Professor of Cracker Studies Without Portfolio Emeritus
A college professor
does research, teaches, tries to
advance the
discipline he works in, and serves the community
where he lives. I did all those as a professor of Cracker
Studies
without portfolio
and now I am an emeritus professor. That
means
retired. Actually, emeritus means earned. I will buy brandy with
my pension, not have
people over to dinner, not read the paper.
Ha ha, I don’t have
a pension. I’m on social security.
I was on
unemployment, but I used it up, and now I am
a discouraged
worker, not counted in the statistics.
No enema for you,
you naughty boy. No enema vérité.
What you see on the
end of the fork when you really look.
Did you grow, as a
person? Did you produce a body of work,
invent a form to
present it in, and find a medium to get it out
to the highly
literate reader through? Self-published
pamphlets
and a web site on
the worldwide web? What do you expect?
A trophy? The Feeb Olympics. Retards have chromosome issues.
I am the man, I
suffered, I was there. I lasted. I curdled, it rankles.
The writing took
over. I invented a machine and it ate
me.
Machine related to mechanic. I am not the engineer,
I am the
mechanic. Not the chef, the dishwash-ère.
The plongeur. Here, Julius—hold this.
I plunge the plunger
home.
Put a plumber’s
helper on your head
and go as a tube of
Preparation H.
The Mall Builder
culture
needs a good scour.
Compare scourge.
I named a character
Clyster Pump, or
Clyster Engine.
A machine for giving
costive sailors enemas.
You find them in
shipwrecks. I was trained as
an underwater
archeologist. A deep-sea diver.
A hard-hat
diver. Beneath the 12-Mile Reef.
Actually, I was a
free-diver. Ginger Stanley, Ben Chapman,
and Julie Adams, The Creature from the Black Lagoon.
Creaturefest. 50th anniversary. Wakulla Springs, 2003.
I wrote the pamphlet
Blue Ball Blues. Also known as
Vasocongestion Blues. Oh,
those drive-in movies of our youth.
I’m glad I’m not
single. I’m glad I’m not young.
I’m glad I don’t
have much discretionary income.
I just sit here in
my writing room remembering.
I think I remember
but I might have imagined it.
Willem de Kooning
had Alzheimer’s but
he kept
painting. What else could he do?
Write music? Learn to tap-dance?
Teach himself to be
an acrobat?
Charlie
Chaplin? A stand-up comic?
Ha ha. Take my wife—please.
Before she takes me.
We’re going down
together,
locked in carnal
embrace.
Save the
grandchildren.
I can’t do it. I don’t have
anything left. I spent it.
You don’t have
enough savings.
You didn’t have
enough income.
No shit Dick Tracy.
As your consultant,
I advise you
to give me all the
dope. As your
Samoan attorney. I advise you to write
Fear and Loathing in
Go cover a
motorcycle race in the desert
during a district
attorney convention.
Cottage cheese and
ketchup, I presume.