For the sole purpose of linking up some topics that have breezed by so as to create the illusion of unity in this manuscript, the lack of appropriate standards of judgment for this book (due to the fact that the genre I've posited doesn't supply any) makes it a lot like a person, no? ...And just like most people that are hard to understand or "weird"-seeming, this book is likely to be ridiculed -- by people who have use only for "comedies" or "philosophy" or "books with actual content," but they will miss the experience of really getting to know an autonomous entity, peering into its inner chambers, getting to know its idiosyncratic rules of self-determination, pouring over its most secret secrets, and then ridiculing it... much like most mentally healthy folks treat themselves.
But enough of my prescriptions for health, I who eats 89cents pizzas and screams in Braille. Let us talk of death, you and I, you with your sultry smile and your hydrogenated vegetable oil and I with my cold stare and stark white palpy sweat. I'm talkin' sex, now pa'dner, and, well, as narrative persona, you may now think of my voice as any sex, as emanating from a big burly tycoon or a small snaky chicken, as is your preference. There are similarities between sex and death, you may have noticed, besides their equivalent translation in my foreign ideolect as agua de cabra. For one thing, they are both things that we are almost doing right now, along with being insane, and for another, they are both cool. Someday I will make a necrophelia movie, but it won't be as gross because both parties will be dead, and none of this zombie stuff either, but merely quiet joy. Then we will be as one.
The problem with saying cool things about sex and death is not that everything's been said, because you haven't heard it even if it has. The problem is that you won't believe me, unless you are a twelve-year-old Catholic or a demonic son-of-a-bootch. (A bootch is like a jackal, except instead of being a jackal it is a bootch.) For the former, sex and death are big receptacles of all of our random fantasies, especially those about some random subject of the type that would spawn fantasies, like a biscuit, because a biscuit could be very good in the world of fantasy. For the latter (meaning the bootch's spawn, not the very good biscuit) it's the same schmere because the height of eroticism is an almost-passing into nothingness, a whinnying of the soul to the point of exit. Now real perverts, which are worse than demons, who are okay if you get to know them though they may be kind of shy, well, heck, I just about define myself in opposition to `em, because they take this imagery pretty much literally, and so play with sharp objects (besides intelligent women ho ha) and scary ninja masks and other things with and through and against which one can stand close to the edge, standing on the press-a-piss of the afterall and breathe the warm stench of very hot gravy, food of the dead. Believe you me, such people disgust me just enough to make me curious.
I am to cry now, for in me the unconscious memory of multiple ages is upon me and I realize that as mouthpiece of the cosmos, most entities I have been intimate with are now dead. "Remember me," I shout to them, "remember me, and I will never truly be alive, but will die on in your hearts for as long as you rotting thingies fail to speak my name."
`Tis beside the point. I say to you now that the Urge, with a capital "U" (and all the connotations and benefits that entails) is not just the tantalization of a frosty frolic, not for those who have nothing else, who have for whatever reason gotten themselves removed from the society-inflicted values of wealth, power, and groceries. It's the difference between going to sleep with the bodily intention of a brief respite before another day and sleeping to die, sleeping heavy and hard so as to sink well into one's mattress, to cast off the burdens of life and the daily residue of dreams. Only with sex it is the soul, even and especially for the unbelievers in soul. To close into and beyond another human being, to dissolve into one and primarily to dissolve...
Again, and for the first time, hear me out. I don't know death, Obviously... Unless in some past life I was a slug and deserved to die and so did, but I don't remember and don't care... but the Urge is the Urge and you know it, damn it.
The previous meditation was for the hearing impaired, what with the obvious sign-language connotations and the closed-minded captioning. We must talk for a moment about the difference between Our Titular Subject Tripe and random nonsense. This is nonsense: Esse es ein EisKoream Cohn, [[questiondown]]ja? It is a matter of positioning in space. (pause) And (pause) time (pause) "." Randomness displays no association, while repetition of randomness means consciousness, at least where speech is concerned. The coincidental repetition of a random result is, well, bloody unlikely, at least where speech is concerned. And bloody unlikely means quality where I come from. Bleed me baby.
It is thus in your power and control to sift through randomness to find tripe, to create tripe out of chaos, to "play God," if you will. Playing God is much like playing a video game, in that you often have three to four lives at the outset. Do not abuse this power, or soon you'll be staring at clouds going (not saying; going). "I see a Duckie. I see Gerald Ford."
Do not yell bingo in a crowded schoolyard, or ye shall be tromelled. Do not yell "Death come to me" during sex, lest your partner get suspicious and/or lie very still. Be ye wary in conceiving the narrative voice as female, for the "i's" are not dotted with circles and the handwriting is too perfect and square (at least in typed versions of this manuscript). [Randomly untrue sexist handwriting analysis inserted by the editor, who will die someday and so deserves a little leeway.] ...And remember kids, die responsibly.