Claude Balzac, DDS, endodontist to the stars, celebrated (and cursed) roue and Casanova, sadistic flosser of others' teeth, ardent and courageous spelunker, self-injector of testosterone, ex-Green Beret, ex-federal prisoner, college fencing champion, polyglot and polymath, arctic adventurer, adoptive father to seventeen largely-delinquent children, identical twin to yours truly, tried to ruin my marriage to the beautiful and spectacularly talented Whiski Rae Shamrock five years ago during a family reunion on Crete. I've not spoken to him since, though I glare at him every day on my walk to work.
We're neighbors, you see, neighbors and enemies.
And brothers. Identical twin brothers. You're familiar with the old saw that blood is thicker than water, surely. It's also sicker than water. Much sicker.
Credit that phrase to Claude and a million other smug punsters. Why he lived on happily in the loving bosom of our mother, Emmeline, and enjoyed the rough-and-tumble paternal attentions of our father, Seminole DeMolay Balzac, while I was forced to reside in an abandoned badger burrow my coyote mother, Ki, expanded, is a mystery I shall never solve, our parents having died in 1981 in the Paris-Dakar Rally when a Cape buffalo gored their Austin Mini's radiator, forcing them to walk to the next check point, which they never reached as they were each killed and consumed by hungry leopards, my father's feet being all authorities could recover of him, while my mother's physical leavings amounted to a single canine tooth.
I myself never saw my mother after my parents exiled me, though I did once briefly encounter my father. Back when we still spoke to each other, Claude professed ignorance as to why I was the Esau and he, the Jacob, in our family. Not that I didn't love Ki—she taught me to catch and eat chipmunks and prairie dogs, to identify other coyotes by the smell of their excrement, and to interpret the yippings of my four-legged peers, which actually constitute a sophisticated language capable of expressing finely nuanced longings and dreams. I've instructed my beloved wife, Whiski Rae Shamrock, in the rudiments of Coyotespeak, and she's caught on enough we can converse in it, and she with my great-great-great canid nieces and nephews, including my favorites, the twins Skeep and Skupp, and Nee-yah the Magnificent, and little Hoodie-toodie who climbs trees and swings from branches like a gibbon, and Roomah who's the size of a wolf and has a cute crush on Whiski Rae, which is so far Platonic and must ever be.
So Ki was a fine and loving mother, and the day I scooted home with a mouthful of chipmunks for our supper and found her moribund and prostrate outside the den, a cruel leg trap crushing her left front leg, and she was already old for a coyote and grizzled about the muzzle and slowed down by dropsy and heart failure, and I knew she was dying, so I bit the heads off the little chippers and carefully sucked out the sweetbreads, kidneys and livers, all her favorite bits, and laid them before her, her strength ebbing, all she could do was lick the steaming organs, and her ancient wise eyes drank me in before winking shut for good, and she was gone to the Great Meadow, where coyotes believe they are transported at the moment of death, I wailed for hours, a cry of anguish and sorrow and anger at my bifurcated life, neither fully man nor beast, able to read only road signs and license plates, and barely remembering my twoleg parents, by then I was sixteen, and I removed the trap and tossed it into the weeds, and placed Ki in our home and sealed it shut with boulders, the buzzards already riding the stiff prairie winds in lazy ascending helices as they waited for their next meal, I knew it was my time now to return to the human world,to return to my birth parents' home, whether to avenge my abandonment or plead for reacceptance I wasn't sure, and though naked and filthy and hairy and dark as an old saddle, and frightened of twolegs, I remembered how to follow streams and rivers back to Sourdough, Minnesota, where I grew up and now again live, and I set off on a journey whence I've yet to return.
A bit about that seminal adventure. I spent an exhausting month traveling at night, mostly, floating rivers, running along banks, crawling through swamps and mud flats, hiding during the day from Man damnable Man. I survived a fierce scrap with a bull skunk, lived off of berries and chipmunk jerky, nearly died of a thousand wasp stings, outran a trio of redneck youth thoroughly pickled on booze and firing shotguns in the air as they chased me through a soybean field, they in a pickup truck, I on foot, they directing the vilest of imprecations at me, impugning my wildness, calling me "freak" and "fur-fucker" and "free-shitter," I was young and fleet and I darted effortlessly from one point to the next, juking and jiving, diving and rolling, leaping and howling, howling like Hell's most ravaged and wretched shade, rending the crepuscular sky, rattling the gloaming, the truck slowing behind me, then stopping, I paused to catch my breath, clawing the earth as a mole might to conceal myself, I heard the shitfaced hicks wondering aloud what they should do, fear now squelching their dumb guttural utterances, I knew then what I must do, I leapt from the loam and charged the yokels, they froze in the truck, I ripped the driver's door off its hinges and pulled that dolt from his seat, he shrieked and begged and pleaded in a tone so shrill not even a weasel could reproduce it, its ringing cowardly sound so offensive to me I ripped off his clothes, bit off his scrotum and spit his dripping testes into the cab. Then I raced into the dark, roaring triumphantly, I loped easily another dozen miles, my stride practically lunar, I felt revivified and ready to confront my family, not as a lowly brute divided between the animal and the human worlds, but rather as some kind of rough native deity who encompassed and embodied both spheres, the livest of beings, Caliban and Prospero alike.
Sourdough beckoned the next morning: the Basilica of St. Messalina the Beaten Virgin's etheral spire spearing the sky; the bell tower of Lost Souls College tolling a matutinal air; Melancthon College's Aimee Semple MacPherson Hall of Geology looming above a bluff along the Sourdough River and casting its formidable shadow on scientific inquiry; the twin grain elevators of the East-Southeastern South Central Farmers' Coop rising stoutly and phallically above a feed store and a filling station. A shudder foundered me and I gasped, a hundred sweet and mean memories crowding together as they rushed into my awareness, twelve lanes of traffic bottlenecked of a sudden into two. My home town. I'm back. I'm in the right place to do the wrong thing. Emmeline and Seminole must die. Claude must be tortured first, then die
I hastened to a Pamida store whose location I recalled exactly. The store was still closed, so I jimmied open the back door and crept in to steal a garment to hide my nakedness, not that I minded the world to see all of God's plenty dangling between my thighs, but to better blend in with the town folk as I stalked my victims. Imagine my shock, after nine years away, to find myself surrounded by the detritus of the consumer culture! I padded silently through the aisles, disgusted by the towers of junk on either side of me, as though I had ventured into some canyon of the damned leading me into the cold, dead heart of hell. A harsh chemical smell greeted me at every turn, its astringent redolence reminding me of Emmeline on all fours scrubbing the kitchen floor after I'd defecated in the corner, and cursing me loudly, I was in first grade and had yet to master the use of the toilet, and she was crying as she swore and abusing me as being willful and retarded and stubborn and unteachable. I'd gotten into similar trouble in my teacher, Miss Butler's, room a dozen times already that year, failing to see why our chow, Baron Lancelot Bouvier Kennedy, could unload himself in public while I must shit in secret, as though that fundamental act committed daily by people as divergent as Pope John XXIII, Joe DiMaggio, Audrey Hepburn and Imogene Coco, was somehow shameful and must be concealed. Yet Emmeline slashed me with a coat hanger she'd dipped into the bleach solution she used on our floor, slashed my buttocks cruelly; and I remembered now the shock of pain that convulsed me at each blow, my fingers retracing the filagree of scars that reminded me daily of my twoleg mother, I sat only on my haunches from that point forward, as direct contact of my bottom with the ground, or a log, still ached. And fury filled me, a rage terrible and splendid in its pure mad incarnation.
