Friday, May 13, 2016

Feudo Psart

Mom looked at me. "I suppose you're going to go up to Boulder to see your father [usual poisonous tone] get that award?"

"I don't know, Mom," I said. "Maybe I will. But why do you care?"

"Oh, you'll go. You'll run off to see him get his biiig award. And what is he getting an award for? For being king of the jackasses?"

"Hm. That sounds about right. Or it's for writing sentences like:

'Politics, morals, survival — just about everything leads to money (all currency is money, not all money is currency). And complicity or not the big banks control it, all based on debt, primarily put into circulation through banks lending provisional money with some coming from government debt and spending. Either way, debt rules.'

"Mom? Mom??" I went over and gave her a good shake.

"What! What! Oh, sorry, this black wall just suddenly came up and hit me in the face."

"That would be Dad, Mom. That would be Dad. Or how about this juicy excerpt on Art:

'Pseudo art is entertainment, a superficial scramble for overt differentiation often making frivolous use of resources. An artist needing money for art is less for it, therefore art suffers the moment people start paying for it. Once art is done to advantage or for social utility, it is no longer art.'

Mom! MOM!"

Mom woke again, wiping the drool from her mouth. "Why is he so awful?"

"He's not awful. He's getting a medal of honor. And I hear they're building a statue to him as well..."

"Of course they are," Mom said. "And you'll just go running to worship him like everyone else."

"Mom, let it go. I beg of you. I know you feel Dad should be punished for June 1972, but the universe is a cruel, sadistic place. In fact, all roads lead to non-integrable biased injustice ha ha."

"I want you to have a relationship with your father."

"And I want you to not have a relationship with him."

"I don't."

"Yes, you do."

"I don't."

"You do."

"I don't."

"All right. You win. It's been forty-four years and he might as well be sitting here with us right now."

"Oh, what a terrible thought. He'd probably fart. He always had such bad gas."

"You know, it could be worse. He could be getting a medal of honor for mattress pounding."

"Please leave."

I went out the door. "I'll save you a seat, Mom...!"

"I hope HE BURNS IN HELL!! But please love your father. That's all I ask."

"Right. I'll make sure to throw vegetables at him--all of them heart-shaped."

"That's my boy!"

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