Original subtitles

In the summer of my 18th year, my parents assigned me to a lady friend.

They were troubled by the fact that I showed no interest in members of the

opposite gender.

My parents resolved to initiate me in the ways of the flesh.

Hi, I'm Teddy Burrows, and this is my wife, Noreen.

You know us, don't you?

We live in the house next door. Ours is the house with the swing set in the

front yard.

This is our son, Johnny.

Johnny just loves to play on the swings.

Don't you, Johnny?

Well, we were wondering if your daughter, Bernice, could court our son.

They both go to Herbinger's together, and we think they'd make a darling pair.

She has an ample bosom, but isn't overly attractive.

And remember what W .B. Yeats said about his baby girl?

good looking.

Has Bernice been deflowered yet?

Does she have any physical deformity?

Bernice!

Bernice, has any boy stuck his thing inside you?

Bernice, I'm asking you a question.

Have you let any boys put their thingamajig inside you?

Fucking bitch.

Take that, you fucking bitch. Take that.

Take that. Take that. Take that.

I'm the king.

I'm the master.

You will obey me.

Fucking bitch.

Fucking bitch.

Fucking bitch.

That'll show her who's in charge around here.

What was the question again?

Is she a virgin?

Well, I never had sexual intercourse with my own daughter, if that's what you

mean. As long as it occurs within the confines of the family, it's perfectly

fine. Anything else on the menu? What next?

Does she have pubic hair?

Oh, no, Mr. Barnum. We are not thick, uncouth people.

Just a few more questions.

Is she intelligent?

Hell no.

She's as dumb as a lemon.

Well, we can see that she's semi -attractive. Wouldn't you agree,

Yes, she's pretty, but not overly pretty. Very large memory glands.

But does she have at least one physical deformity? She's got a drill hole

burrowed into the side of her head. I don't know how it got there. I think she

did it.

Fucking bitch.

That is how our courtship began.

We dated, if that's the right word, every Sunday afternoon from June until

August.

Her lips are glistening strawberry protuberances.

I strolled through the graveyard, indifferent to the young woman who

beside me. I was abstracted, disengaged, as if I were in another place,

infinitely distant from the role that was imposed upon me.

A demonic grimace widens on the elderly man's wrinkled face.

He unsheathes a serpentine cord.

Cracks and snaps resound through the air. The elderly man inutilates this

remorsefully, but with vigor and passion.

He massacres defenseless animals in order to strengthen his grip on the

convulsions that rattle his body.

Withdrawing behind a many -feathered tree, Bernice cringes and stifles her

scream.

I returned to my parents' home and fondled my penis until a thick,

substance spewed out of its mouth.

My parents despaired at finding me a mate.

Nonetheless, they were determined to, as they put it, To flower me.

My parents spent good money to have my virginity removed.

So you just want me to have sex with him, right? Not with the two of you

Because we could have sacked all three of us if you like, but it's going to

you more.

$2 ,000.

And that's cost extra.

We just want you to break him in, dear. That's all.

Come on, Johnny.

Get ready.

Let's get ready to rumble.

Look at your mate.

Come on.

Stare at his masculinity.

Come on.

What?

A glimpse at her two bulging mammary glands would make a normal man salivate.

But to me, they were merely protuberances consisting of rank adipose

belonged on a farm animal rather than a human animal.

That's my Johnny. Stick it in there, boy.

Don't be a coward.

Margaret slithered her hand gently down my chest until it reached my unthrusting

sex.

I could do nothing.

Come on, Johnny.

Fuck her, my boy.

Use the cock that God gave you. What do you think it's there for, chicken

hunting? Do it already.

Rip those underpants off, dear. Ride this infant.

Margaret exposed her puberlent, Pucker.

Give her a kiss, Johnny.

For God's sakes, be decent.

Hey, listen, son. When I gave it to your mother the first time, there was plenty

of foreplay.

Why don't you do the same?

Girl like this doesn't come around every day.

Don't blow it, son.

She slid silkily over my nakedness. Her hands skied through the luxuriating

meshes of my pubic hair.

Give it a shot, boy.

Take her for a ride.

Straddle that filly.

Make her suffer. Show her who's boss.

Troke her, honey. Troke her.

Here, I'll show you.

Mom, I told you that would be extra.

Don't you like girls, Johnny?

All right, son.

This is where we separate the men from the boys.

That's it.

Did you see that?

I gotta get a shot from this angle.

Rear those hips, Johnny!

Rear those hips!

Cries of lust germinated from her mouth. She tried to gel her body with my own,

but my penis would not stand.

Her vulva moistened. Her labia were ready to osculate. I could feel their

-dark touch.

But my penis would not stand.

It would not insert itself into her tubuscular cavity.

Come on, Mr. Witty Wassy.

Her vagina yielded, but my penis resisted. Stick it in her, boy.

Mount that pole. Mount that pole. Mount that pole. Mount that pole. Mount that

pole. Mount that pole. Mount that pole. Mount that pole.

Mount that pole. I hope that this train explodes into flames in this cold metal

chamber for six hours. No one had better sit next to me or talk to me.

squirming vermin.

Nothing is worse than that. Open expressions of desire.

Leave me be.

Traveling by train is treacherous. You have to deal with them, deal with the

mob. Humanity disgusts me. I should have rented a car.

It almost seems as if everything that is happening outside were a reflection of

the film that is endlessly spooling inside my mind.

All these things belong to me. Nature is my property.

When will the train arrive in Bitten Harbor, Michigan?

I want out. Trains. Trains are like prisons.

You can't get away from them. They're everywhere.

The mob. They speak to you. They grab you. They look at you. All these pig

fuckers. Leave me be.

Human rot. Corpse rot. Dead matter.

They're all compost.

Slag. Dead matter.

I am the him.

The absolute being.

Understand that I'm not merely one being among other beings.

I am the being.

The being of all being.

I am not human. I am metahuman. Indeed, I am, without a doubt, the most

extraordinary being who has ever existed.

All these fools, noisome sheep, they're nothing more than props on my stage.

Cools, I can use them how I please. I have never met a single human being who

on my level.

The history of humanity is nothing more than the preparation for my emergence

into the world.

All of you. Wolves, look at these misbirths, abortions, mistakes.

Humankind is a cosmic error. My existence is alone significant.

Why the fuck are they here?

A mucus -stained boy shifts in my line of vision. He sits opposite me wearing

the official Fight Club t -shirt.

Look at that port wine stain on his forehead.

How repulsive. The cassoon wants to speak to me. Like a starving street

he yearns to pluck peaches from the trees that grow in my grove. He hungers

my flesh.

That hunger will remain forever unsatisfied.