Rumbling through the store, bellowing like a bull, I sought to destroy everything around me. I focused my efforts on tipping over shelves, shoving them rudely, the one knocking over the next, and smashing the spilled items, stomping them with my bare callused feet, feet so toughened by my hard feral years they were impervious to damage from broken light bulbs, hunting knives, shattered tumblers, splintered hand mirrors, dinner forks, fishing lures, garden trowels. I raced about, hurling heavy objects, too, chairs and lawn mowers, bicycles, cash registers I wrested from the counters, I flung them thirty feet against walls, they burst apart spilling coins, I cared not for the money, money was man, man, money. I wanted blood, hot, sweet, spicy blood, the taste of which I knew so well, sometimes Ki and I would come upon a hidden fawn, the mother away to graze, and we'd kill the fawn by crushing its neck, ripping the throat and letting the blood spurt into our open mouths, ferric and delicious. Would I sate my murder-lust on the blood of my twoleg kin in such a gruesome manner? Yes!
I tired of material destruction and went off in search of clothing. How cheap and unnatural it seemed! I found and slipped on a pair of red swim trunks, then pulled a purple tee-shirt over my head that was emblazoned with a picture of Porky Pig, whose visage I dimly recalled. A pair of sunglasses and a bucket fishing hat completed my disguise. I tried on some flip-flops, as I'd worn them in summers as a boy, but they pinched my feet and would only slow me down. I needed to move fast in order to exact my revenge on Emmeline, Seminole and Claude and then escape before the police came, as I imagined my family's screams would draw the neighbors' attention, and with it, a call for help.
Another few minutes of sprinting found me crouching behind the plum trees my father had planted in the backyard. The grass beneath them was cool and dewy, and I licked it to wet my mouth, which heavy panting had dried. I steeled myself against an unwelcome tenderness that had sprouted within me as I gazed upon my childhood home. For a moment I almost forgot that my parents had abandoned me—but only for a moment. Seminole's hulking form appeared in the kitchen window directly before me. He'd aged considerably, grown paunchy and jowly, his hair thinning and greyed, his face swollen and tear-stained. He was weeping, with his arms hanging limply down his sides, he seemed boneless and immobile to me, a blob sinking into itself. A sense of keen revulsion now completely supplanted any warmth I had felt, and I crept forward coyote-style for the kill, my focus complete, Ki had taught me well, the time for distraction was after one's belly was full and the flies buzzed incessantly over the scattered remains of a just-finished meal, and we'd repose in our burrow out of the stern prairie sun, it was quiet and delightful, my mother at our den's mouth to protect me against any intruders, unlike Emmeline and Seminole, who exposed me to danger by binding my hands and feet with leather cords, duct tape blinding and shutting me up, they'd driven for hours with me in the trunk, I was overdosed on Dramamine and brandy, the rough ride waking me from my delirium occasionally, the fear a consuming fire from which I couldn't escape, at last the car stopped and the trunk popped open and my father's hands grabbed me by the hair and feet and lifted me from my prison, I could hear him grunting and swearing from the exertion, and I fought back, writhing and kicking until he dropped me, and my mother sobbing and begging God for forgiveness, asking me for forgiveness, and having the temerity to kiss my forehead with lips as cold and beady as a gila monster's, she was venemous herself, and now my wounded rage spiked as I saw my weak father blubbering, blubbering as he hadn't when he kicked me down a rock-strewn declivity in the North Dakota Badlands, I bounced down the hill for what seemed minutes, torn by thorny plants and bruised by stones, I lay at the bottom of a gully for another day and a night struggling the entire time to free myself but failing, I was only seven, of course, and weak, and if Ki hadn't come along and rescued me, I'd surely have succumbed to exposure, this being my twoleg parents' intent. Damn their souls to Hell's Hell!
I was through the kitchen window in a trice, the glass exploding about me, I had Seminole on the floor, his eyes wide with terror and recognition, he said nothing, lying passively, baring his throat, tilting his head back and canting it, his lips mumbling a prayer, not for salvation, but release and death. He was offering himself up to me because he wished to die.
This I'd not expected, and I rose, disgusted, and urinated on his face, as I couldn't deliver him unto the hereafter and spare him from his own misery. Instead I stripped the clothes from my body, dropped to all fours and raced around the house in search of Emmeline and Claude. Much had changed since I'd last lived there, including my own little bedroom, which bore no traces of me, not even a reverential picture of the lost son, I realized then I had no idea how my parents explained my sudden absence to the authorities, certainly this room would arouse suspicions if seen, for one would expect a kind of shrine assembled by the bereaved to honor the departed, yet my old bedroom contained only cactuses, dozens of them, on the floor and the sills and shelves, some tall and twisted, others short and flowering, the room itself nearly impossible to enter it was so overflowing with spiky vegetation, including one tremendous old plant that reminded me of the thief's cross on Golgotha.
I returned to the kitchen, where my father still lay curled and whimpering. "Where are they?" I squawked in an unpracticed tongue. "Where are Emmeline and Claude?"
"The hospital," he croaked. "Claude was savaged terribly."
"How?" I asked.
"His testicles were bitten off by a madman last night. He and friends were out driving when they were accosted. Claude fought off his attacker to spare his friends. He's a hero."
"Liar!" I roared. "He deserved what he got."
"It was you who attacked him, wasn't it? I'm not surprised. You always envied him."
I scooped my father off the floor, carried him to my bedroom and hoisted him onto the cactus cross, the long spines piercing him in a hundred places. A fat roll of twine sitting on a table provided me with the means to fix him securely in place. He moaned and pleaded for me to finish him off. "I regret so much." he whispered hoarsely.
"You regret only that you didn't kill me when you had the chance," I said.
He didn't respond. I spat in his face, said nothing more and left. I began the long trip to South Dakota immediately, not returning to Sourdough for many years, long after I finished college and medical school and residency. The stories I could tell you! And will, probably, if you keep reading my humble blog.
I almost forgot where I started: with Claude, and his failed effort to drive a wedge between Whiski Rae and me. Claude maintained his potency through the years by massive injections of testosterone, which I presume he continues to this day. He made no moves on my dear wife, but rather threatened to reveal to her that I'd castrated him with my teeth, a story which he'd not yet shared with others, owing to embarrassment and perhaps a little shame at how he'd treated me that evening, not that he knew he was chasing his own brother down for what was doubtless to be a thrill-kill. I promptly told Whiski Rae the whole sorry tale, unburdening myself to the dearest wife in the world, who didn't shrink from me as though from some hideous beast, but embraced and praised me for punishing those who tried to ruin my life: my own family of origin. What my mother thought when she came home and found Seminole crucified on the cactus, and learned I had been there and done that to my father myself, and previously had bitten my brother without realizing it was him, is something I've wondered about from time to time. Perhaps Claude knows the answer to this question, but I've pledged never to talk to him again unless he learns Coyotespeak, and probably not even then.
