Alienation Effects in Chinese Waitering

Recently discovered in a cigar box: an unpublished set of notes for an unwritten article by the famous East Europeany-type playwright and communist scum-bag Bergamot Beck. It seems like near the end of his career the famous theoretician turned his attention from the stage to the world of foodie-blog criticism. He has certainly left us something to chew on! (don't laugh it's just a blog post).

Imagine yourself walking into any so-called "trendy" restaurant, such as Ottawa's "Town" - a dapper fellow with nice glasses and a slick Hitler youth haircut and a tattoo on the forearm winks your way and casually points you to a table. Watch entranced as he scrawls his precious name, Sydney, Idaho, or Aiden, on your paper table-cloth in a beautifully honed upside-down hand. Ask him anything about the menu; soon you discover he comes from somewhere, enjoys most of the food, has a beautiful smile, is quick witted, loves his band, mom, cat. Presumably your food arrives at some point.

This all-too entrenched form of waitering has, up until this century, been entirely empathetic, and in that sense, Aristotelian, that is, in line with the "cathartic" aspects of the food consumption experience.

Let us contrast the traditional "dramatic school" of Aristotle and the cathartic chefs with the Asian style of waitering. One notices the Chinese have developed the "alienation effect" entirely independently from that of the western Weimar-era Marxist producers (Piscator et al). This can be best observed in a highly developed form at Ottawa's Royal Thai restaurant, where the art of waitering has been honed to scientific exactitude. Before your coat is off you have a tea and a menu; within 30 seconds a new waiter brings you your drinks, inquiring if the bills will be together or separate and nothing about your interests in pomeranians.  Ask about the menu and the answer is either mechanistically accurate or misheard entirely, No divagations. You order food and it is on the notepad before it is off your lips, and a fourth waiter arrives shortly after with your appetizer etc.

At my recent excursion to the Royal Thai, the modes of behaviour shown by the waiters were of a social-historical sort. It was not the "eternally helpful man" that was at my beck and call, but rather the specific hustling encouragement of a man with a definite economic design on you and your wallet. It was the most socially cognizant performance I have seen in my entire career.

The dramatic school of waitering:
-waiters who are gregarious, talkative, sympatico;
- a single waiter to "take care of you";
-waiters with tattoos that they can explain
-make you feel at home at the restaurant;
-give "you guys" lots of time to settle in;
-engage you and your companion(s) on a personal level;
-the meal is a linear plot development that depends on the "effect of the whole";
-service in earnest

The epic school of waitering:
-has stoic waiters, curt, stand-offish
-will send a different waiter for each act, scene, dish, depending on the circumstances - interchangeable masks;
-waiters with tattoos they were branded with in a Chinese prisoner colony;
-will encourage you to eat as quickly and efficiently as possible;
-will have a menu in your face before your coat is off;
-will only treat you as a separate person if there are separate bills;
-the meal is generic and could be experienced in part or in episodes without loss to any "overall effect";
-service in "quotation marks"

The dignity of the thinking being is dependent on its eating habits. Is it not more worthy of a creature aware of its economic and social position to be waited upon in the "epic" manner?

For the dramatic restaurant, the customer always thinks "well, he was such a nice fellow. I should tip him extra" or "well but I felt nothing for her stand-offishness! I'll only give her a little."

In the epic restaurant, on the contrary, one thinks according to dialectical materialism: "everything was so as it was; it would be against the march of the economy not to tip!" In tipping the Chinese waiter, one has no room to tip individuals; one tips the entire culture, the historical and economic process itself.

One goes to the dramatic waiter if one wants to experience the so-called "timelessnesses" or "eternities" of a night filled with unforgettable memories; this is merely a culinary experience and serves as an opiate to the true meaning behind the social forces that encourage fine dining. One thinks "such a fine meal will never come again" and "what a perfect night!" instead of apprehending, coolly and without empathy, the socio-historical circumstances of the present mastication.

The epic waiters, on the contrary, emphasize the historical (transient) situationalism of THIS particular restaurant at THIS particular time - questions such as "why did I come here?" and "I could have gone anywhere else" speak to the true point of dining - that it is entirely and utterly socially determined - that meal types can and will change, have no eternal verities, but only in-stride with social progress. Fried tofu are a means and never an end.

Of course most of western society is not yet mature enough to demand the epic waiter; perhaps it must be forced by the avant-garde. Is it so crazy that we ask restaurants to rush ahead of their public, instead of always lagging behind? The school still requires much development before it is entirely ready to enforce the social change inherent in most forms of pad-thai cooking. Emotional exploitation of base subconscious sympathies must be stopped; it is time the eating public be treated also as a thinking public.

The Way of the Ladyboy

A sage and somber tract on the art of wussfare, by long time friend and artist/humorist/visionary Laura Lake. Read this thoroughly!

Inspired by the historical and literary outpourings of the good people at Kuten, I have decided to use my meager knowledge of the Japanese language to translate into the English language, for the first time, several excerpts from the work of the preeminent master of the onnagata’s art and all-around tranny, Mizuumi Gekkeiju (湖 月桂樹). While Mizuumi’s book mainly applies to the art of boys gussying up to pass themselves off as pretty women, the Japanese have long applied the broad lessons elaborated upon in her* classic manual on strategy, “The Way of the Lady Boy” to such far flung fields as business, robotics research, ramen noodle stand proprietorship, and swordsmanship.

* While politically correct western audiences sometimes ask which gender of pronoun Mizuumi preferred, because the most consistently applied pronoun of the native Japanese roughly translates as “honorable and august sage and progenitor of the revered sacred rites of the refined elegant emanations overflowing with ephemeral aesthetic paroxysms of satori rapture,” most contemporary English writers default to the feminine.

Introduction

I have been many years training in the Way of Strategy, the ultimate realization of which is my Way of the ladyboy. The tranny is one who has mastered strategy. Overwhelming the enemy’s capacity for sexual identification, they crush the foe’s spirit under the terrible might of their male representation of the feminine ideal. Wielding the power of aesthetics, they force their opponent to appreciate and adore them: men cannot help but find themselves maddeningly attracted, women are thrown into a jealous frenzy. This is what is meant by strategy.

From my youth I have immersed my heart in the study of becoming totally fabulous. I first cross-dressed at the age of thirteen, slaying the able effeminate Onna Mitai of the Roriita Fasshon school with this lovely dress and pinafore combination that was just to die for. At sixteen, I defeated the mighty bigot Douseiaiken’o no Ijimekko, who afterwards became one of those obnoxious gits who scream “We recruit” at gay pride parades. At twenty-one I began my effeminate's pilgrimage. Travelling the nation I overcame the heterosexuality of all manner of stud-muffins, never once failing to win their hearts though I had as many as sixty boyfriends... And no, I am not a slut, you're just jealous.

When I turned thirty, for the the fifth year in a row, I looked at myself in the mirror of my compact and concluded that my past victories were not due to my mastery of prettiness. Rather, it was because my opponent’s were too lacking in discernment and taste. As the years passed, I studied night and day to grasp the true way until at last I achieved it, at the age of thirty.

Putting on Foundation

Strategy is the craft of the tranny. There are many ways in this world. The Way of the drunken Japanese businessman, the Way of directing outlandish pornography, the Way of the obsessive hikikomori Otaku fanboy masterbator. Each practices as their character flaws dictate. While others have been known to be gorgeous, the Way of the Ladyboy is different in that it is based on gaining victory over the will of others. By vying against their foes in a battle of cunning, the tranny confounds their very sexuality, controlling their opponent and imposing upon them the belief that they are an attractive member of a sex which they are not.