I have a mind quicker than a cheetah. My intelligence is unsurpassed. For this

reason, they hate me.

My dissertation advisor hated me as intensely as the slave hates the

owner. Because I towered over him, he desired to become me, like everyone

and therefore despised me. He wrote a letter of condemnation on my behalf in

which he stated, Jonathan Barlow is far too serious to teach anyone German

philosophy.

Revenge of the feeble.

I was blackballed.

I applied in vain for professional positions at prestigious universities

throughout the country.

Benton Harbor Community College is the only college that would grant me an

interview.

For this reason, I am on a train to Benton Harbor, Michigan.

Benton Harbor has a well -deserved inferiority complex.

Read the travel guide. It's known only for the poverty of its residents and

occasional murders and outbreaks of unrest.

There's absolutely no reason to recommend the city to anyone.

Some of you might be wondering why I would choose to accept an interview to

teach in such a city.

Even a star needs a dark background in order to shine.

I'd like a room.

We only have, like, one room left.

Like, I swear to God.

Like it's not even air -conditioned. Why isn't the room air -conditioned?

Like, the air conditioning's down and shit?

Well, uh, if it's the only room available, then I guess I will have to

myself to that fact.

So you want it?

Yes, I'd like the room.

What's your name?

My name? My name's Jonathan Barrows.

J -O -N -A -T -H -A -N -B -A -R -R -O -W -S.

That's a cool name.

Yes, I know.

So you want to pay, like, by cash or check or credit? I have a visa.

Mm -hmm.

Credit, okay.

And an ID.

So, like, I'm not gay or anything, but I

think you and I have a lot in common and stuff. Like, we're about the same age,

and you get kind of lonely in this hotel when you're all by yourself.

So maybe, like, we could play Uno.

Or something.

Or maybe we could get a bite to eat down at Lobster King. It's right down the

street. Did you see it? On Impression Avenue.

I get a couple coupons for a free meal at Lobster King.

Yeah, you buy one meal, and then the next one doesn't cost anything as long

you order the shrimp basket.

Or maybe if you want, you could sleep in my room right down the hall.

I know you like air conditioning and stuff.

I mean, it can get kind of hot because it's, like, the summer.

And I got air conditioning and a cot.

Like, maybe, you know, you could sleep on the cot.

Or if you want, maybe, you know, I could sleep on the cot.

You know, you could sleep in my bed.

Are there any other hotels in the area?

No, this is, like, the only one in Benton Harbor.

All the others are infested with big -ass black beetles.

I totally agree.

Like, the Black Beatles are huge.

I'm going to be here the whole fucking night, dude.

So if you want to talk or watch TV, come down.

Let me know.

Okay.

Once when I was in graduate school, I turned on the television set in my

and watched a few minutes of an Argentinian film that featured a woman

completely naked.

I was of course horrified.

Despite the violent reaction that it provoked within me, that film had a

salubrious impact upon my life.

The next day, after giving a seminar presentation that would alter the lives

all those present, I set up a video camera in front of my private shower,

the curtain, and filmed myself showering.

I value that recording.

One can see spumes streaming into the chasm of my plump buttock. One can see

beads of water glistening on my taut stomach.

One can see the heaving of my beautiful chest.

The video, which I've entitled My Shower, is the most striking film ever

While I shower in my hotel room, I imagine watching myself shower on

There should be a video screen in here, also a computer with internet access. If

only I could dispatch these images of these images throughout the globe.

Images of me showering.

There's nothing more breathtaking.

There is nothing more beautiful than this beautiful vision.

I do not cake my body with powdery substances.

I do not douse myself with sweet unguents.

I do not spray my body with exotic perfumes.

I exude a musty musk that draws both women and men into my sphere.

My sweet -smelling reek prompts everyone within a two -mile radius to portray

his most intimate desires.

Their desires are always the same.

They want the electricity that flows from my body to enter their own.

They want to nuzzle their muzzles against my warm flesh.

Damn, I am a fascinating man. A stiffening, rigidifying, mesmerizing

Both women and men are attracted to me in the way that flies are attracted to

filet mignon.

Too bad for them.

I do not know the dubious joys of fellow feeling.

I have no need for companionship. I am inclined toward no one.

It's often said that women are the paragons of beauty.

This statement is not merely incomprehensible.

It is self -contradictory.

A woman can no more be beautiful than the sun can rotate around the earth.

I do not find women appealing.

In fact, they nauseate me. Women are the paragons of the disgusting.

When I was a teaching assistant, an allegedly attractive young female

approached me after a discussion session.

I think that her name was Nicole or Nancy or Natalia or something along

lines. Her name definitely started with the letter N.

Johnny, you're so smart.

I really need to talk to you about a few things that you said in class.

Could we meet really soon?

For a drink.

Real casual.

During our ill -starred meeting at the local coffee shop, Anne remarked in a

hushed voice, I'll give you everything.

I'll do anything you want.

My body is yours.

I appreciate your candor, Anne.

Certainly you have good taste.

I'm indeed the...

pinnacle of magnificence.

To presume that I would deign to touch you, however, is the height of a

frontery. Your impertinence, indeed, goes beyond all borders.

How could you imagine that someone of my caliber would deign to touch you?

You're no more important to me than an amoeba or a slimy tadpole.

Like all other women, you're an inferior life form.

Her eyes threaten to spill out of her skull and into her well -deep double

espresso latte.

Why don't you like girls?

There are multiple reasons why women are inherently disgusting creatures, and

I'll enumerate.

Ovulation. First of all, you menstruate. This is a sign that you are essentially

incomplete. Flows of blood flood your vaginal folds.

Indeed, your valve never ceases to bleed. Why would I want to touch

that bleeds?

I have no desire to drown in a menstrual flood.

Menopause is good. It should be welcomed and affirmed.

Secondly, female genitals?

The mons pupus is absurdly grotesque with its nodes and its lobes, like

sickening excrescences.

And your labia are sloppy things. You know, I can't think of anything more

revolting than the vaginal schism and...

The way that you creatures smell.

Vaginal mucus denses.

I would rather have sexual intercourse with a squid than stick my penis into

hollow of a vagina.

Women are such peculiarly formed creatures, with your mammalated chest

bulging buttocks. Breaths are strange.

Such odd, fleshy protrusions.

Cantilevered mounds of adipose tissue, often blue -membraned and...

And the way that they jiggle. The uneasy way that mem -eye quiver make me

queasy. And your pap -lay.

Staring up like pink -purple eyes at nothing.

And nothing is more revolting than... nipple hair.

When women age, their breasts transform into wizened, milk -less udders.

You're gay.

Why don't you just say it?

You're gay.