19 September 2007
12 September 2007
Nature red in tooth and claw
Many people wonder if nature is more important than nuture, less important than nurture, equally important to nurture, or if it even matters a good goddamn. "Dr. Balzac, what do you think?" is a question I'm asked frequently at the Balzac Institute of Partial Recovery, the psychiatric clinic I founded ten years ago in recognition of the undeniable fact that most of us are okay with just getting by. "When good enough is good enough" is our simple motto, but I digress.
If you held a .44 magnum Ruger Blackhawk to my temple and cocked the hammer, while someone else poked a shiv against my larynx, and someone else again was squirting model airplane cement on my shoes and firing up a Bernzomatic torch, and my eyelids were propped open with hairpins so I couldn't not watch the twenty-four hour looped reruns of "Manimal" playing on a 104 inch plasma screen eight feet in front of me, I'd still have a hard time spitting out my answer. But if you had merely said "please" first and smiled pleasantly, I'd tell you nature trumps nurture every time save one.
A few years back,I conducted a study which capably illustrates my opinion. I was working at The Gladys T. and Royce J. Moritmer University On-line Hospital as a research psychiatrist when I conceived of a project I hoped would drive a stake into the heart of the old and wearisome nature versus nuture debate. I have long had both a personal and professional interest in the feral community, as I myself was raised by coyotes in North Dakota, my human parents having abandoned me at age seven because I was still colicky and chased cars. That's a story for another day, however; my research interest lay in finding pairs of identical twins, one of whom was raised by wild animals, and the other who grew up in a "twoleg home," to use a term favored by "wilders," as we refer to ourselves. You might think such a task overwhelming, but the feral community is surprisingly large and computer literate, though largely nocturnal and self-effacing, as you yourself might be if you couldn't stop licking your own butt. I eventually came up with 23 pairs of twins who qualified for the project and, thanks to a grant from the Purina Foundation, brought them together for a weekend of interviews at the Sourdough Cut 'n' Run Motor Inn. Thanks to the owners of that facility for their wonderful hospitality and forgiving nature towards "accidents" in the rooms!
I intend to write an operetta about this get-together eventually, but for now will merely highlight some interesting findings, which I unfortunately couldn't publish in traditional academic journals due to their bias against the actual existence of wilders. First off, regard the following distribution of the animal species that raised the study's wilders:
Chimps: Two
Wild boars: One
Wolves: Seven
Coyotes: Four
Black bears: Two
Snails: One
California condors: One
Narwhals: One
Kangaroos: Two
Goldfinches: One
Civet cats: Two
Next, regard the occupations of the feral twins, followed by each wilder's sib's respective occupation (in parentheses):
Carpenter (butcher)
Miller (chemist)
Jockey (obstetrician)
Mayor (mayor)
TV anchorman (Walmart greeter)
Walmart greeter (Walmart greeter)
Walmart greeter (Kmart greeter)
Pediatric neurosurgeon (shepherd)
Felon (swim coach)
Psychiatrist (endodontist)
Welder (blackjack dealer)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (vice-president of the United States)
Professional clown for Christ (locksmith)
Astonishing! Complicated statistical tests including the transmogrification of the means squared cubed, the Rowdybush intraformative paralleled simplex conjugation and the Idontseeitt-Dooyew inversion conversion all corroborate what you probably noticed yourself: none of the subjects was a police officer! Let's turn next to the battery of neuropsychological and personality testing we administered to see if this sheds any light on the old genes/environment contretemps. All participants took the Scholossberg-Leapfrogg Characterologic Survey, the Rhode Island Short Version Intelligence Test, the Barney EEG Olfaction Index, the Whiski Rae Shamrock Sociability Instrument and the Balzac Five-Dimensional Feral Conformity Form ( or BFDFCF). This last test is of especial interest to me as I developed it. It is a twenty question self-administered survey that is 95% sensitive and specific in detecting individuals who at some point in their lives have been raised by nonhuman parents for six or more consecutive months. Take a moment and take the test yourself:
1) I have howled at the moon more than three times in the last thirty days (y/n).
2) I hate to eat with my hands (y/n).
3) I growl when others sniff my crotch (y/n).
4) I moisten envelopes with my own urine (y/n).
5) I believe that thunder is the world's greatest threat to peace (y/n).
6) I have humped something I've later eaten (y/n).
7) I sometimes dream I'm chasing rabbits who work for FedEx and ride skateboards on my sidewalk (y/n).
8) I know somebody who's died of rabies (y/n).
9) I enjoy rolling in putrescent entrails (y/n).
10) I cannot identify a single pastel color (y/n).
11) I can smell a spiral cut ham from a mile away (y/n).
12) I chew grass for dyspepsia (y/n).
13) I believe it's a sin to waste good vomit (y/n).
14) I can tell when somebody is about to suffer a seizure (y/n).
15) I believe that "doggy-style" is synonomous with "the missionary position" (y/n).
16) I shake hands shamelessly for insincere praise and a dessicated offal treat (y/n).
17) I believe the world's worst euphemism is "The Humane Society" (y/n).
18) I would rather eat a pair of slippers than wear them (y/n).
19) I get a hard-on whenever I watch "Lady and the Tramp" (y/n).
20) I shit regularly in my neighbor's yard (y/n).
Did you answer more than six questions in the affirmative? If so, there's a three out of four chance that you were once a feral child. A "yes" answer to ten or more questions and it's virtually certain you're a wilder.
Now for the kicker: twenty-one of the twenty-three controls scored above eight on this survey. I will emphasize again that these are the sibs in each twinship who were reared by people, not creatures of sky, field or stream. Give this test to the average schmuck on the street, and it's unlikely he'll respond positively to even one item. Nature, therefore, seems to best nurture in this rather dramatic study. Or does it?
I'm sure you can come up with many cavils and perhaps even a serious objection or two to my project. Such as how do I explain the finding that the controls scored in the range where they should be wilders, yet all insisted they were not? My interpretation of the data suggests that while the identical twin control group overwhelmingly displayed the same root personality traits of their feral sibs, the controls responded to the civilizing balm of their loving families. Nurture ultimately prevailed in a singularly rare setting—for the controls. As for us wilders, well, I can only conclude it's somehow bred deeper yet in our bones to run free.
Unlike that fucking twoleg twin of mine, Claude Balzac, DDS.
If you held a .44 magnum Ruger Blackhawk to my temple and cocked the hammer, while someone else poked a shiv against my larynx, and someone else again was squirting model airplane cement on my shoes and firing up a Bernzomatic torch, and my eyelids were propped open with hairpins so I couldn't not watch the twenty-four hour looped reruns of "Manimal" playing on a 104 inch plasma screen eight feet in front of me, I'd still have a hard time spitting out my answer. But if you had merely said "please" first and smiled pleasantly, I'd tell you nature trumps nurture every time save one.