Outfits

Every outfit has it’s place. The cartoonish hulagirl costume is preeminent over beach terrain while the mink coat is effective when fighting on snowy fronts such as the spot in hockey arena parking lots where zambonis go to take a dump. Even that risque ballerina costume you keep hidden in your closet can be put to good use while singing “Ding Dong the Witch is Dead” at your enemy’s funeral. A true strategies should have no preferences. They must be gorgeous in whatever manner the occasion demands.

In modern times there are many drag queens who insist on large breast forms while other’s swear by the more petite boob. This shows how degenerate the spirit of strategy has become today. The master strategist is not dependant upon cup size, but uses all the power at their disposal to force their opponent to want to fondle them. There is no drag queen alive in the world today who truly understands this art.

Comportment

To achieve the gaze of the master strategies one must slightly narrow one’s eyes. This gives the impression that you’d totally rather check out your own eyelashes than your opponent. Some people who are beguiled by the false strategy practiced in other schools, mostly high schools, favor pouty lips and that whole “sultry” look. This makes you look like a whore and is not the true way.

I dislike the three walking methods, “flutter-step,” “prancing-foot,” and “floaty stride.” The proper method of the true strategist is to stick one’s butt out and sashay.

Purse-Cutter

The Purse-Cutter is a powerful technique guaranteed to work against any but the most sissified of opponents. To perform this technique, grasp your short sword firmly in your right hand, but loosely, with the waggling limp-wristedness of a hysterical broad from a Fleischer Brothers cartoon. From there, draw the blade against your scrotum and castrate yourself. At this point your opponent should have passed out from shock. From here you may proceed to go to town with your make-up bag and doll them up like an 18th Century strumpet for your own amusement. The principal behind this technique is to confuse the enemy with notions about how much balls it takes to do such a thing. This technique is only really effective the one time.

Applying Rouge

If the Purse-Slicer fails, you're dealing with a first rate pantywaste, a dangerous foe indeed! Such an opponent is liable to make menstruation jokes at you with all the finesse of a contemporary lady comedian doing stand-up. The one defence against this technique is Applying Rouge. To unleash this devastating attack, spatter your enemy’s coat with your blood while screaming, “fur is murder!” If your opponent isn't wearing any fur, try throwing a cat at them first.

The Book of The Void

The highest realization of my way of strategy is this, my book of void. In order to attain the void, you must dwell upon the following precept: be what you would seem to be–or, if you’d like it put more simply–Never imagine yourself not to be otherwise than what it might appear to others that what you were or might have been was not otherwise than what you had been would have appeared to them to be otherwise. You must study this.

By being without being, and other cryptic, mystical hokum and harumscarum, you can maintain your feminine charms even when presenting in an outwardly masculine way. You'll be able rock the baggy boy jeans and dumpy men's hoodies while the fashionistas gush admiringly at your elegance. Others will applaud your lady-like poise as you squat emphatically and do your best Toshiro Mifune impression: “Hmm! Samurai!” You'll even be able to finally convince your boyfriend that as the girl in the relationship you really ought to be the pitcher rather than the catcher.

- MIZUUMI GEKKEIJU

A Catalog for The Discerning Reader

Sir Basil Paprika presents, in another disarmingly charming guest post, a catalog for the discerning reader...

In my capacity as an interpreter of human behavior and amateur psychologist, I have made it my business to sort through not just the greatest of human endeavors, but the refuse and dregs of mankind’s common cultural inheritance. I firmly believe that every idea, no matter how ridiculous it sounds at first, contains a spark of the divine genius that defines our species, that spark of brilliance that puts noble and creative words into the mouths of the young and old, the urban and rural, the rich and the poor alike. It is due to this conviction that I have spent much of my life retrieving from obscurity the discarded brainstorms of so many men and women not lacking in the power to write, merely the confidence to make it known. Often, this means sorting through trash bins. More often than not, one might say. I pay this distasteful task little mind, however, for the rewards are great, and by this I do not simply mean the possibility of acquiring a number of glassware artifacts that might be redeemed for great value at the nearest Liquor Control Board location, but the far more spiritually fulfilling reward of discovering a long-lost manuscript written by some aspiring author without the strength of will required to publish the work. These manuscripts, once retyped at the nearest library, have proved to not only provide enjoyment to many, but also serve as excellent material for cleansing oneself after using the facilities or bushes. Ablutions aside, the value of these documents is immense, and I have therefore commenced publishing them by theme, commencing with those I found covered in some variation of brown sauce. Coincidentally, all those documents are also all stories intended for children that, for one reason or another, never made it to market. I hope it pleases the little tykes even more than staring at my admittedly grotesque face. Gentle reader, for now, consider the following to be a catalogue of interesting works, all of which can be ordered for a small consideration, simply by addressing a letter to the following address:

47 Underthebridge St.
Livingstonipresumeton,
Greenwich Province,
Canada (UK)

Thank you for your attention,
Major Sir Basil Marjoram Paprika (Esq.) (BA, MA, PhD, LLB., T&A, BSc, BS, LoL) (Mad)

1.
Title: How The Nazis Stole Five Christmases: An Explanation of WWII for Children
Excerpt:
“…But whatever the reason, his heart or his shoes, Hitler stood there on Christmas Eve, hating the Jews.”

2.
Title: The Raven-Haired Whore
Excerpt:
“…Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the crazy hot decorum of the countenance she wore,
`Though thy legs be long and sexy, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
With hair the colour raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy business here is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the girl, `I’m a whore.' ”

3.
Title: Lamb-Chop’s Sing Along Song Book!
Includes all lyrics to all songs, including the world famous Song that Never Ends. Volumes 1-57 available now, more to be printed soon.

4.
Title: A Children’s Hand book on How to be Gay in 20 easy steps!
Includes easy to follow diagrams on positioning, ratings of various bathroom stalls, and instructions for fundamentally altering your personality and sexual orientation for the sole purpose of disappointing parents. This book will not only indoctrinate young people irreversibly with the homosexual lifestyle, but will also teach them how to convert others to the worldwide homosexual conspiracy.
Excerpt:
“…thus positioned, take the elastic band and use it on your partner in the manner shown in Figure C. Now get in there and go nuts on those nuts! Don’t forget to use the techniques taught in the last chapter!”
Praise:
“This is just the book I’ve been pretending existed for years!”
-Rev. Pat Robinson and others

5.
Title: Let’s Learn: Bureaucracy!
Excerpt:
Fred the talking Form 12787: ‘So kids, now that we’ve seen the smooth, streamlined, and fun process of acquiring a working visa from the PCTH Bureau through filling out GQH Forms 11 through 54 and inquiring at the VBC desk as to your LKLKLK status while creating a Open Non-Disclosed Disclosure Account (ONDDA), we’ll take a look at how to make actioning work items even MORE fun!’

FUN-ocracy Phil: ‘But don’t forget to fill out the general information section on the next page – it’s required for us to ship the next chapter to you! It should get there in only 1 to 7 months!’

Praise:
“Even better than taking your kids on a tour of a sausage factory!”
-Ben Borington, Department of Administrative Affairs

6.
Title: The Princess and the Penis
Excerpt:
“…and so the princess peeled off layer after layer of covering, searching and searching for that tiny little annoyance that kept her awake all night with its poking and prodding.”
Praise:
“Great puns!”
-No one

7.
Title: Treasury Island
Excerpt:
“…More than half the marketable Treasury debt outstanding is in the form of notes, while bills and bonds each represent about 20 percent (chart 3). Some of the outstanding bonds are callable securities, which may be redeemed by the Treasury before their maturity; however, only noncallable securities have been issued since 1985.”