I hate to disappoint you, N, but I am not gay. I'm just simply not attracted

you.

Go ahead.

Call me a fish, you fucking faggot.

To a certain extent, your drawn features and protruding teeth do resemble that

of a piranha, but I wouldn't go so far as to call you a fish.

The teeth are also likened to that of dominoes.

You're gay.

You're gay. You're gay. You're gay. You're gay. You're gay. You're gay.

You are gay.

Anne said this, of course, to balm the wound of rejection.

She was incorrect.

I was not, and certainly am not, a homosexual.

Nor am I merely a misogynist. Men repel me as well.

My androphobia, in fact, knows no limit.

Even though I have, from a purely external point of view, male genitalia,

sight of a penis fills me with even more disgust than the sight of a gaping

vaginal canal.

Men are even more nauseating than women.

When I was at Herberger, a male student, I think that his name was Dirk Owen or

Owen Davis, swayed toward me across the locker room and unveiled his male

genital organ.

Dirk Owen propositioned me playfully while prodding his purple vein

protuberance.

No, Dirk, I will not touch you. Nothing could be worse than the body of a man.

I did head to swell of the male punch, sagging testes, a repellent, and worse

still, your buttocks are often hairy.

No one appeals to me sexually.

Give me a full body condom and I'll be happy.

I want a prophylactic shield that would screen me from all human contact,

envelop me in a cone of vellum.

None the how never, I do not suffer from anesthesia sexualists.

I do know sexual desire.

I'm an autosexual.

That is, I'm sexually attracted to myself and to no one else. Why, you ask?

Because I'm lovely.

I'm in fact an impossibly beautiful man.

Beauty is an illusion, except in my case.

I'm not merely the standard by which all things beautiful are measured. I am the

only instance of beauty in an otherwise ridiculously ugly world.

In relation to me, everyone and everything is ghastly in appearance.

Relation may not be the word.

Dear God or whomever, I am gorgeous.

My face glows. It is Olympian in its splendor. And my body?

No one has a physique as exquisite as mine. Indeed, my form is cosmically

perfect. Hot.

Damn, I'm hot.

I am so beautiful that I excite myself.

I caress my legs while moaning with deep pleasure.

A human erector set, I give myself a lesser erection. Yes, it is time to

my erotic garden.

Wherever I go, images of my penis accompany me. One of my favorite images

displays my penis turned on its side, its tip sleepily staring at the camera's

viewfinder and smiling.

Its rigid shaft and glands assemble the neck and head of a brontosaurus.

My penis is like a crossbow, waiting to be fired into the abyss.

The aperture of my penis puckers like a mouth of a tiny fish.

Soma is spirit.

I touch my penis with delight.

While staring at the photographs of my penis, I cradle my testes in my hands,

massaging them delicately and lovingly.

The abyss of my solitude, I am my own significant other.

The photographs, though immensely appealing, do not succeed in bringing me

orgasm. I must find another way of provoking my desires.

My dream lover.

Nothing outside of me has any meaning whatsoever.

The world exists only in order to be digested by me. I gormandize everyone

gets in my way. Your church, your school, your society, your workplace,

cult, your humanity.

All of these things are ties that will never bind my wrist.

I am the transcendental self.

I make love to my double. I infuse the doll with sweet pleasure. I infuse

with sweet pleasure.

Pleasure flows through the doll's veins.

Pleasure flows through my veins.

I have sexual intercourse with myself.

Out of my penis surges a stream of warm semen.

Like most of the community colleges that were founded in American cities in the

middle of the 20th century, Benton Harbor Community College prides itself

open admissions policy.

Literally anyone, including whores, bums, illiterates, half -wits, drunks,

convicted sex offenders can gain admittance to this palace of knowledge.

Benton Harbor Community College is a sanctuary for future air conditioning

specialists. I'm going to school now, Joey!

Their degrees are meaningless.

Nonetheless, I will acquire a position here. I enjoy teaching, squatting

students, writing down what I say, spooning down every word.

Sheila Grimlock.

I extend my hand, dreading the inescapable moment when Miss

will touch my own.

Shaking the hand of the other person is an act of extreme self -abandonment.

Her hand is a trap, a cat's cradle. It feels like a hot water bottle or a glove

bloated with bull semen.

Hello, Ms. Grimlogger. I'm Professor Jonathan Barrows.

We've been trading emails back and forth for the past few weeks. I'm sure that

you remember me.

Professor Barrows.

No, I don't remember you.

I'm here for the interview. I'm a bit early, I know.

I wasn't aware that there was any interviews today.

For what position did you apply?

Assistant Professor of Intelligent Thinking.

My penis rigidifies.

The rigidification of my penis has nothing to do with Ms. Grimlogger.

Dr.

Mendoza conducts all interviews in the School of Learning.

He'll be the one interviewing you, but he won't be coming in today.

When will he be on campus?

He teaches a seminar every Monday.

Monday at what time?

Six to nine.

But sometimes class adjourns later.

And in which room will this be held?

Room 121.

What's the name of the course, if I may ask?

Loving yourself,

loving others, and loving me.

Please have Dr. Mendoza telephone me at the Crystalline Hotel so that we can set

up an interview.

The Crystal Lynn Hotel.

Jonathan Burroughs. I'd be sure to tell him myself, Professor

Burroughs. Yes, please do.

How's the oysters?

You know that oysters are an aphrodisiac.

You know what that word means, aphrodisiac?

It means it makes people frisky.

What I want... And I'll also have an egg cream.

You know how to make an egg cream, don't you?

Well, no.

But I'm sure Chef Wilson does.

Here's your oysters, Mr. Frufru.

Here are your oysters.

Never mind.

I wish I was that oyster, Mr.

Poobah.

Why? So I could defecate you?

Ha.

Oysters, such sexy food.

Does this look sexy to you?

A desire surges within the sea of my mind, a kind of bubbly irritation.

It is time to harvest the fruits that grow in my erotic garden.

Perhaps I could have a quickie in the lavatory.

No one looks more dashing than me.

I stroke my rapidly solidifying penis, lubricating it gently with the

To intensify my pleasure, I lather my anus with the frothy goo.

I girth my penis and cup its cap. I am so beautiful that it breaks my heart. I

need my testes fondling them fondly. My penis is deliciously irritated.

I delicately manipulate the perineum.

My penis is detumescent.

Pearls of semen drift from its aperture. I wipe the slimy opalescence from my

stomach with a paper towel.

I leave behind traces of gelatin wherever I go.

When I indulge in these moments of digestion, I am reminded that human

are also food to be digested.

They exist to be consumed, used up. I devour human beings. Not literally, of

course. I use them, and in that sense, I eat them.