A few years back,I conducted a study which capably illustrates my opinion. I was working at The Gladys T. and Royce J. Moritmer University On-line Hospital as a research psychiatrist when I conceived of a project I hoped would drive a stake into the heart of the old and wearisome nature versus nuture debate. I have long had both a personal and professional interest in the feral community, as I myself was raised by coyotes in North Dakota, my human parents having abandoned me at age seven because I was still colicky and chased cars. That's a story for another day, however; my research interest lay in finding pairs of identical twins, one of whom was raised by wild animals, and the other who grew up in a "twoleg home," to use a term favored by "wilders," as we refer to ourselves. You might think such a task overwhelming, but the feral community is surprisingly large and computer literate, though largely nocturnal and self-effacing, as you yourself might be if you couldn't stop licking your own butt. I eventually came up with 23 pairs of twins who qualified for the project and, thanks to a grant from the Purina Foundation, brought them together for a weekend of interviews at the Sourdough Cut 'n' Run Motor Inn. Thanks to the owners of that facility for their wonderful hospitality and forgiving nature towards "accidents" in the rooms!
I intend to write an operetta about this get-together eventually, but for now will merely highlight some interesting findings, which I unfortunately couldn't publish in traditional academic journals due to their bias against the actual existence of wilders. First off, regard the following distribution of the animal species that raised the study's wilders:
Chimps: Two
Wild boars: One
Wolves: Seven
Coyotes: Four
Black bears: Two
Snails: One
California condors: One
Narwhals: One
Kangaroos: Two
Goldfinches: One
Civet cats: Two
Next, regard the occupations of the feral twins, followed by each wilder's sib's respective occupation (in parentheses):
Carpenter (butcher)
Miller (chemist)
Jockey (obstetrician)
Mayor (mayor)
TV anchorman (Walmart greeter)
Walmart greeter (Walmart greeter)
Walmart greeter (Kmart greeter)
Pediatric neurosurgeon (shepherd)
Felon (swim coach)
Psychiatrist (endodontist)
Welder (blackjack dealer)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (unemployed)
Unemployed (vice-president of the United States)
Professional clown for Christ (locksmith)
Astonishing! Complicated statistical tests including the transmogrification of the means squared cubed, the Rowdybush intraformative paralleled simplex conjugation and the Idontseeitt-Dooyew inversion conversion all corroborate what you probably noticed yourself: none of the subjects was a police officer! Let's turn next to the battery of neuropsychological and personality testing we administered to see if this sheds any light on the old genes/environment contretemps. All participants took the Scholossberg-Leapfrogg Characterologic Survey, the Rhode Island Short Version Intelligence Test, the Barney EEG Olfaction Index, the Whiski Rae Shamrock Sociability Instrument and the Balzac Five-Dimensional Feral Conformity Form ( or BFDFCF). This last test is of especial interest to me as I developed it. It is a twenty question self-administered survey that is 95% sensitive and specific in detecting individuals who at some point in their lives have been raised by nonhuman parents for six or more consecutive months. Take a moment and take the test yourself:
1) I have howled at the moon more than three times in the last thirty days (y/n).
2) I hate to eat with my hands (y/n).
3) I growl when others sniff my crotch (y/n).
4) I moisten envelopes with my own urine (y/n).
5) I believe that thunder is the world's greatest threat to peace (y/n).
6) I have humped something I've later eaten (y/n).
7) I sometimes dream I'm chasing rabbits who work for FedEx and ride skateboards on my sidewalk (y/n).
8) I know somebody who's died of rabies (y/n).
9) I enjoy rolling in putrescent entrails (y/n).
10) I cannot identify a single pastel color (y/n).
11) I can smell a spiral cut ham from a mile away (y/n).
12) I chew grass for dyspepsia (y/n).
13) I believe it's a sin to waste good vomit (y/n).
14) I can tell when somebody is about to suffer a seizure (y/n).
15) I believe that "doggy-style" is synonomous with "the missionary position" (y/n).
16) I shake hands shamelessly for insincere praise and a dessicated offal treat (y/n).
17) I believe the world's worst euphemism is "The Humane Society" (y/n).
18) I would rather eat a pair of slippers than wear them (y/n).
19) I get a hard-on whenever I watch "Lady and the Tramp" (y/n).
20) I shit regularly in my neighbor's yard (y/n).
Did you answer more than six questions in the affirmative? If so, there's a three out of four chance that you were once a feral child. A "yes" answer to ten or more questions and it's virtually certain you're a wilder.
Now for the kicker: twenty-one of the twenty-three controls scored above eight on this survey. I will emphasize again that these are the sibs in each twinship who were reared by people, not creatures of sky, field or stream. Give this test to the average schmuck on the street, and it's unlikely he'll respond positively to even one item. Nature, therefore, seems to best nurture in this rather dramatic study. Or does it?
I'm sure you can come up with many cavils and perhaps even a serious objection or two to my project. Such as how do I explain the finding that the controls scored in the range where they should be wilders, yet all insisted they were not? My interpretation of the data suggests that while the identical twin control group overwhelmingly displayed the same root personality traits of their feral sibs, the controls responded to the civilizing balm of their loving families. Nurture ultimately prevailed in a singularly rare setting—for the controls. As for us wilders, well, I can only conclude it's somehow bred deeper yet in our bones to run free.
Unlike that fucking twoleg twin of mine, Claude Balzac, DDS.
11 September 2007
Skin Care
Here's a five-minute health tip from my wife, Dr. Whiski Rae Shamrock, the noted proctodermatologist and lyric poet:
Gentle friends,
Ever wonder what to do about those pesky carbuncles that pop up in the most embarrassing places at the most inconvenient times? Back when I was working my way through Tulane University as a pole dancer and palmist for an illegal riverboat casino, I suffered from contact dermatitis I developed through an allergy to the nickel alloy that sheathed the poles. An older dancer who went by the name of "Gator Ethel" tipped me off to a home remedy she swore cured her of skin ailments of all sorts, from venereal warts to rashes to psoriasis to dermatitis to carbuncles. "You name it, it works," was Gator Ethel's motto for matters both dermatologic and otherwise. I first met the old bawd when I was a young dancer who compensated for my shyness in stripping by working the pole energetically—too energetically, as it turned out.
"You rubben that nutria pelt of yores too rough on that ol' pole," the Cajun maven observed. "You get youself too sore, cher, you gonna break out first in a rash, and then them carbunklies will sprout and my, my but them devils hurts like sin. Here's a secret for you: find some screech owl eggs right before them babies hatch, crack th' shells open and make a paste outta them little fledglies by mixen them up in a bowl of crawfish etouffee that's been boilen in a cast iron pot over a wood fire for a day an' a night. Then let th' mixture cool off and pour enough heavy cream into it to whiten it up good, add a little corn starch to bind it together, and go to a graveyard at night. Find a grave of a dead baby and lie down onto it for th' night and smear all's your sores and rashes with th' paste. Rise up at dawn and say th' Lord's prayer over th' grave and walk home backwards. Once you back in you own house, take a long bath. Stay naked th' remainder of th' day an' eschew copulation. Repeat this treatment every-other night for a week an' then you cured. See my skin, how clear it look and I'm almost 40? I weren't born wi' this good skin, I earned it. You remember this, cher. You looken like me when you old. That's th' Gator Ethel way, th' Cajun way, th' swamp way.
"Another remedy is to use that Dove soap an' hydrocortisone cream you gets from Wal-mart. That works as well about as th' treatment above. It's definitely th' choice of screech owls everywhere."
Next week's skin care tip will tell you how to keep your hands soft and supple even if you sift through gravel for a living.
