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Seventh Sitting

I have bribed a few people to read earlier chapters of this book, and am alarmed to find out that this may not be a bad book after all, as they seem to find it mildly amusing, but they will be hurting by page 35, I bet, Oh yes yes yes they will. This does prove, though, that maybe this book can actually sell, at least to my friends, who I bribe with delicious Circus Peanuts(TM) candy. I would like to say, though, to anyone in that position, or moreover, any editor who is paid to read this, and to my high school English teachers (except the one that is dead): do not correct the grammar, okay? Especially the run-on sentences. I got a 34 on my ACT and am smarter than you.

Something has changed here; I feel it. The last sentence of the last paragraph was really just a nicer version of the "I doan' like you" I calculatedly spake earlier, but it was harder to say -- more personal. This is due to the unfortunate and inevitable infusion of the author's actual human persona into his work, and cannot be reversed or reverted even by speaking of him in the third person.

There is no author any more; there is only DEVO.

...I'm sorry, what was I saying? Or rather, what was that secret part of your brain cock-and-bull mythological entity I made up earlier saying? Ah, I recall. If this is, in fact, a good book, then it has violated its genre-entailed obligation to be a bad book, and therefore is a bad book. Draw out the paradoxes yourself and play with them like Lite Brite (or insert your own meaningful toy reference... don't you appreciate this audience-participation "humor?"). The truth is (besides the ACT score of 34, which I really did get) that it doesn't matter because this book = the appropriate part of your brain = Tripe is/are inevitable. Duh.

Let me cap off some earlier stuff about self-consciousness, as exemplified as the attempts by this book to comment on itself, getting beyond itself, etc., all of which end in a pathetic vicious regress (I use the word "pathetic" because I like to bitch). There's always gonna be some part of the butt that's doin the seeing, and I guarantee it will be the ugliest, most disgusting part. So you're an ass either way, right? That is the motivation for the style of this book, why I refuse to edit (well, edit very much, except for those parts that the reader, you, don't know have been edited, which may be quite a lot), and refuse to change references in the text to things that were supposed to happen but didn't. For all I know at this point, this volume may be, despite my best efforts at using superfluous dependent clauses, pretty thin, and there may be pictures on every other page. I won't change the references, and I invite you, oh gracious and humble reader, to enjoy the dramatic irony (i.e., you know something the characters don't) that these glaring errors may bring, without there having to be any actual characters, except you, a way-beyond-obviously-totally-bored-and-lonely soul reading tripe. My theory is that I will appear no more the ass than any other book-writing ass, but I'm not wearing anything to cover it/me up.

Oh, in retrospect, feel free to insert your favorite pop elemental force that threatens yet underlies the human programme in place of the DEVO reference above.

This whole "justification" for writing like this should not be taken on par with such pessimistic truisms as "don't try, `cause you'll just fail anyway" or such cool and flippant things to say to your Mother as "Why should I clean it? It'll just get dirty again." It's just a simple fact about how little we know about ourselves because "self-consciousness" just doesn't let you see very much.

This is also not a blast against thinking in general; Pelvis knows, you certainly need a lot more of that. To illustrate, I will tell you a story about you, and you will smile as you say "that is so true" and in doing so, swallow tears of shame.

...One day You were out gaining penance when out of the sky came a large thing, which was mostly indescribable, except insofar as it was large and most assuredly thinglike. Due to years of TV conditioning, you instantly raised one arm and let out a point. Directed along the asymptote of this point was ejected a dialogue bubble saying "It's a bird!"

This comment of YyOoUuRrSs was of course not only completely wrong and stupid, but also inexplicable from the standpoint of any normal human intellect. If the thing had been a bird, such an exclamation would have been totally pointless, and passers-by, to humor you, would just say "Yes. It is a bird. There are many birds in this area." Then they would hit you. Luckily, no one else was around, but I guarantee that had there been, none of them would have shouted "It's a plane." Unluckily, the large thing was around, and so hit you.

Wait, I have another story about how dumb you are... But first I would be pleased to tell you of a defense mechanism you can teach to your children. First, take one cup of sugar (preferably a small cup) and three bunches of large strawberries. Now mash them into a gooey paste and give the result to your child as a Child's Day present, with accompanying directions saying "Build your own private fantasy land." Now when your child has built from the paste tall, water-resistant towers, large bridges that he can charge a toll to cross, and working bumper cars, she will have gained confidence and poise and a more toned body. Because of his accomplishments, she (Can you tell your child is at an age where he is confused about sexuality? Show her a dead hamster. This will help set him in the right direction.) will think itself to be much smarter than the other children, and so can use this as a defense mechanism while being pounded.

I think I've shown here that it's not how smart you are; it's how high your ACT score is. Joke, Joke, chortle, Joke. Seriously, kids, to make generalizations about when and how much to think is to cease to think. To make generalizations about where and how much to engage in sex/death is to cease to refrain from an endless dredging up of old, poorly-discussed topics in hope of bringing the world to a premature end. (Imaginative readers may wish to imagine something.)

There is a very important topic that I have refrained from mentioning so far due to its sheer evilness. The topic is crud, or anti-tripe. We are presumably Americans, and so were raised on this substance. It is in our blood (in the ribosomes of white blood cells to be exact) and in our bowels. It has genetically mutated us beyond all recognition (Our ancestors all looked kind of like the puppet Lamb Chop, except on fire.). Crud makes up and is made up by Three's Company episodes, bacos, phone sex, Family Circle, and Cheez Whiz. As a point of definition, none of these things have in themselves anything to do with tripe. On the contrary, they are the things that diminish Man's capacity to produce and enjoy tripe. This may seem puzzling. After all, according to the Random House College Dictionary Revised Edition, 1988 (without deluxe color, mind you), crud is defined as "2. a deposit or coating of refuse or of an impure or alien substance. 3. a filthy, repulsive, or contemptible person, 4. Slang. anything that is worthless, objectionable, or repugnant."

(definition 1. was deleted for copyright reasons.)

It's interesting how [rest of paragraph deleted for copyright reasons]...

Here's the bloody difference between "worthless" and "worthless." The production of Three's Company, or Saved by the Bell, or Let's Have the Wedding in our Scummy Apartment, for Chrissake!! is all too sensible, according to the immutable physical laws of target marketing and the advancement of the careers of "actors" and such stuff. The product, however, this combination of in themselves sensible and coherent but insanely incompatible sets of considerations, is, well... crud. Tripe, however, and when I say however I mean however, flows from seeming disarray but in fact contains most of the secrets of the universe and many hilarious puns like "4-Q." Are you enlightened YET???

You know, that crud discussion was much shorter than I thought it would be, so I will have to fabricate an illustrative story to take up space:

Once upon a time there was a very small child who was very sleepy. Yes, she was a lot like you, and boy, did he ever want to sleep (with her). [No. No more silly-ass pronoun gender references, despite its hotness as a political topic.] [Who's ass is silly?] [No ass is silly in itself, but only in the purposes for which it may be used].

Escaping the bracketed insertions, the little boy who is much like you no matter what sex you are so ha!... had a long hard day at the factory and was just plain tired. I mean beat. Dead-gone in golden slumbers. Move your eyes along this line: ----------------------. Right, left, right, left, etc. Light as a feather; stiff as a board. Now go the hell to sleep, sweetie.

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© 1993 Mark A. Linsenmayer [ Contents ]