8.
Title: An Illustrated History of the Children’s Crusades For Children
Excerpt:
“These were thousands and thousands of children just like you, except that they were poor and hungry and forced to leave behind their parents (if they had any), and they all, ALL died, and they died because they loved God and wanted to do some good for the world. Here’s a picture of one of them being sold into slavery by a rich French knight, who was assigned to protect him and whom he deeply and implicitly trusted.”

On Beards

My dear Friend and Kutenist Sir Basil Paprika continues his October onslaught with a dissertation on the beard, its provenance, relevance, and maintenance. I have not met with a finer piece on the matter. An interesting detail - like all great anthropologists and scientists, Spencer is himself removed from his object of study - Jane Goodall was no chimp, Levi-Strauss no savage - Spencer McB is himself a beardless man. His objective viewpoint, and his fascination, can thus be readily explained - sprout on, noble father, sprout on!

With the inevitable approach of Movember and the haggard attempts to sprout magnificent plumes of moustache hair where none had been seen before that will soon be in evidence everywhere, I have been put in the mind of contemplating the reasoning behind facial hair of all types, and thinking about why our culture gives a shit.

Having begun with Movember, I will now stop talking about moustaches at all, and start talking about beards.  (What a segue!  Genius.) The Romans, progenitors of most of our cultural heritage, were almost all clean shaven, and this was back in the day when shaving meant scraping a newly sharpened knife or sword across your face.  Shaving took commitment.  To see a bearded man walking up and down the Via Appia, casually purchasing slaves or participating in orgies, was almost unheard of.  Only Emperors were allowed out in the streets with unshorn faces, and even they didn’t really know what they were doing when it came to beard styles.  Nero’s horror-inspiring neck beard made him, as it was so well put by cartoonist Kate Beaton, “look like a dickhead”.[1]  But how did this tradition of theirs begin?  After all, beards are awesome, aren’t they?  And the Romans were certainly awesome enough to merit awesome beards.  Well, it seems that the Romans didn’t shave at all until Scipio Africanus got it into his head that the blood and intestines of too many Carthaginians were making his beard all messy, and he decided to get rid of the damn thing for the sake of efficiency in both morning ablutions and murder.  So, the first Roman to shave was also one of the most awesome.  So awesome, in fact, that everyone in Rome immediately started copying him and did so for the next six hundred years.

So how did we get to the state where we think that beards are super cool?  We have beard contests, we praise people walking around with bizarre facial hair, exaggerate historical beards to emphasize the magnificence of that particular beard owner, and often equate the masculinity of a person with the viewing pleasure we are granted by looking upon their beard.  Take, for instance, Hemmingway.  Hemingway is one of the founders of contemporary masculinity, and he had a pretty awesome beard.  It is therefore often claimed that beards somehow make someone more awesome, simply because they are emulating one of the most superficial aspects of an awesome man.

I will now finally come to my point by illustrating it with a contrast between the tales of two beards.  The first beard belongs to a man named Jack Passion.  He is the contemporary record holder for beard length in the United States.  I think, anyway.  I couldn’t be bothered to look it up.  I know for certain however, that he has one a great many Beard Contests, using the tremendous girth and redness of his beard to dominate his competitors in a brutal contest of beard strength that will certainly be declared a sport as soon as the obesity level in the States increases a few more notches.  Passion is the owner of what one must admit is a tremendous beard.  He is also a sniveling, arrogant, whiney, pathetic little tool.

Let us contrast Jack Passion (somewhat unfairly) with Kuan Yu, a General of one of many Chinese factions during the 220 CE fall of the Han Dynasty, immortalized by the legendary tales of The Romance of the Three Kingdoms.  He was famous for his loyalty, his unmatched skill in battle, and his beard, and was seen as a paradigm of masculinity.  One day, Kuan Yu was riding innocently across the plains of Northern China, guarding the wife and daughter of his brother in arms, who he was determined to find.  He was confronted by two bandits, who, failing to recognize him immediately, challenged him to a duel.  Now, Kuan Yu had already killed about 50 people that day and so wished to avoid further conflict, as the ease of victory bored him somewhat.  So instead of drawing his sword, he dismounted his horse and took off the hair net bag he had been using to protect his beard.  The long, flowing, straight sheer black hair tumbled slowly down, uncoiling from the tight cylindrical bun in which it rested into a long black line of inimitable beauty.  The stark black length of hair, freed from all constrains, swayed gently in the wind, moving as one, as when a swarm of grasshoppers move together to darken the sky with their shadows and seem to move with one mind.  The glint of the sun off the silken hairs moved the hearts of all who saw it.  The anger of the bandits was unable to withstand the glorious sight, and as they looked upon that beard they realized that they stood in the presence of a great man.  They clamored down off their horses and dedicated their lives to Kuan Yu in perpetuity, offering up their very souls if doing so could aid him in his quest.

So what is the difference between these two beards?  That of Jack Passion impresses only in a technical sense.  We measure our surprise upon seeing its redness, and we then measure its length, width, and volume, in order to determine that he has an impressive beard.  The beard of Kuan Yu impresses itself upon men’s souls, not merely because of its beauty, but because of the way he wields that beard.  He is the one who makes his beard impressive, not the other way around.  Likewise, the Vikings weren’t awesome because they had beards – they were so awesome that they made their beards look cool.  Hemingway wasn’t masculine because he could wear a beard well, he was masculine because of the way he lived his life, and that life made the beard seem masculine.  Passion’s beard, despite its length, is supported by no true character underneath, and will never truly impress.  It is the man that makes the beard, not the other way around.  Adding or subtracting facial hair from one’s face does nothing to make or reduce a man (or woman, I guess).  One’s awesomeness is defined by one’s actions, not one’s facial hair.  And that is why I will not be wearing a moustache for Movember. (Expert conclusion!  Nailed it again.)

The Gentleman Choler

The gentleman associate of our refined establishment, laying such stress as he does on precision of the hour, and who, much to his horror, finds that he unwittingly gains a free moment or two through a slip of the schedule between his afternoon game of whist and cucumber sandwiches at brillig, would do well not to panic immediately, but to hold off his girlish peals of despair until he has undertaken a thorough perusal of this emergency pamphlet. We at the Preserves Club have thought up a list of ex tempore advisories and activities which we present in good order for the memorization and careful contingency planning of our punctilious patrons.

Remember that the first step is NOT to panic. The gentleman will be confused. His composure will start to express itself it in harumphs of ever increasing gruffitude. His eyes may start to wander from the safe co-ordinates of drink table and armchair to the more voyeuristic angles of ceiling and hallway tile-counting. We advise the gentleman who starts to notice such symptoms of hysteria, to consult his pocket-watch continuously until the effects start to subside. Consult it with vigour and purpose, knit your brows, place it back in your pocket. Walk a few steps, and yes, consult it again. Repeat until calm.