Yours for the biggest organ of the body,
Whiski Rae
Gentle friends,
Ever wonder what to do about those pesky carbuncles that pop up in the most embarrassing places at the most inconvenient times? Back when I was working my way through Tulane University as a pole dancer and palmist for an illegal riverboat casino, I suffered from contact dermatitis I developed through an allergy to the nickel alloy that sheathed the poles. An older dancer who went by the name of "Gator Ethel" tipped me off to a home remedy she swore cured her of skin ailments of all sorts, from venereal warts to rashes to psoriasis to dermatitis to carbuncles. "You name it, it works," was Gator Ethel's motto for matters both dermatologic and otherwise. I first met the old bawd when I was a young dancer who compensated for my shyness in stripping by working the pole energetically—too energetically, as it turned out.
"You rubben that nutria pelt of yores too rough on that ol' pole," the Cajun maven observed. "You get youself too sore, cher, you gonna break out first in a rash, and then them carbunklies will sprout and my, my but them devils hurts like sin. Here's a secret for you: find some screech owl eggs right before them babies hatch, crack th' shells open and make a paste outta them little fledglies by mixen them up in a bowl of crawfish etouffee that's been boilen in a cast iron pot over a wood fire for a day an' a night. Then let th' mixture cool off and pour enough heavy cream into it to whiten it up good, add a little corn starch to bind it together, and go to a graveyard at night. Find a grave of a dead baby and lie down onto it for th' night and smear all's your sores and rashes with th' paste. Rise up at dawn and say th' Lord's prayer over th' grave and walk home backwards. Once you back in you own house, take a long bath. Stay naked th' remainder of th' day an' eschew copulation. Repeat this treatment every-other night for a week an' then you cured. See my skin, how clear it look and I'm almost 40? I weren't born wi' this good skin, I earned it. You remember this, cher. You looken like me when you old. That's th' Gator Ethel way, th' Cajun way, th' swamp way.
"Another remedy is to use that Dove soap an' hydrocortisone cream you gets from Wal-mart. That works as well about as th' treatment above. It's definitely th' choice of screech owls everywhere."
Next week's skin care tip will tell you how to keep your hands soft and supple even if you sift through gravel for a living.
Yours for the biggest organ of the body,
Whiski Rae
06 September 2007
Roughrider
It's not often that the bowel habits of a president of the United States of America are openly discussed, excepting James Monroe's famous bout of the "whiskey shits" when he was touring the Western Reserve with his wife and fell crapulously ill from consuming too much drink and tainted pork. And most scholars are familiar with President Eisenhower's difficulties during World War II when, as the Supreme Allied Commander, he was completely "bound up" for ninety-seven days preceeding the Normandy invasion, after the success of which campaign he spent nearly a week excreting, in his own words, "a mound of night soil half the size of Salina, Kansas." And a recent email disclosed an interesting anecdote concerning flatulence and Theodore Roosevelt. This information comes from one of Roosevelt's lesser-know works, "If I Did It," a speculative exercise in which TR meditated on the possibility that he himself assassinated President William McKinley. Hats off to Dr. Juan Mendocino, the Scholl Professor of Insoles at Guam Podiatric College, for bringing this fascinating incident to my attention. Here, then, is an excerpt drawn from the book's opening paragraphs:
I was sitting in the White House one evening in 1903 enjoying a snifter of brandy with none other than Samuel Langhorne Clemens, the celebrated humorist better known as Mark Twain, the truest American of his times, and a man who thoroughly hated me for my assertive foreign policy and powerful physique. Yet Mr. Clemens was so entertaining and refulgent a fellow I couldn't begrudge him his strong opinions, and so the two of us met on occasion in my private chambers and regaled each other with stories from our frontier days, he of his youth spent on the Great River and in the Nevada Territory mining camps, while I "bent his ear" with tales of my ranching experiences in North Dakota and my service in Cuba during the Spanish-American War. We appreciated that we were both natural raconteurs, I think, and often competed to "outshine" one another. As Mr. Clemens was a literary and comedic genius and I am not, I invariably lost these contests, save for one day when I asked him what he thought of "horse biscuits."
"I can't say I've heard of them," the great man said. "The phrase suggests a tepid oath a schoolmarm might utter should wind slip from her nether cheeks and rattle her underskirts just so," he said, lifting one of his own buttocks and squeaking out a high, keening fart.
I chortled mercilessly for a full minute before collecting myself. "Hardly, sir," I replied while removing my glasses and drying my eyes. "You are simply incorrigible, Mr. Clemens, and our world is far the better for it. A horse biscuit is a Western comestible camp cookies bake with bits of charcoal mixed into the cornmeal to settle the stomachs of saddle-worn cowhands bloated by three daily meals of sorghum, mustard and beans. I have a humble story to share concerning horse biscuits and an evening I spent with Admiral Dewey, Lily Langtry, Pope Leo XIII, Buffalo Bill Cody."
The old gent arched his snowy brows and extracted from a silver case his third cheroot of the evening, a primitive-looking cigar my own asthma forbade me from sampling despite his kind offer of one and my desire to so indulge myself.
"Speak on," he instructed after lighting up his smoke, his eyes twinkling with anticipation.
I nodded and cleared my throat. "After my election as governor of New York in 1898, my wife and I sailed to Glasgow for a short vacation prior to assuming my post at the helm of the Empire State. We left our children in the able care of their nannies, and anticipated a restful holiday as guests of Laird and Lady Loosestrife at their manor in the Highlands, where I intended to chase down on foot one of the estate's fabled red stags, then strangle it with my bare hands in the manner of the ancient Pict chieftains, for whom such an act was crucial were they to lead and inspire their people properly."
"Barbaric," Mr. Clemens observed. "Theodore, you are the basest savage I know."
"Coming from you that is a compliment, sir," I answered, though I flushed at his impertinence.
"You are lying," he accused, "but please, continue."
"We disembarked our ship, the HMS Aethelred the Unready, and were met by a fine hansom sent by the laird, which took us thence to the rail station and a private train. Six hours later and Mrs. Roosevelt and I were comfortably ensconced in our suite at Loosestrife Castle. We had just enough time for a vigorous romp on a bearskin rug, then we cleansed ourselves of man-milt and daisy-dew and dressed in evening wear for the formal dinner at seven o'clock."
Mr. Clemens revolved his hands urgently. "Get to the point, Theodore. No wonder I find your books unreadable. You meander more than the North Platte River. I fear we're already trapped in some shallow oxbow lake like a pair of fat and phlegmatic catfish suffocating in the mud."
I quelled a violent impulse to cane the old man for speaking so rudely to the president and resumed my story. "We entered the dining room to find an unexpected extravaganza: a dozen or more guests were sitting around the table, dressed from head to toe in buckskins, including the laird and lady, who, like the others, were festooned with bandoliers of ammunition, their faces virtually hidden under the gigantic cowboy hats that occupied their heads. I confess that my speaking faculties were addled temporarily, an affliction otherwise wholly unknown to me, and that my jaw hung slack in imitation of the lowliest manga-manga gawping at a society ball. Mrs. Roosevelt herself seemed more amused than flustered; I learned presently she was in on the surprise. Laird Loosestrife rose and seized me by the elbow, escorting me to my chair and welcoming me thusly to his home:
"Guv'nor, we cannae sae tae ye whoo glod we aire tha' lak nae talkn't. Kraik ne och ah mae cluve wi' ye. Sup' ye wi' a dram and setten' thee ach wi' haggis an' leekie an' 'ear tha' pipers 'k'le't'ae'q. Aye?"