You're nothing more to me than a meal at the best food restaurant of life.

I eat from the lunchbox of self -enjoyment.

You are nothing more to me than a thing to be devoured.

I will shovel down each one of you.

Human beings are biodegradable.

I stroll into the Decapitated Bowl, a local drink and vomit on Impressant

Avenue. Richard Gere likes turbos, but only when they're declawed.

She notices me, of course, like everyone does.

Everywhere I go, men and women follow me with lascivious eyes.

My existence prompts them to commit bold acts.

The woman with nauseatingly large breasts approaches my table and sits

across from me, uninvited.

She's too close.

Her movements are too brisk, too sudden, too feminine.

Hi.

My name is Tina.

My friends call me Jen.

I love drinking that Jen.

Do you want to fight with me with you?

I've come for one purpose.

I'd like a glass of Absinthe, and then I'll be on my way.

Time presses. Are you the waitress?

No. I'm just one of the girls.

What's your name?

You're in no position to address me, Gabriella.

There's absolutely no symmetry between us. Your consciousness is different from

my own. If you were someone that were worthy of addressing me, I would have

said, Hello, my name is Jonathan Barrow.

I don't mean to disturb you, but you just seem so peaceful.

See that busboy over there?

He really likes me.

Men just throw themselves at me.

And you can see why.

I can tell that you like me too.

Just like all the guys.

Like the busboy who works here.

Don't tell anyone.

But I gave him my number, and he's been calling me every day for the past month.

I mean, I've been deleting all his messages.

But, like, last night, I listened to one of them just for kicks, and he started

saying things like, Please, Gina, call me, Gina, just once.

So I did.

But that was just to tell him to stop calling me.

I mean, what did he think?

Did he think I'd actually...

Go out with him or have any respect for him after he's been calling me for one

full month straight?

I mean, come on, that's ridiculous.

Anyway, I told him on the phone that he was a really nice guy, but he just

wasn't my type.

Also, he's a busboy.

This is like what, his second job or something?

I want a guy.

With a good career.

Not some busboy who has to dig in his pocket for change every time he takes me

to the burger god.

You seem like a well -heeled guy.

You dress real nice and stuff.

And you look a lot like Jude Law and stuff.

Anyway, the busboy, he does not know how to dress. I'm not talking about the way

he's dressing now because he's at work and everything.

But... I was at Ye Olde Diner, and he was off to work with his brother, who's

also kind of dorky and Spanish like him.

And he, the busboy, I mean, he was wearing, I'm not even kidding you, he

wearing stone -washed jeans.

You know, thickly kind with white dots.

And, oh, my God, I am not even kidding.

He was wearing, I am not even kidding, he was wearing sneakers.

White sneakers.

Oh, my God, that is like so 90s.

Anyway, there's this guy at the Chrysaline Hotel, and he's the day

he's kind of cute and well -built, and I got a weakness for big arms and muscles

and stuff, and he had those all right.

Anyway, I'm the one that approached him, and, I mean, I could tell that the

feeling was mutual because he complimented me on my chest.

As you can see, I have very big breasts.

And men like those.

I don't even have to pay for meals anymore.

But I am so a good girl. I'm not even kidding you. I am so serious. I am very

religious because my parents are religious. Are you religious?

I'm a Christian, but I don't believe that God exists beyond this world.

What? Why is that?

Because I am God.

What?

What do you mean?

Jesus is God?

Despite popular disbelief, Jesus of Nazareth was an imposter, a random

Jesus Christi, Jesse the Pointer, predicted my advent.

As long as you're alive, as long as you're breathing, I'm the only God

ever need.

You know the rock?

The wrestler, the rock?

I dated him.

I wouldn't brag about that if I were you.

I'm so hot that you could fry eggs on my brow.

By the way, I don't know if you know this, but I dye my anal hair red, white,

and blue.

The color of this great country of ours and stuff.

Sometimes, like on the 4th of July and stuff, I bend down along the highway and

spread open my ass cheeks so that the drivers and walkers can see my dyed anal

hair and stuff.

They usually, the drivers in the cars, they usually like honk their horns and

cheer on me and stuff.

I'll tell you what, Mr. Lardy Dardy, I'm looking for new candidates.

I have three boyfriends, but you smell real nice and you dress real nice and

stuff. And I think you'd be a nice new candidate.

I'm only in town for a few days. I'm here for an interview at the community

college. I don't have time for a relationship.

Well, what about a short -term relationship?

A short -term relationship is too long for me.

Come on, Whore.

Strip, you fucking manslut.

Take it off, you bitch.

Show me that penis. I want to see that fucking penis.

Show me your testicles.

I want to see those bouncing testicles, whore.

Show me that ass.

Show me that ass. Show me that ass. Show it to me. Show it to me. Show it to me.

Hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba, hubba,

hubba.

What. Is.

This.

Doesn't belong to me. Did the former tenant leave this behind?

I need to distract my mind.

Everywhere I go, Men and women follow me with eyes of desire.

Every woman wants me.

Every man wants to be me.

For I am like a swan, levitating above the fetid swamp that is the

crystalline hotel.

Hot damn, it is time to masturbate.

Crystalline Hotel, how may I serve you? This is Jonathan Barrows. My room has

been vandalized.

Like, what did they, like, do?

Well, they opened my suitcase and cast all of my possessions around the room,

upset the garbage can, emptied a bottle of shampoo, and even spray -painted the

wall.

Well, how do you know it was, like, a they that did the vandalizing? I don't

know. Someone.

Oh, so you think it was, like, one person that trashed your room? What if

a gang?

I have no idea how many were involved.

You don't know how many people were involved. No, I don't know.

Well, what if it was, like, an animal or something?

Look, I don't know who or what did this. I was just like, someone sent over to

my room to clean it up now.

Well, was anything stolen?

I mean, why don't you, like, call the police?

I'm not going to call the police. The police are not professional cleaners.

so far as I can tell, nothing's been stolen. And if the police are as

incompetent as the rest of you in Benton Harbor, then there's really absolutely

nothing they can do.

Simply is not the case. Could you please send somebody over to clean up my room

now? What do you want me to do about it?

Okay, perhaps I'll repeat myself for the purpose of emphasis.

Would you get over here and clean up my fucking room now?

That ain't my job. That ain't my job at all. Then send somebody else to do it.

Like who?

I don't know, like the maid.

The maid?

Yes, the maid. Send her fucking ass over here to clean it up now.

The maid's off today.

What? I said the maid's off today. What does that mean?

She's, like, went home. She's, like, really tired and shit.

Are you telling me there's only one maid in this godforsaken place?

No. I'm, like, sometimes the maid, but, like, a male maid and shit, you know?

