessor, as in con. Con. Fessor. Fester. Festerer. Festooned festerer. Maybe I should have challenged the rules, just to make sure they were OK, before I began.

That's a lie.

So is that.

Well, you're just a student, stud. Stud. Ent. E.N.T. Eyes, Ears, Nose, and Throat. Studheadholes. And we fill holes; that's our job little pigeon. So just sit back and let me find the holes . . . my probe, please.

Ah, here's one. Has teeth inside. Nasty, sew it shut. Here's more. Liquid-filled, gelatinous, could be windows to the soul.

Cover them with virtual-reality goggles. Tape them on. Epoxy.

Some more in the side of the head (poke, poke) . . . fill these with small receiving devices.

Pray continue.


Call on me. Me. Me first. I know--Oooohh! I know!


Well, I had an aunt once, and she had a vibrator, and then she was killed and I was once harassed by a rabid weasel . . . just like in this poem.

Hm. Do you really think so?

Well, I made all of that up, actually. I haven't even got an aunt, really.



Let me see your mouth.

No, I . . . mff mf grmff.

A-ha! What's this? Your directalis and obedioflavin, I'd wager. When, oh when, will they learn? To the Wangensteen.

Arghh. No. I'll take them, I'll . . .

Any further analyses?

Good. Mr. Dunkelprobe?

I feel that this poem represents the dying gasps of those postfeminist fantasies of radical plurality, represented chiefly by the fact that the weasel has no whiskers.

Very good, Mr. Dunkelprobe.


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