"While it's the English the Scots despise, it's their language they assail," Mr. Clemens noted.
"Indeed," I said. "Fortunately, I was hauled from the depths of confusion and thrown onto the banks of incredulity when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see my old friend Buffalo Bill Cody.
"Why you slumgullinoed, bandy-legged, cattle-humping old bison-killer, what in the sweet name of Odin are you doing here, and why is everybody dressed like either you or Calamity Jane?" I ejaculated.
Bill grinned and threw his arm around me. "We're celebrating," he finally said.
"Celebrating what?"
"Your win, you fool. You are soon to be the governor of the most populous and influential state in the Union. I'd say that warrants a party. Come now, I've got a special outfit you can change into, then I'll introduce you to our guests."
"Theodore, you're rambling again," Mr. Clemens scolded. "Let me help you out while you refill my brandy. You put on your Western togs, met everybody at the table, and either told them about horse biscuits or contrived to have some actually made. Some of the guests tittered when you described the pastries' original purpose. Perhaps the yammering laird demonstrated their raison d'etre, as I just might again myself. No, sorry, nothing's brewing within right now, but you'll be the first to know once it does. Am I right so far? Did you eat cowboy cuisine? Did that old blackguard Bill Cody, this continent's exterminator-in-chief, entertain the guests with a twirling lariat and blindfolded shooting tricks? Did Admiral Dewey propose the invasion of Scotland to acquire additional heather and gorse land to sate his colonial masters? Did Pope Leo the Doddering die during dessert, and if so, did anyone notice? Did Lily Langtry strip naked and sing crude songs while writhing in a tub of porridge? And did you somehow govern the event to demonstrate that New Yorkers who exercised their franchise elected the right man to lead them into the new century?"
Damnable miscreant! I thought. Mr. Clemens hadn't a respectful bone in his body, and while indifference to power can be admirable, he'd gone too far in joshing me. I determined it was therefore time to end our evening. "You're all too clever, Mark Twain," I said, calling him by his nom de plume. "You're a very clever man. The meal unfolded almost exactly as you said, save for that Pope Leo XIII writhed in the mush with Miss Langtry, and seemed very much alive while doing so. And you missed one small detail. It's perhaps too trifling to mention, though. I think we should finish our drinks and bid each other a good night. We're invading Quebec tomorrow, and I need to sign off on the plans."
Mr. Clemens didn't miss a beat, as the youth of today might say. "I see that I've riled you, Theodore, and while I consider you a fifth-rate despot, you've always been a good host to me and an entertaining interlocutor. Excuse my sense of mischief, then, Mr. President, and please finish your tale."
I smiled wanly at this old Missourian, who surely ranked as one of the most famous men in the world, and decided then to put one over on him. "Kindly strike a match, sir, and hold it a foot from your face. I know this is an odd request, but humor me."
Mr. Clemens cocked his head sceptically but obliged me. I picked up the decanter of brandy, poured a goodly amount into a cupped hand, and rubbed the liquour into the seat of my pants. I then turned so my bottom fronted the match, and let loose with a great fart that broke like a thunderclap, the gaseous expulsion mixing with the alcohol that was volatilizing from my trousers, and rushing toward the match's little flame like a jet from the sun's surface. I regret I couldn't see the resulting firestorm, but it was spectacular enough to extinguish Mr. Clemens's cigar by consuming all the surrounding oxygen. His whispy white aureole of hair was slightly singed, but he was unhurt, though shocked speechless himself.
"I'm afraid I must be going," I said. "Intestinal problems, as you can see. I need a couple of horse biscuits right now, so if you'll excuse me I'll let my footman show you to your carriage. As always, a pleasure, sir," I said, bowing.
The next day my man brought me a telegram from Mr. Clemens, which read: 'You win, Theodore. Sam.'
And so I had.
I was sitting in the White House one evening in 1903 enjoying a snifter of brandy with none other than Samuel Langhorne Clemens, the celebrated humorist better known as Mark Twain, the truest American of his times, and a man who thoroughly hated me for my assertive foreign policy and powerful physique. Yet Mr. Clemens was so entertaining and refulgent a fellow I couldn't begrudge him his strong opinions, and so the two of us met on occasion in my private chambers and regaled each other with stories from our frontier days, he of his youth spent on the Great River and in the Nevada Territory mining camps, while I "bent his ear" with tales of my ranching experiences in North Dakota and my service in Cuba during the Spanish-American War. We appreciated that we were both natural raconteurs, I think, and often competed to "outshine" one another. As Mr. Clemens was a literary and comedic genius and I am not, I invariably lost these contests, save for one day when I asked him what he thought of "horse biscuits."
"I can't say I've heard of them," the great man said. "The phrase suggests a tepid oath a schoolmarm might utter should wind slip from her nether cheeks and rattle her underskirts just so," he said, lifting one of his own buttocks and squeaking out a high, keening fart.
I chortled mercilessly for a full minute before collecting myself. "Hardly, sir," I replied while removing my glasses and drying my eyes. "You are simply incorrigible, Mr. Clemens, and our world is far the better for it. A horse biscuit is a Western comestible camp cookies bake with bits of charcoal mixed into the cornmeal to settle the stomachs of saddle-worn cowhands bloated by three daily meals of sorghum, mustard and beans. I have a humble story to share concerning horse biscuits and an evening I spent with Admiral Dewey, Lily Langtry, Pope Leo XIII, Buffalo Bill Cody."
The old gent arched his snowy brows and extracted from a silver case his third cheroot of the evening, a primitive-looking cigar my own asthma forbade me from sampling despite his kind offer of one and my desire to so indulge myself.
"Speak on," he instructed after lighting up his smoke, his eyes twinkling with anticipation.
I nodded and cleared my throat. "After my election as governor of New York in 1898, my wife and I sailed to Glasgow for a short vacation prior to assuming my post at the helm of the Empire State. We left our children in the able care of their nannies, and anticipated a restful holiday as guests of Laird and Lady Loosestrife at their manor in the Highlands, where I intended to chase down on foot one of the estate's fabled red stags, then strangle it with my bare hands in the manner of the ancient Pict chieftains, for whom such an act was crucial were they to lead and inspire their people properly."
"Barbaric," Mr. Clemens observed. "Theodore, you are the basest savage I know."
"Coming from you that is a compliment, sir," I answered, though I flushed at his impertinence.
"You are lying," he accused, "but please, continue."
"We disembarked our ship, the HMS Aethelred the Unready, and were met by a fine hansom sent by the laird, which took us thence to the rail station and a private train. Six hours later and Mrs. Roosevelt and I were comfortably ensconced in our suite at Loosestrife Castle. We had just enough time for a vigorous romp on a bearskin rug, then we cleansed ourselves of man-milt and daisy-dew and dressed in evening wear for the formal dinner at seven o'clock."
Mr. Clemens revolved his hands urgently. "Get to the point, Theodore. No wonder I find your books unreadable. You meander more than the North Platte River. I fear we're already trapped in some shallow oxbow lake like a pair of fat and phlegmatic catfish suffocating in the mud."