Like, sometimes I do the shit that she does when she's not, like, working and

shit, you know?

Um, but I'm not, like, really a maid or anything.

Well, then get over here and clean up my fucking room now.

Why don't you clean it up? Why don't I clean it up? Because that's what you

helots are paid to do. What's that mean?

What? Helot.

Helot. A helot is a slave, a slave like you.

I ain't your slave.

The maid ain't your slave either. She's not like your personal cleaner or

anything. Shit your whore.

Look, if you're not capable of coming over here and cleaning up my room,

following simple instructions, which you're obviously incapable of doing,

please send someone else to do it. There is nothing I can do, Mr.

Hoity Toity.

I'm lounging by the Chrysalin Hotel reading my translation, the unique

individual in its property.

Every now and then I stealthily massage the tip of my penis with my free hand.

What you reading?

Strings of letters.

If you could summarize the whole book in one sentence, what would it be?

I could summarize the entire text in three words. Really?

What would those words be? Leave me alone.

I am daydreaming.

I dream of me dancing, my penis flopping up and down gracelessly in the wind.

The object of sexual desire is never elegant.

Heterosexual men find breasts stimulating.

For the same reason that heterosexual women find penises stimulating.

Because they look absurd.

Breasts and penises are grotesque and for that reason are stimulating.

What is this?

Go away.

Do you want to see my thong?

What? I said, do you want?

To see my song.

What are you saying to me, she -thing?

My name's Mandy.

Used to nibble toes.

Here, let me show you my song.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh.

I'm so hot.

You could fry eggs on my bra.

All right, well, thank you for the delightful visit. Unfortunately, I'm a

preoccupied. What's the matter?

Don't you like girls?

Do you really consider yourself to be a girl? You're an aging bar slut.

And I'm 35, and I've still got some...

is ahead of me.

Okay, Manuela, let me explain this to you. I'll put it into a language you can

understand. My name's Mandy.

Mandy. Well, you know, you're no more important to me than a random coil of

donkey feces sprawled on a cobblestone suburban street.

alone with the music of my mind.

But what's this now?

A deafening cacophony of rap -rock, hip -hop, bling -blang, adult -alt, or

whatever it is they call it these days, ripples through the walls.

Someone, I think it was the great German philosopher Arthur Schopenhauer, once

wrote, the mind is like a diamond.

Noise fractures that diamond, the darkly glimmering solitaire.

With every blow of noise that strikes it, the diamond's value worsens.

My name's Sasha.

My name's Buttermilk. I like the music, but I like the person.

Who in Sam's Hall do you think you are?

Who am I?

I'm Jonathan Barrows, and I'm infinitely more intelligent, infinitely more

attractive, and infinitely more charming than you.

I don't like that he's stuck on himself.

It's kind of cute.

Playing hard to get.

It smells so good, Mr. Super Duper. We can forgive you for the mean things you

say.

How can you not love this music?

This is not music.

Music in the true sense of the word is music of thought.

This noise leads you away from yourself.

It disrupts concentration.

Look. Daughters of succubus, none of this is turning me on. You know, if

really like to get me excited, why don't you turn the fucking music down and

leave me the fuck alone?

Anything you want, Mr. Super Duper.

I'd love to look at male nipples.

Show me your male nipple.

You know, you remind me of my cousin Joshua.

You guys have the same exact eyebrows.

You know...

My cousin Josh always liked me a lot, but I never really thought much about it

until I turned 18. And then he called me up one day and he said, Hey, babe,

let's go to the Lobster King.

So we went on a date, but I didn't really know it was a date at the time.

After we left Lobster King, he said, You owe me, babe, for the lobster.

You know you owe me, babe, for the lobster.

That's what he said.

He drove us to the Burger God parking lot. Then he tried to pull down my

and stick his finger into my asshole.

I feel that latex gloves all over my ass and I yell.

Stop it, you fucking pervert.

What the fuck do you think you're doing?

He sang like a dead lobster that had been left out in the air for too long.

He shoved his hand under my skirt and started playing with my asshole.

And then he said.

Give me some of that sweet loving, babe. We are relatives and so we should love

one another.

That's when I took off my shoe and started pounding with it. His face

and his nose got mad.

I'm so serious.

It was so gross.

You know, Cavalier once offered me $10 ,000 to pose in their book of

lingerie. I'd offer you twice that sum to keep your clothing on.

You know, you should be nicer to us, Mr. Cooper Dooper, if you want what you

want. The three of us could have some fun together.

Doing what?

Doing some sexing! I don't have sex.

I have coitus interruptus. So you want to pull out before you nut? Back to

No, I'd like to interrupt sexual intercourse indefinitely.

You're the result of an unhappy abortion.

I love myself I love myself I love myself I

love myself I love myself I love

myself I love myself I love myself

I love myself I love myself

I love myself.

I place my priapic member between the thumb and forefinger of my left hand. I

stroke myself into a froth. I throw myself into ecstasy.

I think of my buttock, their curved form.

Desire crests in my gut.

Semen is ever -secreting life sap. A geyser of semen is a volcanic inferno.

I feel such passion for myself.

I am a semen explosion waiting to happen.

Dispense, my vision fading, I drift into somnolence.

My sleep, it is vigorous.

Malodorous lunchroom whores.

Oh, how many parties, sir?

Table for one.

Whenever you say the words table for one to the Major D, you're almost certainly

guaranteed the most secluded table in the entire restaurant.

Except tonight.

There's a couple at the table next to mine.

Perhaps I can ask the waitress for a petition.

I quickly order the lobster thermidor. I will dine and depart.

The waitress tells me that Lobster King is a populist establishment and does not

offer lobster thermidor.

I order the lobster pate instead.

They watch me watching them.

I watch them watching me.

What in God's name do they want?

Excuse me, sir.

Hi.

Would you like to join us at our table?

Well, I was seeing you all by yourself here, and I said to my wife, I said to

her, God, you're so lonely.

Why don't you come over here and dine with us? I can see you're all by

Come be friendly with us. We can have friendly fun.

Lonely? That word has no meaning to me.

I'm always alone, but never lonely.

Loneliness is a feeling that I have never experienced.

Only the feeble are lonely.

Only the lonely are feeble.

Solitude is the preferred state of being. I have no choice but to join

Even if I remain at my table, they will still try to engage me in conversation.

I will impale them with words.

Hello, my name is Jonathan Barrow.

My name's Brian.

This is my wife, Beata. We just got married two months ago, didn't we, hon?

I'm deeply sorry to hear that.

Marriage is the destruction of the individual ego.

You... Are dressed so darkly, Mr. Burroughs, do you always wear dark

Perhaps my colors are lucid. Perhaps your eyes are too dim to see them.