Now that the gentleman is in a neutralized emotional equilibrium, he can begin in good conscience to plan his escape from the grips of that Tyrant, Free-Time. But first: has the gentleman read the Times thoroughly? And the Gazette? Has he perhaps considered condescending to the Post for a lark? Or, if he's really feeling frisky, the Community Bulletin? If he has despairingly answered yes to the preceeding questions, we must recommend that he turn to some more explicitly lurid reading materials. As distasteful as it may sound, there is no sounder cure for an extra few seconds than the stimulation of base, lustful desire in the under-cummerbundical regions. Accordingly our gentleman will betake himself to Shame Hall immediately to choose an appropriate booth, each stocked with the foulest forest of depraved literature we could legally acquire. We suggest starting with the latest Garfield to really get his ginger snapping.

If our gentleman is not feeling up to the litterae humaniores, we might suggest that he take an afternoon constitutional. Such promenades have not been unheard of on the Continent, and a similar institution at Boston has recently implemented a strolling regimen for all its club members to universal approbation and vomiting. We realize that the world outside the Club is large, and largely, frightening. We have therefore taken the precaution of directing the gentleman's steps with a trail of finely painted leather-patent footprints (Italian, continental sizing 43). These lead all throughout the town, down to the harbour, up through the square, and back safely to the club; the gentleman need not fear that he might err into dangerous alleyways or offensive foodstufferies. We cannot account for the safety of any member who steps off the trail. Josiah Gudburp, esq., disappeared in this very way, stepping aside as he did one day for a rather dubious cat and dog combination charging towards his intended trajectory. He was found two weeks later, done up in a jester's outfit, dead, and quite pickled, in a barrel of marshmallow brine water. Gentleman, take heed. If no heed is available, take it cold two times a day. There's a good lad.

After his walk, the gentleman will certainly want to do something to sooth his over-stimulated nerve-endings. To this end we recommend an activitiy from the feminine sphere, shopping. Bookstores, record shops, and knick-knackeries are always a good choice, and provide the gentleman with ample opportunity for practicing the classical art of eavesdropping. The gentleman with an ear tuned to the risqué will be amplifiably rewarded. He will hear stories of price-mark downs and previous purchases. He will be hear squabbles between couples over which mantle decoration to buy. He will hear the sweet romancing of a cashier in his illicit transactions with multiple patrons. The gentleman's frisson will be considerable. If he is careful, he might even engage in some conversation himself. Asking for a price-check on some item is a good start, but requires boldness of character. Our more phlegmatic members will satisfy themselves with an accepted greeting, a  "hello", "afternoon", or "good plague" on entering the store. Do not be hesitate to sit down after such exertions.

If the gentleman still has time left-over, he may make his way over to the Public House for a pint of something and a chat with the lads. The gentleman may order any beer he pleases, with the caveat that any fruit-flavoured beverage may lead to a rather unpleasant assault on linen, silk, and starch known in common dialect as a "wedgie". If the gentleman will direct his eyes upwards, he may catch the latest sporting event on television. He should feel free to gasp whenever an object moves on the field. When the figures on the television seem agitated, he should begin gyrating and grunting so as not to seem out of the loop. He may at this point engage his chair-mates in conversation. Speak anything on your mind, so long as you have undergone a mental check of a fifteen minutes dwelling on the idea, so as to ensure maximum efficiency of word order, emphasis, and vocabulary. If you can insert the term "tits" anywhere in your discourse, you will win favour with the vox populi. There is only one thing that should be considered taboo among the plebeians, and that is the finer accoutrements of a manor squire's salon. This includes the new Renoir you've acquired for the drawing room, for envy knows no bounds. Talk instead about a new tool you've acquired. Maybe a wrench? Or a fine 18th century Venetian trowel?

With these many activities, we consider the gentleman's time as good as spent, and that bothersome portion of his life as good as over and done with. He may now attend to his Ox-Bladder on Toast in security of his future. If, unfathomably, he somehow exhausts the contents of this list, either through an unsavoury heat of the blood leading to extensive activity, or a particularly long life (and good hale to him!), we have devised the following methodology for creating your own amusements from scratch: first, open the issue of Earblocker's Quarterly we have appended to this form. Select three words at random through a handy Sortes Virgillianae. Distribute these words, using appropriate conjunctions and particles, into a coherent course of action. Do you have it? Is it bold? Startling? Has your psyche subconsciously put together a wild and tempting new source of adventure that you are raring to attempt? Excellent. You may now recreate the scene using paste (provided) and coloured macaronies (provided). Display it at Pumperknickel Square, and prepare to be the new gallant homme of the club. Do not attempt any activity beyond this without consulting the club physician.

Kazakhs - A Found Poem

Contributed by an anonymous tipster-type individual:

1: [1:32 am] "I can see Jesus in the cunt of a he fucker. God hownh e bleeds like N arse."
2: [1:36 am] "Karla here ... carlsbad is very drink from trying to keep up with the Kazakstan Ivan's.He may be ok tomorrow...maybe. Currently swimming towards the bed along the floor." 
3: [1:37 am] "Never drink with Kazaks on a school night!"
4: [at 9:01 am] "Holy shi I'm still drunk. how did I end up at work? I think I drunxted you last night."
5: [9:07 am] "Oh man, trying so hard not to fall asleep on the shitter right now..."
6: [9:ll am] "Man, kazaks like thier Jager!"
7: [9:32 am] "Focusing hard on not drunking around. Must.not hug Jacques and show him how to play games on his comp. Badcarlsbad."

New Rockets for Old!

Translated From the Arabo-Perso-Turkic Collection of Fantasy Stories, Alf Layla Wallahi By Sir Richard Wannabe Bottom-Pincher, on his secret tour of Mecca, wherein he disguised himself as a Circassian axe-thrower, and managed to get on the VIP list for the Hajj, and uses that to pick up all the smarmy British women at hostels in all four corners.

In the Name of Allah, the Compassionating, the Compassionate, the Compassionizer, the Compassionzee!

Verily verily, the works and words of those gone before us have become instances and examples to men of our modern day, that folk may peruse the annals of antique peoples and all that hath betided them, and may thereby, you know, betide themselves with good betidings and all that that entails. Praise, therefore, be to Him who hath made the histories of the past an admonition unto the present! Now of such instances is a tale called "New Rockets for Old!" together with its far-famed legends and wonders.

But first, a frame tale, y'all:

In the city of Baghdad (pre- "Shock and Awe"), a man named Jabbar the Juggler once owed a pitcher of Date Wine to a one-eyed man with a chic beard and cloak ensemble. This man had purchased a pitcher for Jabbar the night before, as the sand-people tell it. Well, as it happens, this night, Ras as-Sanah al-Hijriyah, the night of Hijri new year, Jabbar had had no luck with his “monkey and yak-testicle” routine, and so was strapped for coin.

“Alas the day of my birth! Know, oh stranger, that this miserable tribesman of the Banu-Sasan cannot afford to pay you, in wine or dates or the fine olives of the Seven Snake Valley. I forfeit to you now my head, and rely solely on your mercy not to make with the choppy-choppy.”

The stranger merely smiled – for he was no ordinary vagabond, but the royal Abbasid princeling, potentate, and general fuck-up Haroun Al-Rashid.

“Oh stranger, do you not realize that this is the very position in which I had hoped to find you? For now I may demand, instead of your head, a rip-roaring good story, of which a man in your station must know many a good’un.”

“Indeed, Oh weird dude, I knoweth my fair amount. But allow me to kick us out of this annoying frame tale with this apolitical and inapplicable story, entitled:"

New Rockets for Old!