I quelled a violent impulse to cane the old man for speaking so rudely to the president and resumed my story. "We entered the dining room to find an unexpected extravaganza: a dozen or more guests were sitting around the table, dressed from head to toe in buckskins, including the laird and lady, who, like the others, were festooned with bandoliers of ammunition, their faces virtually hidden under the gigantic cowboy hats that occupied their heads. I confess that my speaking faculties were addled temporarily, an affliction otherwise wholly unknown to me, and that my jaw hung slack in imitation of the lowliest manga-manga gawping at a society ball. Mrs. Roosevelt herself seemed more amused than flustered; I learned presently she was in on the surprise. Laird Loosestrife rose and seized me by the elbow, escorting me to my chair and welcoming me thusly to his home:
"Guv'nor, we cannae sae tae ye whoo glod we aire tha' lak nae talkn't. Kraik ne och ah mae cluve wi' ye. Sup' ye wi' a dram and setten' thee ach wi' haggis an' leekie an' 'ear tha' pipers 'k'le't'ae'q. Aye?"
"While it's the English the Scots despise, it's their language they assail," Mr. Clemens noted.
"Indeed," I said. "Fortunately, I was hauled from the depths of confusion and thrown onto the banks of incredulity when I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see my old friend Buffalo Bill Cody.
"Why you slumgullinoed, bandy-legged, cattle-humping old bison-killer, what in the sweet name of Odin are you doing here, and why is everybody dressed like either you or Calamity Jane?" I ejaculated.
Bill grinned and threw his arm around me. "We're celebrating," he finally said.
"Celebrating what?"
"Your win, you fool. You are soon to be the governor of the most populous and influential state in the Union. I'd say that warrants a party. Come now, I've got a special outfit you can change into, then I'll introduce you to our guests."
"Theodore, you're rambling again," Mr. Clemens scolded. "Let me help you out while you refill my brandy. You put on your Western togs, met everybody at the table, and either told them about horse biscuits or contrived to have some actually made. Some of the guests tittered when you described the pastries' original purpose. Perhaps the yammering laird demonstrated their raison d'etre, as I just might again myself. No, sorry, nothing's brewing within right now, but you'll be the first to know once it does. Am I right so far? Did you eat cowboy cuisine? Did that old blackguard Bill Cody, this continent's exterminator-in-chief, entertain the guests with a twirling lariat and blindfolded shooting tricks? Did Admiral Dewey propose the invasion of Scotland to acquire additional heather and gorse land to sate his colonial masters? Did Pope Leo the Doddering die during dessert, and if so, did anyone notice? Did Lily Langtry strip naked and sing crude songs while writhing in a tub of porridge? And did you somehow govern the event to demonstrate that New Yorkers who exercised their franchise elected the right man to lead them into the new century?"
Damnable miscreant! I thought. Mr. Clemens hadn't a respectful bone in his body, and while indifference to power can be admirable, he'd gone too far in joshing me. I determined it was therefore time to end our evening. "You're all too clever, Mark Twain," I said, calling him by his nom de plume. "You're a very clever man. The meal unfolded almost exactly as you said, save for that Pope Leo XIII writhed in the mush with Miss Langtry, and seemed very much alive while doing so. And you missed one small detail. It's perhaps too trifling to mention, though. I think we should finish our drinks and bid each other a good night. We're invading Quebec tomorrow, and I need to sign off on the plans."
Mr. Clemens didn't miss a beat, as the youth of today might say. "I see that I've riled you, Theodore, and while I consider you a fifth-rate despot, you've always been a good host to me and an entertaining interlocutor. Excuse my sense of mischief, then, Mr. President, and please finish your tale."
I smiled wanly at this old Missourian, who surely ranked as one of the most famous men in the world, and decided then to put one over on him. "Kindly strike a match, sir, and hold it a foot from your face. I know this is an odd request, but humor me."
Mr. Clemens cocked his head sceptically but obliged me. I picked up the decanter of brandy, poured a goodly amount into a cupped hand, and rubbed the liquour into the seat of my pants. I then turned so my bottom fronted the match, and let loose with a great fart that broke like a thunderclap, the gaseous expulsion mixing with the alcohol that was volatilizing from my trousers, and rushing toward the match's little flame like a jet from the sun's surface. I regret I couldn't see the resulting firestorm, but it was spectacular enough to extinguish Mr. Clemens's cigar by consuming all the surrounding oxygen. His whispy white aureole of hair was slightly singed, but he was unhurt, though shocked speechless himself.
"I'm afraid I must be going," I said. "Intestinal problems, as you can see. I need a couple of horse biscuits right now, so if you'll excuse me I'll let my footman show you to your carriage. As always, a pleasure, sir," I said, bowing.
The next day my man brought me a telegram from Mr. Clemens, which read: 'You win, Theodore. Sam.'
And so I had.
04 September 2007
Whiski Rae
So I met my wife when she came into the emergency room with a snapping turtle clamped down onto her right thumb. I was an intern at Charity Hospital in New Orleans back in the eighties doing a rotation through the casualty ward, as the Brits call it, and I'd been up for three straight days and nights and only God knows how I made it through that month without cracking up from the sleep deps, as we medicoes referred to them, those hazy, hallucinatory times when your sensorium is all jangled and smeared and fractured and twisted, when black is white and right, left, and nothing is so goddamned interesting or hilarious as your big meaty hand hovering in front of your own face like some little dirigible setting sail from your body until poof! It's gone but you're still here, minus part of your limb, minus the most useful part of your limb at that.
I'm Dusty, I said to a pretty young brunette who was wearing shorts and a tank top, with the snapper snapped onto her hitchin' digit, as the Cajuns call a thumb. Where'd you run into that turkle that's biting you? I asked.
Lake Poncho, she replied. I'm the coxswain of the Tulane women's crew team. I dropped my megaphone in the lake and the snapper intercepted me when I reached for it.
I poked at the reptile's head with a forceps and got no more response than if it were a pork fritter. Seems he's dead, I observed smartly. You kill him?
Sleeper hold, she replied. He's out cold. I can't prise his jaws apart, so I came here. Plus I reckoned I'd need a tetanus shot.
You're right about that, I agreed. As for this snapper, you're lucky he's just a baby.
Its bite still hurts, she said. You don't think I'll lose my thumb, do you?
No, no, it's still pinkish, I said, pointing to her nail bed. I've taken these fellers off before.
Hurry, would you? And can I have some morphine?
Sure, I answered. I didn't catch your name, though.
It's printed right there in the chart, she replied. I'm Whiski, she said. Whiski Rae Shamrock.
Nice name, I said, and I meant it, too. By now I was already in love.
Thanks, she said. Please, please get rid of this. I've got an econ test in an hour.