Uh, Beata and I were just discussing the abortion issue.

As a woman, of course, Beata supports a woman's right to choose what she should.

You know, there are only a few female pro -lifers.

I sell them up.

sensitive 90s kind of guy, so I support a woman's right to choose as well.

Everyone should be pro -choice.

Are you pro -choice too?

No.

Well, that's fine.

You know, the one great thing about this country is the diversity of opinion.

Everyone has the freedom to speak his or her own mind.

Difference is good.

You must be pro -life then, and that's perfectly fine.

No.

Well then, where do you stand on the abortion issue?

I'm pro -abortion.

Pro -abortion?

What does that mean?

Who in their right mind would actually support abortion?

Oh, no, I know.

He's speaking in a farcical way.

Really,

though. Seriously.

Abortion is no choice any woman wants to make. It is almost certainly traumatic

for her, but...

Nonetheless, it is her body, so who am I to say? Who is any man to say really

what she can? Young women should be encouraged to get pregnant and abort

fetuses.

Chit chat.

Chit chat.

Chit chat. Chit chat. Chit chat.

Chit chat.

Chit chat. Chit chat. Chit chat. Chit chat.

Chit chat.

Chit chat.

Chit chat.

Chit -chat, chit -chat, chit -chat, chit -chat, chit -chat, chit -chat, chit

-chat, chit -chat, chit -chat, chit -chat, chit -chat, chit -chat, chit

chit -chat,

chit -chat, chit -chat.

You know, it's customary for people to talk to each other while sitting at the

same table.

Someday you'll be pressed into mush by the tires of an 18 -wheel truck loaded

with frozen cartons of banana ice cream.

Brian's such a sweetie.

He tells me every day that I am every man's fantasy.

A fantasy?

Yes, true to a certain extent. You're an oasis of the mind.

An oasis that neither promises nor yields refreshment. Listen, Mr. Know -It

-All. That's my wife, and you don't insult her. Your arrogance is really

arrogant. I can tell that you're...

smart and all, but you're not the only smart person in Benton Harbor, Michigan.

The more that you attempt to insult me, you're only affirming my infinite

superiority. You're no more than an agog spectator of my greatness.

Why don't you leave, sir? You have crossed a line.

Watch out.

Will the interview never take place?

Whose interview?

Yours, Mr. Burroughs. Yes, my interview. Will my interview never take place?

Hasn't Dr.

Mendoza contacted you yet? No, Dr.

Mendoza has not contacted me yet. Did you tell him I would be staying at the

Crystalline Hotel?

Yes, Mr. Burroughs, I did tell him that.

When? Two days ago.

And what did he say?

To what?

What did Dr. Mendoza say when you told him I would be staying at the

Hotel? He didn't say anything. He nodded.

Did he acknowledge that he knew who I was?

No. Unless that nod was a form of acknowledgement.

But that nod could have also merely been a sign of indifference or boredom.

Perhaps he didn't know who you was.

Perhaps he wasn't listening.

Perhaps he only nodded to appease me.

Miss Grimlogger, what exactly did you say to him?

I told him when Mr. Burroughs came by for an interview.

I also told him that you would be sent at the Chrysalis. And what did he say?

How did he respond?

As I told you, Mr.

Burroughs, he nodded, and that was it.

Miss Grimlogger, is Dr. Mendoza here now? No, Mr.

Burroughs. Although, as I told you, he'll be teaching a seminar on Monday

evening. He only has one teaching responsibility this summer. May I speak

director of the School of Learning?

If you like. But she has nothing to do with the interview or the hiring

The position for which you apply, Professor of Intelligent Thinking, is

province of Dr.

Mendoza and him alone.

You know, Mr.

Dainty Shoes.

You look a lot like that actor.

Which actor?

You know, that actor.

Hmm.

What's his name?

You know. Hmm. Let me think.

I know.

You look just like that Jude Law.

Excuse me, madam, but I do not resemble Jude Law.

Do you like looking at my hair?

Do you like it?

Wavy.

Curls.

I do not understand Miss Grimlocker's bizarre behavior.

I do not understand why I have not yet been interviewed.

I do not know where Dr. Mendoza is. I do not understand why Dr. Mendoza has not

yet telephoned me. I do not understand why I am here. I do not understand why

everyone in Benton Harbor is seemingly deranged.

I will find Dr. Mendoza and have my interview.

The fact that I haven't received a telephone call from him is profoundly

insulting. The dirty fucker denied me my interview. Dr. Mendoza invited me to

the Benton Harbor Community College to be interviewed for a tenure stream

position. I received an email from him in which he stated this explicitly.

That Grimlocker, her ignorance was studied. She knew exactly who I am. She

me three email messages. Secretaries like dogs are all fascists.

No one ever forgets Jonathan Barrows. I did not receive the interview that I was

promised. I do not wish to teach this asylum of an institution.

None the however, I demand an interview.

Dr. Mendoza will interview me, or I will kill him.

Either or.

Simply because murder is illegal, this does not mean that it is immoral. If Dr.

Mendoza refuses to interview me, I will kill him.

No one denies Jonathan Barrows an interview.

It is here that Dr. Mendoza will instruct the seminar.

In 35 minutes, I am going to get him.

When the appropriate time comes, I will leap forward and demand my interview. If

he refuses to grant me my interview, I will annihilate him. Even if he does

grant me an interview, I will pummel him with my fists. I will break him open.

For my entire life, I have been disinherited, disfranchised, and

I have been denied what rightfully belongs to me. I am waiting for Dr.

to teach me.

I wait to be educated.

Do you not hear the cry of the planet?

It is summoning you to enter the community.

How do you respond to this call?

How do you become part of the community? The answer is simple.

Marry.

Marriage is not, as is often thought, a simple thing.

It is not merely the union of two self -contained individuals.

When she marries, a lady is no longer an individual.

She is now a member of the community.

A gentleman, when he marries, is no longer an individual.

He too is now a member of the community.

They are not merely bound to one another.

Together they are bound to the community.

Together they have family fun.

Marriage seals your contract with the commonweal.

It stamps your individuality with a social character.

A woman is not a woman unless she is married to a man.

A man is not a man unless he is married to a woman.

Once you become married, you will produce children who will someday also

part of this vast human ocean which is the community.

One must not think of marriage, then, as a personal relationship.

I do not fuck my wife's vagina.

The community fucks her vagina.

My wife's vagina is not my personal property.

It belongs to the community.

The pleasures of life are not restricted to those of the solitaire.

Nothing is more joyous than a wedding, and no one is happier than a spouse.

Sweet joys of communal being together.

Give yourselves up.

Give up your solitude.