Once, in Gaza, land of Ibrahim and the Philistines, there lived two brothers, lovers of peace, an elder, and a younger. This elder brother was also a lover of the sea, and left in his youth for far distant lands in order to trade the delicious screaming pickle pears of his homeland for the doubtful but fashionable hat and glove combinations of the Occident. The younger, a lover of books, Aristotle, and husbandry, remained at home and tended to the family lands with all the due diligence and sweat that comes with whipping a century of slaves.

One day the elder brother returned from his travels. The younger brother fell to his knees and said, “by Allah, my father’s own son, my grandfather’s own grandson, my aunt’s nephew, my poodle's favourite masseuse, my very eldest of an elder brother is returned from the West!” and crying the tears of the powdered Chinaman, he embraced his brother and welcomed him to the family plot.

The very next day the brothers divided their lands according to the law of the land, namely one beardless ape-goat per square Jihad-sector, and thereby lived by the land of the law. But the very very next day, while the younger brother, whose name was Abu Dammit, was out purchasing a new foot-stool (whose name was Bilal the Comfortable), the elder brother, whose name was Ben Gonzalez, told his men to casually waltz over to the screaming pickle pear orchards of his brother, and, you know, to occupy them, the name for which move was a bitch.

On returning, Abu Dammit was very upset to see his lands had been agrope-priated. Furiously he harangued his brother:

“D’ouble-you-tee-eff! Is this how a brother, brother of his brother, treats his brother? Stealing his lands and his screaming pickle pears?”

“Brother of your brother!” said Ben Gonzalez, “I am a man of peace, as you are! Well, in the West, they teach that peace is unity, unity is safety, and safety is a pin that holds the bullets back from the head of prying siblings.” And saying this, he saw his brother to the door with a friendly gesture and an uzi.

Abu Dammit was less than convinced, but more than pissed. Tearing his hair, he made his way into the desert, where he found a genie, son of fire, demon of the sandy whirlwind whose mighty capacity for fury and mischief knows no bounds in heaven, earth, or sea, casually lounging, like you do, by an oasis.

“Son of Adam!” the Genie bellowed, “willst a pint? Verily, thou seemst as thou couldst useth one. Why doth look so down, al-chumly?”

“Alack and alas, by Allah and all that! Can you imagine a man is betrayed by his own brother? And what’s worse, a lover of peace like me. But this newfangled western peace is something I do not understand. If only I had an uzi like my brother!”

“Uzi!?” laughed the Genie, “why, man, take thee a rocket! With this wonderful machine, thou canst negotiate peace with thy brother from two cities away!”

The very very very next day, Abu Dammit began negotiations with his brother by firing his prized rocket at Ben Gonzalez’s orchards.

That same hour, Ben Gonzalez replied with a peace offering aimed squarely at the King Goat of Abu Dammit's flock. He then summoned his magic messenger pigeon, and told him to proclaim to all the animals, men, and Djinn of the land:

“See how a brother loves his brother! Peace be upon him. #Shalom”

With the next rocket, Abu Dammit replied to the magic pigeon:

“See how a brother sends a gift! #Salaam”

And so again:

“My brother sends me an old rocket as a gift – I send him a new one! #KaBoom”

And so once more:

“Peace be upon him! And this. #TheBestPillarOfDefenseIsAGoodPillarOfOffense”

And lastly:

“Enjoying the lovely music coming from your warning sirens! #FallOutFriday”

And so, after much exchanging of love, gifts, negotiations, and genie supplied peace offerings, the Western style peace finally settled upon the brothers of Gaza. Extended peace is said to be the happiest of human states - and such a stable and uncompromising one was Allah's blessing upon these two siblings! Think how much they will come to profit from the posturing of each other, how many friends and enemies they will enlist, how much sponsorship and funding they can purloin, how joyful the sweet game of power can be played with the cheaply carved pieces of tenant farmers and naive locals. A wellspring of hope, this perpetual peace between two loving and democratic brothers! A filial lesson for all of humanity.

“But, as this peace raged, it happened that one of Ben Gonzalez’s camels was engaged in a fierce debate with one of the goats of Abu Dammit. They had, from a debate about the Aristotelian categories as presented by Averroes, fallen into a quandary about which of the two species had the longest and most pleasing member. The story of this debate goes something like this…"

The Tale of the Master Debater...

Brecht and the Thatched Roof

Homer had no home

And Dante had to leave his behind.

Li Po and Tu Fu wandered through civil wars

That did in 30 million men.

They threatened Euripides with lawsuits

And one keeps silent about

The dying Shakespeare;

Wasn't only the muse who sought Francois Villon

The police also

(nicknamed "the beloved")

Lucretius went into exile

And Heine, and so fled

Brecht underneath the Danish straw-roof.

-Bertolt Brecht

Homo Contra Cenam

XL Letter of the Front Porch Philosopher, Marcus Porpoise Strabo Gingivitis,

 to his Protégé Lucius Goonius.

How trying are the trials of fortune! Indeed, I had just come to tell you in my last letter about the invitation to the dinner with a certain mutual friend of ours, lover of orgies, and how I was determined to refuse, no matter what methods he used to persuade me. 

And yet, strange to say, Goonius, I accepted. Do not think me growing licentious in my old age – I had no choice in the matter. I would much rather have spent the evening as I am wont, at home in my “poverty room” (you know the one with the dirt floor, the oily breadpile, and the vulgar dwarf) reading the classics and picking out little presents to send you from my stockpile of philosophy. Well, the will of the gods cannot be gainsaid. It turns out I had lent our friend my only copy of The Goonmenides, and it was from that exact text that I was looking to send you your little nugget of philosophy for the week.

The human will is very odd – very often it will choose a present evil for an unsure future good. Nevertheless, I took this strange opportunity (for surely you must know that I am only a casual frequenter of feasts, and have in no away allowed my spirit to grow accustomed to them, however often I attend) I say, an opportunity to test the impatientia of my spirit. There it all was! Delicious sweetmeats, sweetlicious meatdishes, and other delectables as well, sprinkled with both salt and pepper, and some few even garnished with mouth watering lead, silver, quicksilver, gold, and iron.

I could see the other guests were well enjoying themselves, stuffing their orifices with one hand, disembowelling slaves with the other. Many were kicking kittens all the while. I could never abide the past-time of kitten kicking – I know you may think me a bit of a queer fish, but sometimes I find it positively mean, even cruel! “But they are merely fluffy, big eyed, mewing little darlings,” I hear you object, “if they can’t be crushed beneath my toes for pleasure, what can?” Here we must cease to be slaves to pleasure, and cling to the only master we ought to truly serve (I mean of course philosophy. What else could I mean? Checkers?). Why crush kittens? Let us crush our excessive desires instead.

But to the feast.  Surely you have attended some few in your younger years. You know how noisy they get, and how an old man like me cannot abide noise! The smacking of lips and the gobbing of wine, the hearty reverberating jiggle of a slave well elbowed...They are like to drive a sensitive man to distraction from the Good. I accordingly stuffed my ears with grape leaves, and looked out at the spread before me. Now, what should a true philosopher do? A Pythaogrean might leave the room; a Cynic would knock over the table. An Epicurean would munch a little bread and be content. A Platonist would look to the wine for divine revelation, and an Aristotelian might eat all his greens first, and then his meats, his desserts, insofar as he could determine the proper order of the “six digestions”. 

Yet herein lies the difference between our school and theirs! They must needs avoid the pleasure of eating, in order not to feel it. I say that we, as Front Porchers, can just as well devour as much as we can, and yet still be unmoved in our inner selves. This is the true meaning of ataraxia! I thus knit my brows, frowned, pinched my nose, made a small moaning noise, and, with the greatest hesitancy began to stockpile my plate from the buffet. How I was tested then, Goonius. I can assure you, however, that I never had a meal that tasted worse – it was that good.