Roger, I replied. Whiski Rae wrinkled her pretty little nose and narrowed her eyes as I dug around in an instrument pack and extracted an orthopedic mallet. Brace yourself, I instructed as I whacked that turkle hard right where the neck pokes into the shell, as my Uncle Leon showed me once when we were poling skiffs through a swamp looking for duck eggs for the gimlets Unc Leon favored. We'd come upon a mama mallard a snapper had grabbed and was about to drown for his supper. Unc Leon swung a ball peen down quicker than a ninja and caught that snapper where it counts and the bird was freed, off she flew to lay more eggs for Unc's gimlets, that boy could drink them by the pitcher, but not me, buddy, I thought they tasted like piss in pickle juice. Anyway, I at least inherited his accuracy in knocking snappers, the turkle let go of Whiski Rae's thumb and tumbled down into me and I lost my purchase on the floor and fell hard, the snapper on top of me, and the sleeper hold didn't hold any more, quicker than you can say Jesus loves his mama! that cold blooded critter swung his naked primeval head around and bit me, not just anywhere, but right onto Private Harry Richard Johnson's helmet. Yow! I yowled. Yow! Yow!
Twenty-two years of marriage have passed since then and I still haven't met anybody who learns faster than Whiski Rae. Bum thumb and all, she picked up the mallet and clobbered that snapper, and the shot wasn't easy, I was writhing about screaming with the turkle hanging on, his jaws weren't big but it felt like I'd just doinked a rat trap, and the fear element was considerable as well, me being about twenty-seven years old and considering what life might be like if I came up short, so to speak, but Whiski lashed out with the mallet and caught the snapper where it counted and did him in, his short life of people chomping over. Private Johnson swelled to the size of a baguette for about a week, necessitating icing him down every hour or so. It took a few days for me to realize he'd lost his helmet, too: I was circumcised as neatly as if the turkle had been a mohel. As for Whiski and me, we got married a little over three months later. If you'll forgive the old pun, you could say it was love at first bite.
I'm Dusty, I said to a pretty young brunette who was wearing shorts and a tank top, with the snapper snapped onto her hitchin' digit, as the Cajuns call a thumb. Where'd you run into that turkle that's biting you? I asked.
Lake Poncho, she replied. I'm the coxswain of the Tulane women's crew team. I dropped my megaphone in the lake and the snapper intercepted me when I reached for it.
I poked at the reptile's head with a forceps and got no more response than if it were a pork fritter. Seems he's dead, I observed smartly. You kill him?
Sleeper hold, she replied. He's out cold. I can't prise his jaws apart, so I came here. Plus I reckoned I'd need a tetanus shot.
You're right about that, I agreed. As for this snapper, you're lucky he's just a baby.
Its bite still hurts, she said. You don't think I'll lose my thumb, do you?
No, no, it's still pinkish, I said, pointing to her nail bed. I've taken these fellers off before.
Hurry, would you? And can I have some morphine?
Sure, I answered. I didn't catch your name, though.
It's printed right there in the chart, she replied. I'm Whiski, she said. Whiski Rae Shamrock.
Nice name, I said, and I meant it, too. By now I was already in love.
Thanks, she said. Please, please get rid of this. I've got an econ test in an hour.
Roger, I replied. Whiski Rae wrinkled her pretty little nose and narrowed her eyes as I dug around in an instrument pack and extracted an orthopedic mallet. Brace yourself, I instructed as I whacked that turkle hard right where the neck pokes into the shell, as my Uncle Leon showed me once when we were poling skiffs through a swamp looking for duck eggs for the gimlets Unc Leon favored. We'd come upon a mama mallard a snapper had grabbed and was about to drown for his supper. Unc Leon swung a ball peen down quicker than a ninja and caught that snapper where it counts and the bird was freed, off she flew to lay more eggs for Unc's gimlets, that boy could drink them by the pitcher, but not me, buddy, I thought they tasted like piss in pickle juice. Anyway, I at least inherited his accuracy in knocking snappers, the turkle let go of Whiski Rae's thumb and tumbled down into me and I lost my purchase on the floor and fell hard, the snapper on top of me, and the sleeper hold didn't hold any more, quicker than you can say Jesus loves his mama! that cold blooded critter swung his naked primeval head around and bit me, not just anywhere, but right onto Private Harry Richard Johnson's helmet. Yow! I yowled. Yow! Yow!
Twenty-two years of marriage have passed since then and I still haven't met anybody who learns faster than Whiski Rae. Bum thumb and all, she picked up the mallet and clobbered that snapper, and the shot wasn't easy, I was writhing about screaming with the turkle hanging on, his jaws weren't big but it felt like I'd just doinked a rat trap, and the fear element was considerable as well, me being about twenty-seven years old and considering what life might be like if I came up short, so to speak, but Whiski lashed out with the mallet and caught the snapper where it counted and did him in, his short life of people chomping over. Private Johnson swelled to the size of a baguette for about a week, necessitating icing him down every hour or so. It took a few days for me to realize he'd lost his helmet, too: I was circumcised as neatly as if the turkle had been a mohel. As for Whiski and me, we got married a little over three months later. If you'll forgive the old pun, you could say it was love at first bite.
Hidey ho
Good morning and welcome to the first day of a medical adventure! I'm a physician whose main academic interest concerns lying in all its various forms and glories. Whether it's innocent misrepresentation or frankly heinous and damnable perjury, mendacity carries with it both virtues and vices. My main argument is that a phenomenon so ubiquitous and effortless as deceit must be useful, and that even a kind of splendor can ensue when a great fraud or whopper is perpertrated not merely on the most gullible and untutored rube, but on someone very much like you or me. Accordingly, reader, nothing written in any of these postings is true. DO NOT BELIEVE A WORD I WRITE!!! PARTICULARLY ANYTHING ABOUT HEALTH AND MEDICINE!!!
Why, you might wonder, would I waste my time or yours directing a thick stream of unmitigated bullshit on a world already wallowing up to its chin in this foul current? Why not instead illumine the dark corners of falsehood with blinding shafts of pure and shimmering light? Why not promote truth? Why not?
Because it's so boring, and so often so wrong. How many times have you read that some miracle diet, supplement, surgery or nostrum has been revealed not merely to be useless but injurious? Remember the great chromium scandal of 2000? The fluoridation scare of 1983? The shameful failures of penile extension surgeries? The Scurvy Controversy of 1893? The proven futiility of handwashing, flossing, a balanced diet and abstinence from bestiality? The robust and completely false assertion that yams cure yaws? Or that scabies causes scrapies?
You may curse me, dear reader, for being nothing more than an execrable liar of the meanest sort. But I have warned you, and I shall warn you each day, that nothing I post shall contain even the merest scintilla of truth, this sentence included. Enjoy and beware!
Why, you might wonder, would I waste my time or yours directing a thick stream of unmitigated bullshit on a world already wallowing up to its chin in this foul current? Why not instead illumine the dark corners of falsehood with blinding shafts of pure and shimmering light? Why not promote truth? Why not?
Because it's so boring, and so often so wrong. How many times have you read that some miracle diet, supplement, surgery or nostrum has been revealed not merely to be useless but injurious? Remember the great chromium scandal of 2000? The fluoridation scare of 1983? The shameful failures of penile extension surgeries? The Scurvy Controversy of 1893? The proven futiility of handwashing, flossing, a balanced diet and abstinence from bestiality? The robust and completely false assertion that yams cure yaws? Or that scabies causes scrapies?
You may curse me, dear reader, for being nothing more than an execrable liar of the meanest sort. But I have warned you, and I shall warn you each day, that nothing I post shall contain even the merest scintilla of truth, this sentence included. Enjoy and beware!
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