And be part of this great human mosaic, which is life.

All of this whoop -dee -doo about the individual.

An individual is nothing more than someone who avoids their social

As a result...

He will never be something greater than himself.

His life will never be socially productive and thus will never be

They refuse to marry.

The individualists think of themselves as isolated atoms floating

through space.

We are all glued together in an invisible web, that myriadic network

call life.

If I smash my fist on the table like so, someone in the Czech

Republic is bound to feel the reverberation.

Shatter your sanctuary.

Burn down your citadels. Tear down the screens that shield you from other human

beings. Give yourselves up.

Give yourselves up to the community.

Enough.

What nonsense? How dare you, sir? Question the supremacy of the

The individual is the origin of all value, not the community.

It's the extraordinary individual who determines what's meaningful.

He alone brings value to the world, and if for no other reason, is why the

individual comes before the community.

You communitarians. You worship the throng. You idolize the average. In this

culture, everything is...

Reduced to the ordinary. Everyone is forced to be like everyone else.

that's said is what one already knows.

Nothing must remain extraordinary.

Nothing must remain mysterious.

What we're witnessing is the banalization of the world and nowhere is

evident than at this place of learning.

What you teach is the reaffirmation of what these students already know.

This excremental institution doesn't even deserve to be called a college.

Nowhere have I seen such a pack of morons in my life.

You're all poor.

You're all stupid. And because you're poor and stupid, you're religious

fanatics. And worse, slave to the state.

You think it's so good, don't you?

You like thinking so good.

Turn him on his chest.

Get the plunger. Get the plunger.

Got it. I got the plunger. Yeah.

Satan is an anal rapist.

Satan is Adam.

Now I know.

Now I understand.

Now I understand why these things happen.

Now I understand why these things happen to me.

Now I understand why that which is happening to me is happening to me.

Now I know why these things are happening to me.

Desire is hatred.

Desire is hatred.

Desire is hatred. Desire is hatred. Desire is hatred. Desire is hatred.

At the age of 28, I murdered my so -called

dissertation advisor.

Simply because murder is illegal, this does not imply that it is unethical.

He destroyed my career.

On more than one occasion, he took me by the shoulders and shook me fiercely,

shouting, Good God, man.

Get out of the library and go swim in the deep currents of life.

Real life isn't in the book.

Whenever someone says, get out of the library, that person means, I want you

be as illiterate as I am. Whenever someone calls you a nerd, that person

your powers of thought exceed my own.

I saw him as he was.

Dead matter. A mechanical object.

Like all mechanical objects, he would be dismantled.

His penetrable mind was transparent to my gunning vision.

I would murder him. There was simply nothing else to be done.

I had it in my mind to pierce the aperture of his penis with a sewing

My advisor once advised me... I heard you applied for a position at Princeton.

We'll see how that goes.

Whenever someone says, we'll see how that goes, this means you don't have a

chance.

I know why you are here, Mr. Barrows.

You feel wrongly that I negated your chances of professional success.

I contacted the Career Development Center. I know precisely what you did.

Debbie made a grave mistake.

She won't be getting tenure, that's for sure.

Forgiveness will make you a better person, Mr. Barrows.

The doctrine of forgiveness promoted by our founder, Jesus of Nazareth.

And you are cross with me.

I can understand why.

I could not recommend you with any measure of confidence.

It does seem that someone with an ego as large as your own would not be well

suited for academia.

A scholarship implies a certain level of self -sacrifice, as well as a respect

for a discipline greater than you.

One could express your deficiency in positive terms, of course. You are a

-directed individual.

But there are, I fear, certain drawbacks to your fierce individualism. You are

far too self -subsistent to be a scholar.

This is far too juvenile for you, Mr. Burroughs. Really, these adolescent

hygienists.

What is this about, Mr. Burroughs?

The elephant tranquilizer guarantees that the mind would be alert, sentenced

a condition of absolute powerlessness.

What was alert was the motor that drove him, his parasite brain.

I looked into his eyes.

I have never seen such black hatred in the eyes of a human being.

It's so much fun to have complete control over someone else's body.

I had it in mind to remove his penis.

Touching this man's genitals suffused me with thick waves of nausea.

I pulled the tip of his penis while hacking away at the base of his genitals

with the switchblade.

My hands were soon empurpled with blood.

His mouth would not accept his penis.

He was gagging violently in a frenzy of unimaginable horror.

The corpse rotted before me.

sodden with blood. His silhouette dissolved into the damp carpet, its

plasmic and moist with milky spume.

He's dead now. A big flesh doll.

He is not a human being anymore, just a big, lumpy flesh doll, lifelessly

gargling black blood.

I look up at the skies.

The eternal skies are eviscerated.

Sidereal blood rains from the heavens. I see Saturn's frothing rings, the flocus

of a dead cloud.

Dad is a sleeping day.

Necrofields spread across the vast wasteland.

The skies are a bubble with black blood.

Are these the words of a dead man?

Am I dead?

I stare at the skies and catalog the zoology of stars.

The crucifixion is the most erotic event in world history.

Miss Gretchen, the 26 -year -old English teacher, should never have disciplined

Johnny Barrows.

Never, never, never, never, never. Strip!

Why did she do this? In order to properly grasp

her reasons, one must have a sense of Gretchen's psychosexual history.

Gretchen never dated. Indeed, she avoided members of the opposite gender.

idea of a penis slipping into her vagina.

filled her with violent horror.

Only once did she extract her secret from the deeps of silence. She told a

priest at confession.

They use those things to urinate.

I wish that I had three penises so that I could invade all your holes at the

same time.

One week later, the priest, who will remain anonymous, committed suicide by

shoving the tube of a vacuum cleaner down his throat.

Sucking furiously, the vacuum drew out pieces of his liver. Yet so intensely

ravishing was Gretchen that she inspired her rejectees to kill themselves.

It is difficult for me to conclude this story. I loved Gretchen. I imagined her

wriggling breasts coming loose from their brassiere cups, those lacy

I crafted a wax mannequin in her likeness, an exact figurine. Nightly I

permeated the wax mannequin. The hollow between her legs, that delicate fold, is

not soft and warm and moist, even though I used corn oil.

I hammered down, again and again, on the sliding slope of what was once her

head.

The reality TV program has millions of viewers worldwide, many of whom dial 1

-888 -ABORTED to cast their vote.

Only 38 % of the country demanded that Paris Hilton cut short the life of her

three -month -old undifferentiated fetus.

Father's rumored to be Orlando Bloom, but Bruce Willis' paternity is also

suspected.