I’ve half a mind to tell you how I endured the drinking that came after the meal, and more than half a mind not to tell you about the courtesans, the flute girls, and the rest that I didn’t even come to not enjoy entirely. “But enough of this food talk”, I hear you grumble. You want your little gifty wifty eh? Need a little boost of philosophy to get you through your week? Well, I’m glad this old man is useful for something, and I really ought to repay you for reading through this trite letter of mine. Here then is the promised line from The Goonmenides:

It is not that am man is driven to excess by his deeds, but rather his deeds that are driven to excess by his own character. Therefore, see that your character is steady, and even in the midst of a Bacchic orgy you will find yourself capable of philosophical pleasure.

The Kall of Kijiji

The following review was found in its present state on the writing desk of Eric Salomon Victim, the great New York art critic, who was in turn found in HIS present state scattered, as the police report said, "lovingly" over a fair stretch of backwater New England dirt road. The present editor is pleased to present the last work of a fine art critic on the last works of a fine folk artist, both of whom came to a mysterious, eldritch-type end. The present editor will be excused for remaining anonymous. One might ask why a present editor would be so eager to publish something so obviously unnatural; and this editor would respond, anonymously of course, that he does not believe in superstition, and that the art world must be freed from the base sort of mysticism, this Yog Soggothic nonsense...*

*The preceding text trails off suggestively. Please proceed to the rest of the article. - The Anonymous Editor's "wife".

Anybody who knew Nathaniel Irehart as I did - barely at all - suspected, I think, that his inspiration was not altogether free of, oh how shall we say it with delicacy... A slight babbling, gibbous caco-demoniacal insanity? Slight. To the eyes of the world he was a darling sculptor, sometimes the writer of an occasional verse, and sometimes the groper of an occasional nurse. His mysterious disappearance has been a shock to the art world, seen as he was last in the area of a shady semi-glowing crypt in the primeval forests of Maine. Believe it or not, there are some who suggest his end was not altogether natural.

He was loved dearly by all in his hometown of Sidon, Massachussets, New England, America, North America, Map, Hillard and Bimbsly 1957 All Rights Reserved. They fawned upon this tittering little goblin who frolicked from saloon to bar, cheering up the downcast and casting down the beer-cask with equanimity and vomiting. Yet I think they all felt in their innards that there was something not quite Euclidean about Irehart -- his physiognomy bespoke an atavism to some semi-reptilian half-mammal, licking its cold green chops as it crawls its way from the fathomless depths of the dark green sea. The same was often said of his limericks, the hue of which was often a shade darker than bleu.

I provide a sample of his mad verse to display the unique blend of occult and ribald influences which made up Irehart's aesthetic, an odd conglomeration which I term "esoteroticism":

There once was a fellow of Arkham

Whose ballsack was named Yog-Soggarkam

Whenever it'd itch

He'd go see his old witch

Who'd hermetically spark'em and lark'em.

I first encountered this wonder child at a folk-art festival in Connecticut  Among the wood carven knick-knacks and candle sets, his 10 foot totem-poll stood out prominently. I took it to be a bit of west-coast inspiration, until I realized that it depicted, not the traditional Raven or Fisherman of the Haida, but a howling half-moose, half-man, half-wolf (I have since learned its name to be a were-moosetaur) devouring a half-turtle, half-jellyfish along a weird trajectory of a mixed-forest treescape at midnight. 

"Pretty piece of crazy, this." I said under my breath to a fellow next to me. "Thanks! The Old Ones have truly spoken to me through this one" he said. It was Irehart. A debonair 20-something year old sporting a tri-corn and britches, leaning on a gruesome cane made out of Whalesbone and hot-glue rhinestones. 

"Old ones?" I inquired. "Oh you know" he mumbled, with a tittering giggle. "Relations. Old Grandma Irehart. Uncle Pyncheon. Aunt Derleth..." I nodded cautiously with the half-moon grin of the condescending. I may have looked askance, but he looked insane.

Upon learning that I was a noted critic, he invited me to visit him at his cottage in Sidon for an exclusive peak at some "works in progress". "Fat chance!" I thought, "I'd sooner play fetch with moosejaw up there than visit this loony in his loony-bin." Meanwhile I smiled a smile of agreement. "Oh please, do come" he implored with a titter, "If you like animals, can play fetch with rover. And my wife, Luna Bin, just adores company..." It struck me that all was not altogether orthodox with this young artist. Still, an exclusive was nothing to chortle at in those days of vagrant art criticism. Two weeks later I was driving down the rural dirt roads of central-northwest-eastern New England. I was looking for an Outlet antique store, as the missus had her eye out for a credenza.

A week after that I took the greyhound to Irehart's seven-gabled chalet. As I approached the devilish looking house au pied, I felt a shudder in my left pocket, and since my cell-phone was in my right, I knew something curious was afoot. The house was, as I said, devilish looking. Its architecture was one of your standard puritan semi-colonials, but with a strange undulation of gable that crept up behind you and whispered "Hassenpfeffer!" in your ear when you weren't paying attention. Also, it was painted blood red. 

I knocked on the old door with the skeleton demon-claw door-knocker, de rigeur of course, but receiving no answer, I rung the hellish door bell. The tune that I heard reverberate through the old stead is terrifying to re-call, and all but impossible to describe; imagine "Old MacDonald" if it were played slowly through on an old 78 made out of human flesh, the speaker-horn of which was the jaw of a ravening extinct sabre-tooth tiger, and you might have an idea of the terror I felt as I listened to the eerie melody.

Irehart came to the door wearing a smile and an 17th century puritan smock on which was the embroidered phrase Kisse ye the Cheffe -- Stake's On! "Welcome welcome" he beamed at me with a toothsome titter "Dinner's almost ready". From the front door to the parlor the house seemed to be an all corridor-and-cobweb sort of affair. I met Luna Bin surely enough sitting on the rug laughing derisively at an antique portrait above the mantelpiece. Not wanting to pry, I refrained from asking. Fido could be heard breathing fire in the back yard. Well wasn't this lovely. Dinner consisted of a special Innsmouth dish of our host's own ancestors called Lobster Inferno. The gills were the tastiest part, I remarked with a ghost-white countenance and a smile worth a thousand tears.

It was after our brandy and shrunken-heads that the host finally offered to show me his studio. Going down to the basement, we came to a sealed, dungeon like door that, once pried open via an old brass key, led to a further staircase smelling of the usual corpse-and-old-spice required of such classic ossuaries. Down, down to the catacombs we went, my host babbling the while of his latest inspiration, of the Old Ones, of old "Grandma Soggoth" and the like. I was beginning to feel slightly uneasy. Well, here we were. The old studio. I was surrounded by a thousand, well... I suppose you could call them sculptures, but I'd be more inclined to call them semi-rotting alien corpses stapled to life-sized cut-outs of Big Bird.

Actually, I was inclined very much to the left at that moment, and was just about to take a welcome leave of my pesky consciousness, which in this whole affair had been nothing but trouble, when I was suddenly aware of a dark voice coming up from a sewer grate in the floor. Perhaps it was saying something in an eldritch, inhuman tongue? Or perhaps it was asking for peanuts. I didn't care to find out. My host had fallen to the floor in a sudden urge to bow, or perhaps he had lost a contact lense to the Dark Lord Uldoroch. I, in any case, had had enough. Gripping my mind with my hands I reeled about for a bit and collapsed in a fit of Scrooge McDuck impressions, as is my wont during stressful situations.

