Jump to content


Thank You, Sadists

Posted by Dr. D , 15 October 2012 · 491 views

I want to begin by saying thank you for the many messages I received telling me how much my dementia was enjoyed.  However sadistic you have to be to say something like that, there was something especially rewarding in having some of you say that I am only stark raving mad.  Mad isn’t like dementia because some less illiterate people might think I was only angry.  I’m not angry, so I must be demented but it does make me a little angry that people would call me mad – or angry.  But if you’re really demented, things like that don’t matter -- at least, not for long.

My father was the cause of my dementia.  He was never there for me, not even at conception.   He was always away with other women and one of them became my mother.  I was left to fend for myself and I spent the first two years hunting for what the hell “fend” meant.  But I tried and failed and tried again until, at last, I found my fend in life.  I designed, manufactured, distributed and sold elevator buttons.  I specialized in the fourth floor.  I am proud to say that I could sell one of my classic line fourth-floor elevator buttons to the owner of a three-story building.  You’ve probably been in touch with one of my buttons but don’t start praising me, I am far too modest for praise and give all the credit to kharma.

It was Sylvia who started me writing.  She noticed in restaurants that if I had a funny thought and a runny nose, but only had one napkin and no paper, I’d rather use that napkin to write on than blow my nose. After all, that’s what sleeves are for.  She then said she insisted on paying separately.  She also insisted on eating separately, too, but I was on my career path at last.  I was going to be a great writer.  You know, great writers have long known that people like repetition.
 You know, great writers have long known that people like repetition.   We already know, however, that I am not like other people and I don’t like repetition. That’s why I never take walks, that right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot and on and on thing.

I knew at once that I had to be a romantic novelist.  My gift of description could not be denied.  In moments of inspiration I poured out beautiful phrases like, “Every time the wind blows I think of her.  I wonder if I could generate electricity off my yearning.  Maybe a mind wind farm of some kind.  Hopefully I could provide enough power for all the lonely people I invite to shower with me.”

I finally broke up with Sylvia but did it in such an elegant, literate way that she took no offense.  “Love has boundaries, like a map, and I guess that makes me a cartographer. Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re too topographical for my taste.”  And it was true; she was not the one for me.  She said that all I cared about was sex and food.  It wasn’t true.  Sometimes I thought about sex with food until Padre Manuel asked me to stop bringing my own food to the potlucks.

I know that she regretted the error of her ways later.  Once she read my classic outpourings of passion as found in my well-known Kama Sutra and Kamikaze Sex, “I love like a lawnmower in the desert.  I love like a solar-powered lunar vehicle.  I love like a wind-powered kite factory.  Some might even say I love like an ice cube in an oven, but I’d vehemently disagree. It’s not an ice cube, it’s an ice sculpture—of your heart, and it’s melting at this very moment.”  She didn’t fool me for a moment because I knew that if someone says you’re not right for them, they’re lying.  What they’re really trying to tell you is they want you to stalk them and show them how committed you really are.

To write well, you must love.  I love mankind.  And by mankind I mean women.  When I was in the second grade, I used to think love was the feeling a man gets while riding a motorcycle and having a woman embrace him tightly from behind.  Maybe I’m cynical now, but I’m starting to think love is a unicycle with a flat tire.

One of you – I dare not mention names – in fact, I can’t mention their name because they’re hiding behind an alias like some lowlife Mafia character in South Bronx – but one of you dear readers dared accuse me of writing in non sequiturs.  Non sequiturs, mind you, like they knew what a non sequitur really was.  Non sequitur, sounds like a woman removing their padded panties.  But do I know what a non sequitur is?  Do I know?  You ask, What is a non sequitur? And I say, “Blue love on a blue moon on Mr. Green’s greenback printing machine”, then I have given you an example of a non sequitur. But since you asked what a non sequitur was, the fact that I gave you a non sequitur as an answer means it most definitely is not a non sequitur, since it does follow logically.  Because it is means that it isn’t.  But because I gave you what you wanted, when you wanted what you didn’t want, then I didn’t give you what you wanted, thus giving you what you wanted. So it is a non sequitur, which means it isn’t.  But since it isn’t, when you expected it to be one, signals that it is.  So it is and it isn’t, all at the same time!

But back to the subject at hand: Sylvia.  So she suffers now in silence and I go about the daily task of becoming a literary immortal.  (That means my books will never die, it has nothing to do with me because I’m different from my books so I won’t physically be immortal.)  I work at it daily.  Just to get a head start on the next day, I eat breakfast the night before.  That way I can sleep until two in the afternoon.  I used to sometimes sleep all day.  I still do but I used to, too.  I enjoy the fact that I never know what I’m going to do next.  Yesterday I wanted to play tennis but I didn’t have any tennis balls so I bought Pringles instead.   I have to think of what to do next but then I realize that I’m already doing it – I’m thinking.

Just a final side note – I have now met another woman.  Don’t congratulate her yet, it’s still early.  Her name is Mimi and she has pale skin, blue eyes and red hair.  Every time I see her I want to put my hand over my heart and recite the Pledge of Allegiance.   Mimi and I have fun playing Towns.  I created a town named Away.  If you’re from a town called Away, when you’re home, you’re Away. But when you’re away, you’re not home.  See how it works?  I wanted to put it in the mountains but the mountains were closed because I wasn’t in Mountain Time.  Mimi put a lot of commerce and progress into her town and I was doing fine until the UFOs came.  I never believed in them, but that was before the abduction.  Now the only person who believes my story is my proctologist.

After that Mimi and I were walking in the country when we came across this haystack.  But that’s another story . . . .

Wordless Wanderer
Oct 15 2012 01:24 PM
You're too topographical for me- that's just brilliant. *makes mental note to use later*
  • Report

Biff Wellington
Oct 15 2012 10:05 PM
Where can I get one of these fancy shmancy 4th flour buttons at.
  • Report
I've always been fascinated with mezzanines, myself, the floors lack the sophistication, charm, and unexpectedness of mezzanines. Maybe you would know the answer to this question: Are all mezzanines between the first and second floor, and do they universally carry notions? They might be a good source of inspiration for your writing when you run out of fresh ideas. Do you know whose specializes in mezzanine buttons? But then buttons are notions, too, aren't they?  I wonder, did the Pringles crumble when you whacked them with the tennis racket, and was the racket enhanced by the Pringles or diminished? And while you say you love women, as the immortal Rudyard Kipling wrote, "a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a smoke". Really, that says it all, doesn't it?
  • Report