Saturday, March 26, 2005

Spy vs. Spy

I'm on page 28 of "A Short History of Progress" by Ronald Wright. It feels like the university-educated older brother of Daniel Quinn's "Ishmael," which reads like a manifesto for the disillusioned adolescent driven to live in a commune full of chain-smoking vegans and middle-aged swingers.

Readerdroid lent me the book right before taking off for Toronto, carpooling with an elderly man more in common with human traffickers than the newspaper deliverer that he is. Picture numerous graduate students huddled cheek to cheek inside a green transport van beside stacks of funny pages. It's like a scene out of a yet to be made TV movie starring Lucy Lawless as the old Mexican grandmother who, in Part I, traded her good eye for a high-carbed diet in America only to be crushed by a trash compactor in Part II.


I think M. Biologique spontaneously asked me if I made out with J.Lass (following a very long pause and my irregularly-placed "goodbye") not out of curiosity (he hates her) or clarification (we don't share common acquaintances to speak ill of) but because he was trying to further conceal my gender on the phone! What the fuck? Is his girlfriend so insecure that he resorts to treating female callers like Molly Ringwald at a fashion show? (As if his non sequitur "Study hard" for a farewell wasn't enough.) Pity that he thought he had to make a choice. This has given me a newfound faith in my sanity and reason to believe why couples are crazy (and, too often, corpse-like).

Remember ladies: Pussy-whipping might sound fun at first, but the only pussy you end up hurting is your own.

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