I awoke innumerable hours later in my bedroom back home. Quickly, I am writing all of this down so as to have something that I can trail off to, before I am inevitably driven out of my mind by various extra-universal horrors who will be coming to visit -- ah, I hear the door-bell. Now's as good a place as any to trail off, methinks...

Day of the Shock Worker

The following essay was re-engineered for the use of you frustrated office workers on those gloomy Dogbert days when you "just feel", as you claim, pooped, frustrated, or on the verge of "burn out". This is not a piece to excuse or palliate such feelings - it has been specifically designed to crush them. We firmly believe that the power of a strong social ethic can shame even the laziest cubicle-bound fatalist into productivity.

Any red lines represent the excision of formalist or capitalistic subversion that found its way into the original essay. 

Comrade, have you ever confronted your own productivity? Looking back over a long stretch of "everyday activities" (whatever they may be), have you ever asked yourself, "exactly what kind of worker am I?" Some of you might know quite well. When one thinks of the different "types" of worker, many common expressions come to mind, for instance:

• Easy-going
• "Hard" worker
• Perfectionist
• Enthusiastic
• Back-room worker
• Lazy
• Group thinker etc.

You might have never been quite able to fit yourself into these categories. Perhaps, like so many over-educated people, you are a little bit of hard worker. Perhaps you are even a self-designated  "perfectionist" - which implies you have a reluctance to finish something until it is polished as a work of art - a rather bourgeois and egotistical style of working!

But is there not something subtle to be gained from this critical and cynical style of the modern office worker, who hates what she does but does it anyway with a sardonic smile? Perhaps  there are some advantages to the egotistical capitalistic style of working - personal pleasure, emotional persuasion, the joy of exploiting an intern. But  no amount of cynical pleasure can fill up the entirety of our complex human existence. , We must push aside all such positive feelings, despite how wonderful and easy to grasp they might be. On this subtle point we must not at all be too dogmatic. And we should always bear in mind the excellent lessons pointed out to us by Comrade Trotsky MindApe, so long as we do not do so uncritically and without well-considered qualification.

One thing you rarely hear mention of in the 21st century office-and-mousepad world is classical "productivity" - getting something done as fast and near-standard as possible. You are often seduced by the idea of adding a personal touch, of mulling it over, of not trusting the plain model even when it is the best solution.

But today we proclaim: bitchy office workers of the world, you have nothing to lose but your back-pains!

In the battle for a victorious completion of the Bolshevik Five-Year Plan. Be in the front ranks of the shock workers of the brigade, the workshop and the factory!

Don't be fooled - customization is decadence. Shake yourself out of classificatory torpor! Forget the need to tickle your own ego with opiates like "self-satisfaction" and "loving your work". Douse your face in some cold water, have some raw beets and carrots, and remind yourself of the great Soviet "Shock Worker" movement of the 20's and 30's.

"Shock worker!" What a term! It must sent shivers of proletarian awe down your spine as soon as you read it. Derived from the Prussian "Shock Trooper" , it was adapted to the cause of worker productivity, enrolling a huge swathe of Soviet workers into "shock worker brigades", whose mass achievement was the hyper-production of quotas, sometimes earning the rank of "500" or "1000 percenters".

The marrow of this upbeat ideology can be found in Lenin's own article "How to Organize Competition". Lenin thinks the working class are too "timid" compared to the military and bourgeoisie - that workers need a new competitive and militarized ethic, a heroical persona to give them self-confidence.

Could not the following paragraph suit any modern business setting?

Competition creates the opportunity for employing it on a really wide and on a really mass scale, for actually drawing the majority of toilers into an arena of such labor in which they can display their abilities, develop their capacities, reveal their talents, of which there is an untapped spring among the people...

So long as we tart up, perhaps, the final sentence:

...and in which capitalism is crushed, suppressed and strangled in thousands and millions.

Are we to take Lenin at face value?  Absolutely not, without a critical outlook. Certainly his policies, and the policies that derived from them by Stalinists resulted in the actual over-working of thousands of already taxed soviet workers. Yes, it is a powerful rhetoric and the symbolism and propaganda which grew out of his teachings are an excellent stock-set of cultural motifs, indeed some of the most interesting history has heretofore produced - but we must not be overly seduced by a nostalgia for a false set of fairy communistic ideals that never really existed in real life.

Do you want to? Join! Hurry and join the shock group of model labor. Do you want to fight against the cold? Do you want to defeat hunger? Do you want to eat? Do you want to drink?

1000 percenters! Are you not shamed by such numbers, you kulak dog? You sweat butter and laziness - the shock worker sweats oil and blood! You yawn the yawn of a thousand bloated yaks - the shock worker breathes necessary amounts at the efficient interval! He would replace his heart with a engine, his legs with wheels, his arms with a general sort of swiss-army knife contraption, apt for screwing in bolts and cutting pizzas alike.

For the modern office drone, there is no more salutary outlook than this of the shock worker. Consider: since you have been misled by the mythology of an ergonomic, parasitic existence, you have noticed silly things, un-productive things, like back pains, eye strain, boredom, frustration, loss of libido etc. You feel these things because you are resisting the march of dialectical materialism.

Now let us look at the modern office shock worker. What does he know of these petty complaints? His back is like a rod of iron, his ass hard like the steel of the railroad. He sits in his cubicle like a perfectly machine-built cog - there is no clutter, there is no single unnecessary item. As soon as his hand touches the mouse and keyboard, he is at once a part of the machine - his deepest viscera vibrate in sympathy with the glowing spreadsheets and the dance of PowerPoint graphs.

Look him in the eyes, just try to make small talk with him! You will hear only calculated and glorious grunts of triumph as he flies through the work of ten kulaks such as yourself while you dally away your lunch hour with caviar and Tsarist champagne breaks. You who grasp so hard at the threads of your own "personal growth", and all the while decay in the muck - ask the shock worker how he grows!

"I? I? I is the letter of the reactionary. It is IT that grows, comrade, and it alone with the productivity of the organization!"

And you asked him what he does on the weekend!

Anybody with work today and a social and incorruptible mindset must immediately identified himself with the title of "shock worker". It is exactly this kind of militarized courage in the work place that you should depend upon everyday. A pride in completing something, or having the ability to complete it, with a powerful, even intimidating efficacy.

Maybe there is room for humanity, humour, and urbane cynicism in your off hours. Maybe there are days when you do indeed need to step back from the black hole of labour and ask yourself on an existential level what it is all about. Your ego should not be entirely ignored. But remember that collective, futuristic identification with machine-like efficacy is a powerful and fun way to get yourself through some rather bland days.

No pat on the back or "great job!" for you! You must want your work to be so highly charged as to "terrorize" with its quantity, and the fierce speed with which it was accomplished. But it is not yet enough! Faster comrade, and faster still! Before the inevitable screensaver of history blacks us all out.

October 1 - the All-Union Day of the Shockworker. We have a report! We are completing construction of the foundation of the socialist economy!

Dialogue Concerning the Two Chief Post-Secondary World Systems

Chief Interlocutors:

CUSANUS, University student and president of the Student's Association

TESSOUAT, College student and partisan

SIMPLICIO, A buffoon with only a High School education

---

Audience Member: Hello, I've come for the dialogue?