Robin Leach, the maitre d' of the proceedings, announces gleefully to a

thundering audience that

He pulls the caterwauling slime -glistened mass out of Paris Hilton's

vagina, snips the umbilicus with a gigantic pair of steel scissors, and

the mucus -colored creature to the camera's eye, a burrito of meat, fat,

hair.

They share the following activities.

Television watching and fucking.

Five months of fucking and television watching.

Instead of looking at each other, they look at the television screen.

And then they fuck.

Bobby says little. His gruff nonchalance guarantees his success with the members

of the opposite gender.

He's booked Jessica, Jennifer, and Judith, the triad of Andrea's

Did you hear about that girl on the news? I even remember her name, Cheryl.

That girl got thrown off a cliff because she blew off a midget.

What?

Cheryl, she wrote this book called I Was Thrown from a Precipice for Sexually

Reducting a Midget.

I think she was on Oprah.

What are you talking about, Drea?

There's like...

This midget. And Cheryl broke him off, and so the midget got revenge by

Cheryl off a cliff.

Who the fuck is Cheryl?

Cheryl's a cheerleader.

You know this how?

The news.

And who's the midget?

The midget was blown off by Cheryl.

Hey,

that kid you're babysitting, where is he?

Johnny? He's upstairs.

Well, what if he saw us?

Yeah, you're 17, and I don't want his parents to find out about that shit.

Bobby, it's not against the law to kiss a 17 -year -old girl.

Look, I just don't want the Barrows to find out that we've been fooling around

and shit.

I'm not gonna know.

They're away for the whole week in Norwegian Dutchmark.

What's up with that kid anyway?

Does he always stay in that room?

No, I've only seen him outside his bedroom once or twice.

How old is he?

He's 13.

And you're only four years older than him?

And you're his babysitter? That's fucking hot.

He's really cute.

I mean, for a kid, I mean.

Yeah, yeah. I bet he'd love to just jizz up your nose and shit.

That's gross.

Well, I bet he would. I'd just like to slide it on in right to the top.

Oh, he's not into girls.

So what is he, a faggot?

No, he's not into boys either.

What the fuck does that mean? He's not into girls? He's not into boys?

What is he, a sheep fucker?

He's in love with himself.

Huh?

He's got a crush on himself.

What?

He makes himself hard.

Well, hold up. He takes naked pictures of himself and he uses them to get off.

That's why there's jizz all over the house, Bobby. He jizzes on the walls and

stuff while looking at pictures of his own dick.

So what does he do? Does he anal himself too?

Bobby, I don't know.

Does he lick his own dick and drink his own jizz? Bobby, I don't know.

You want to go and break him in?

Andrea and Bobby will know the limits of pain.

They will be strung up like sausages in a meat locker. They will be tortured

like thrashing embryos.

Fuck. Johnny, we're just playing around.

When the freak opens its mouth, one hears the sound of a vacuum, of the wind

echoing through an infinite abyss.

The freak is composed of two bodies stitched together with black wire.

That of he who was once called Andrea, and that of he who was once called

What Johnny did was not cruel, but rather the logical extension of the

attitude. The freak is a slippery, quivering mass of gelatin, shivering and

moist.

My mind is clean of you.

Two leaves of lettuce, a tomato slice, and a spiderweb of mayonnaise, mustard,

and ketchup make up the first level of the three -tiered cheeseburger

The tomato slice is succulent and rich, flavorful and greenishly overripe. The

leaves that umbrella the tomato are overly crisp. I prefer the lettuce on my

cheeseburger to be moist and flimsy. There is perhaps too much egg and milk

the dollops of mayonnaise that splotch the underside of the upper bun and douse

the hoods of the lettuce leaves.

I moistened my tongue.

Strapped to a chair in front of me is the world's most celebrated pop diva.

She hardly looks like a celebrity at all.

An ordinary she -creature, an intermediate, shadowy half -form neither

woman, a youngish woman, a womanish girl, whimpering. I trailed her in the

nightclub, seduced her, led her away from the entourage of bouncers,

lawyers, and publicists that surrounded her.

Don't worry, it's cool. I'll call you later, y 'all.

After all, I am handsome, and therefore harmless.

Once we reached my driveway, I drugged her, Dragged her into my duplex and

stowed her in my dining room.

She is conscious now.

Tied to the chair, half choking on the tie that I tied around her mouth. On the

radio is her new single, Funkalicious, from the album of the same title.

She is by no means unintelligent.

What she is, is ordinary.

Fascinating in her ordinariness, in her banality, in her everydayness. She

interchangeable with any other 26 -year -old American girl.

There is absolutely nothing remarkable about her.

How is one to explain the fact that this girl is one of the most recognized

figures in Western culture?

To say anyone can be famous may seem banal, and yet is nonetheless true.

A man who is attacked by a tiger in a zoological garden may become famous.

Celebrity is absolutely exchangeable. She is not even particularly beautiful,

imaginative, or amusing.

She is not famous despite her ordinariness. She is famous by virtue of

ordinariness. She is absolutely indistinguishable from the average girl,

therefore is one of the most famous pop stars in Western civilization.

Anyone in this culture may be elevated to the status of godhood.

If all of the old gods are dead, as we are told, the new gods are celebrities.

Their love affairs, their politics, their inclinations, all of these

trivialities are objects of obsession.

Television is pure transcendence. My decision to assassinate her was not

provoked by hatred.

Every human being desires desire.

Perhaps it's nothing else but the desire to be desired.

The one who is filmed is desired.

To be filmed is to be desired.

To be desired by everyone is to become God.

Television is the apotheosis of experience.

The new God is the celebrity. The celebrity is the new God. Instead of

at each other, We look at the stars.

Jesus is gonna open a can of whoop -ass on you.

That's what she said to me before I gagged her.

Words I cannot describe.

How ordinary.

Unusually large for such a small girl.

Completely absent of toe length.

Her toes draw back, as if retracting into their shell.

As if they know that each one would soon be severed from the base of the foot.

This little piggy went to market.

Color, Santa's candy.

The little piggy stayed home.

Colored, breathing, beach.

And this little piggy had roast beef.

Colored, strawberry sorbet.

And this little piggy had none.

Colored, fruit sangria.

little piggy went way, way, way. Color, plumberry crumb. All the way home.

You like water sports?

I do water sports.

Uh -huh.

Just like me and my mom, Rob.

Uh -huh.

She set me free.

I'll do whatever you want.

I'll drink my own pee.

I saw her once dining on grasshoppers in red chili at a fashionable Hollywood

restaurant. Will her toes taste the same way?

I'll force her to eat her own toes, too.

I will cut off one of her breasts, fasten it to a stick, and whip her with

Soon will come the clatter of footfalls up the drive, the booming of reports

after they batteram open the door.

Not before I shoot her head off.