Usher: Of course sir, we have an excellent pair of seats in front. Right this way Madam.

Audience Member: I hear it's a good one, eh? Might even get Platonic?

Mrs Audience Member: Oh dear, I hope it doesn't come to that.

Usher: Not to worry madam, we provide all of our customers with specialty goggles in case of unexpected hypostasis. Now here we are.

Audience Member: Bless you, lad.

Mrs Audience Member: La! She starts!

---

A DIALOGUE CONCERNING THE TWO CHIEF POST-SECONDARY WORLD SYSTEMS, or, The Story of the Double Edged Swordfish. This dialogue is presented WITHOUT FRENCH SUBTITLES for de 'earing h'impaired.

CUSA. Yesterday we agreed to come together to split a pitcher -

SIMP. To splitcher?

CUSA. Yes, splitcher, we agreed to splitcher, and moreover so did she, but it's been so many years since she took gymnastics that we might as well continue what we were doing until she's done stretching. Now if you remember, mongomaniacs, we agreed to get together in this dialogue in order to discuss the merits and faults of the two chief systems of post-secondary education, those of the University (or "College" in America) and the College (or "Farmyard" in America), thereby to determine the which of which is the superior..Er, with which the superior...Er, carry the one and...

TESS. Which's better?

CUSA. Concisely put, browbeater. Now, it has long been agreed upon that these bodies, while dedicated to the education and information of the world public, are almost always constituted as communities. Not all bodies are constituted this way. Some have more upper-thigh fat, which contributes to a more congested thoroughfare (and trust me, it is thorough).

At any rate, just like cities, there is a great deal of variation between constitutions, culture, and between the happiness of its citizens. Remember that the Divine Plato, in his chief dialogue The Republic, chiefly builds from divine excellencies of nature and the human soul a puppet play of the ideal city as could be constituted in the ideal form divinely, chiefly, and without an overabundance of squash. I hereby propose this very method as the start of our investigation - which of the two compares most closely to the ideal city?

SIMP. How do you talk like that, anyway?

CUSA. If you are referring to the rhetorical complexity of my personal mandarin, I'll have you know that my grandfather was at Eton, dog!

SIMP. Well maybe he shouldn't have been eatin' dog.

TESS. Now listen Custy, I like where you are going with this. The basic idea is that universities and colleges are like two different types of countries. Ok, fair enough. I guess we're trying to figure out which one is the "first world" country, right?

CUSA. Aptly put, my sans-cullottic chum. And it's exactly on this point that the University comes on top...

I said, comes on top...

SIMP. *sips his drink*

CUSA. No? Nothing? Alright then. On top.

Remember that it is we who are the intellectuals, the researchers, the golden philosopher kings of the Platonic Republic. We pump the world engine with the fuel of our thought; we send out the armies of Enlightenment, critical thinking, and engaged dialogue into the world to conquer the nebulous terrorism of bias; it is we who, in an ever faster and manic age of information and digitization, act as stewards for the knowledge of the present and future....

TESS. Ok, I hear what you are saying, but I think you might be veering off-track a little. The point of this exercise was to figure out which community was the best. Well, tell me, from a practical stand-point, how much does a burger cost on campus?

CUSA. A burger? They are fairly expensive actually. 7-8$? I don't know. I never get them.

TESS. Oh?

CUS. They are kind of gross. You know, iffy. Unbalanced. Most of the food on campus is distributed through a pretty sketchy food corporation.

TESS. Interesting - Socrates can't cook his own meals? Very different from what we have. I had a delicious lunch today on my college campus actually - a beautiful organic salad and leek soup. For four bucks!

SIMP. What kind of salad was it?

TESS. Quinoa!

SIMP. Oh, I've heard of that. It's that food that sounds differently than it's spelled and tastes even worse.

CUSA. It sounds delicious and healthy to me. How do they sell it so cheaply?

TESS. It's made by the culinary students - as part of their curriculum. They sell the food they cook on campus at reduced rates, they get to practice, we get to eat well crafted, home-cooked meals - everybody benefits!

CUSA. What a charming idea! Wish we could do that...We have to run bake-sales on the sly for fear of getting shut down by the administration. And even in those, the cupcakes are as half-baked as the causes they support. 

SIMP. Buy a baked good! Save the bare-back black squirrel from extinction!

TESS. I didn't know there was such a thing as a bare-back black squirrel.

SIMP. Well there's only one, but he's getting on, you know.

CUSA. Do you see what we have to deal with? Er...With what we have to deal?

TESS. Well compared to that, we're kind of a communist paradise - on college campuses so many of the programs offer real goods and services. We've got cheap haircuts, tailors, carpenters, mechanics - and everybody working for the love and challenge of the labour itself. A walk through campus is like a stroll through a real town.

CUSA. And so cheap...

TESS. Is there really nothing like that on University campuses?

CUSA. Are you kidding? Take a walk from the University Centre to the library. You won't find anything of value there you couldn't pick up somewhere cheaper, faster, and with a better general odour. And I mean the same thing for the goods and services as well as the ideologies and STDs on display or being hollered in your ear or shoved into your hands with a wink and a scowl.

No,  where you guys are Copernican, we are still Ptolemaic. For us, the stars revolve around our own egos. No mentality for sharing. But what could we even offer one another? Books, articles, reading material... Certainly no preserves or haircuts or anything like that.

TESS. Sounds kind of top-heavy to me.

SIMP. And not in the good way!

TESS. What way is that?

SIMP. The bad way.

CUSA. And how. Look, you realize we can't even govern ourselves? You'd think a place so infatuated with learning would be governed mainly by well educated students and professors, right? Well, somehow a wily eunuch class of administrators have wedged their way in between them. Real shysters. They are basically an MBA fund-driven conglomerate who run the place like a third-world slum lord, squeezing money out of tenants and cramming 20 families to a single toilet...

TESS. Third world? You'd think "liberal education" would involve a little self-reliance.

SIMP. They are pretty good at the breakfast buffet...

CUSA. Brains and buttocks alike are heavy things to cultivate. But the one thing we do have over you colleges is the single most important of all.

TESS. What's that?

CUSA. We have good libraries. Presumably, once in a while, someone gets around to reading some of them.

SIMP. Reading in a library? What are you, a satanist? Libraries are for three things, and three things only - oggling, toggling, and googling.

CUSA. So long as we have books...

SIMP. Ma se io vi concluderò, in virtú delle medesime proposizioni concedute ad Aristotile, che i corpi celesti sieno essi ancora, non meno che gli elementari, generabili e corruttibili, che cosa direte voi?

CUSA. Come again?

SIMP. Not without a quart of gin, friend.

TESS. You all have book-dependency. It seems to me like we embody the popular spirit of a classical city-state much more effectively than you guys do. You're like monks.

CUSA. Maybe. But we shave less. I'm calling it in for the day, shall we splitcher again?

SIMP. Ladies and Gentlemen, while our two antagonists walk off hand-in-hand to the bar, I present a little song entitled:

Ode to the Dialogue as a Forgotten Vehicle for Social Change -

From the dramas of the Grecian

To the works of Galilei

Nothing has been so efficient

To get from point A to B.

Why d'you brag about your Euclid?

Why'd you ramble like Descartes?

Why'd you make a documentary?

Why d'you map it on a chart?

Nothing naturaller, nothing simpler

Than a conversa-ti-on

Between friends had of an evening

Where is heard everyichone.

Let us plunge in information
Let us let free the bits and bytes

For to help its liberation
Is the steward's sole delight.